"We must have her," said the major. "She's ours. We'll get her and pack her, so we can travel better."

"Can we catch her, all right?" queried Red Fox Scout Van Sant. "We're liable to wake those two fellows up, aren't we?"

"What if we do?" put in his partner, Scout Ward. "Three of us can guard them, and the other two can chase the burro."

"No," said Major Henry. "I think we can rope her and be off before those renegades know anything about it. Can you, Fitz?"

Fitz nodded, eager.

"Then take the rope, and go after her."

Fitz did. He was a boss roper, too. You wouldn't believe it, of a one-armed boy, but it was so. All we Elk Scouts could throw a rope some. A rope comes in pretty handy, at times. Most range horses have to be caught in the corral with a rope, and knowing how to throw a rope will pull a man out of a stream or out of a hole and will perhaps save his life. But Fitz was our prize roper, because he had practiced harder than any of us, to make up for having only one arm.

The way he did was to carry the coil on his stump, and the lash end in his teeth; and when he had cast, quick as lightning he took the end from between his teeth ready to haul on it.

Major Henry might have gone, himself, to get the credit and to show what he could do; but he showed his sense by resigning in favor of Fitz.

So now at the command Fitz took the rope from him and shook it out and re-coiled it nicely. Then, carrying it, he sneaked through the trees, and crossed the creek, farther up, wading to his ankles, and advanced upon Sally.

Sally divided her attention between him and us, and finally pricked her ears at him alone. She knew what was being tried.

Coming out into the open space Fitz advanced slower and slower, step by step. He had his rope ready—the coil was on his stump, and the lash end was in his teeth, and the noose trailed by his side, from his good hand. We glanced from him and Sally to the lean-to, and back again, for the campers were sleeping peacefully. If only they would not wake and spoil matters.

Sally held her head high, suspicious and interested. Fitz did not dare to speak to her; he must trust that she would give him a chance at her before she escaped into the trees where roping would be a great deal harder.

We watched. My heart beat so that it hurt. Having that burro meant a lot to us, for those packs were heavy—and it was a point of honor, too, that we recapture our own. Here was our chance.

Fitz continued to trail his noose. He didn't swing it. Sally watched him, and we watched them both. He was almost close enough, was Fitz, to throw. A few steps more, and something would happen. But Sally concluded not to wait. She tossed her head, and with a snort turned to trot away. And suddenly Fitz, in a little run and a jerk, threw with all his might.

Straight and swift the noose sailed out, opening into an "O," and dragging the rope like a tail behind it. Fitz had grabbed the lash end from between his teeth, and was running forward, to make the cast cover more ground. It was a beautiful noose and well aimed. Before it landed we saw that it was going to land right. Just as it fell Sally trotted square into it, and it dropped over her head. She stopped short and cringed, but she was too late. Fitz had sprung back and had hauled hard. It drew tight about her neck, and she was caught. She knew it, and she stood still, with an inquiring gaze around. She knew better than to run on the rope and risk being thrown or choked. Hurrah! We would have cheered—but we didn't dare. We only shook hands all round and grinned; and in a minute came Fitz, leading her to us. She was meek enough, but she didn't seem particularly glad to see us. We patted Fitz on the back and let him know that we appreciated him.

He had only the one throw, but that had been enough. It was like Van's last cartridge.



CHAPTER XIX

MAJOR HENRY SAYS "OUCH"

The sun was just peeping above the Medicine Range that we had crossed, when we led Sally away, back through the brush and around to strike the trail beyond the lean-to camp. After we had gone about half a mile Major Henry posted me as a rear-guard sentry, to watch the trail, and he and the other Scouts continued on until it was safe to stop and pack the burro.

The two renegade recruits did not appear. Probably they were still sleeping, with the blankets over their faces to keep out the light! In about half an hour I was signaled to come on, and when I joined the party Sally had been packed with the squaw hitch and now we could travel light again. I tell you, it was a big relief to get those loads transferred to Sally. Even the Red Foxes were glad to be rid of theirs.

Things looked bright. We were over the range; we had this stroke of luck, in running right upon Sally; the trail was fair; and the way seemed open. It wouldn't be many hours now before the Red Fox Scouts could branch off for the railroad, and get aboard a train so as to make Salt Lake in time to connect with their party for the grand trip, and we Elks had three days yet in which to deliver the message to the Mayor of Green Valley.

For two or three hours we traveled as fast as we could, driving Sally and stepping on her tracks so as to cover them. We felt so good over our prospects—over being upon the open way and winning out at last—that we struck up songs:

"Oh, the Elk is our Medicine; He makes us very strong—"

for us; and:

"Oh, the Red fox is our Medicine—"

for the Red Fox Scouts.

And we sang:

"It's honor Flag and Country dear, and hold them in the van; It's keep your lungs and conscience clean, your body spick and span; It's 'shoulders squared,' and 'be prepared,' and always 'play the man': Shouting the Boy Scouts forev-er! Hurrah! Hurrah! For we're the B. S. A.! Hurrah! Hurrah! We're ready, night and day! You'll find us in the city street and on the open way! Shouting the Boy Scouts forev-er!"

But at the beginning of the second verse Major Henry suddenly quit and sat down upon a log, where the trail wound through some timber. "I've got to stop a minute, boys," he gasped. "Go ahead. I'll catch up with you."

But of course we didn't. His face was white and wet, his lips were pressed tight as he breathed hard through his nose, and he doubled forward.

"What's the matter?"

"I seem to have a regular dickens of a stomach-ache," he grunted. "Almost makes me sick."

That was serious, when Major Henry gave in this way. We remembered that back on the trail when we had sighted Sally he had spoken of a "side-ache" and had sent Fitzpatrick to do the reconnoitering; but he had not spoken of it again and here we had been traveling fast with never a whimper from him. We had supposed that his side-ache was done. Instead, it had been getting worse.

"Maybe you'd better lie flat," suggested Red Fox Scout Ward. "Or try lying on your side."

"I'll be all right in a minute," insisted the major.

"We can all move off the trail, and have breakfast," proposed Fitz. "That will give him a chance to rest. We ought to have something to eat, anyway."

So we moved back from the trail, around a bend of the creek. The major could scarcely walk, he was so doubled over with cramps; Scout Ward and I stayed by to help him. But there was not much that we could do, in such a case. He leaned on us some, and that was all.

He tried lying on his side, while we unpacked Sally; and then we got him upon a blanket, with a roll for a pillow. Red Fox Scout Van Sant hustled to the creek with a cup, and fixed up a dose.

"Here," he said to the major, "swallow this."

"What is it?"

"Ginger. It ought to fix you out."

So it ought. The major swallowed it—and it was so hot it made the tears come into his eyes. In a moment he thought that he did feel better, and we were glad. We went ahead with breakfast, but he didn't eat anything, which was wise. A crampy stomach won't digest food and then you are worse.

We didn't hurry him, after breakfast. We knew that as soon as he could travel, he would. But we found that his feeling better wasn't lasting. Now that the burning of the ginger had worn off, he was as bad as ever. We were mighty sorry for him, as he turned and twisted, trying to find an easier position. A stomach-ache like that must have been is surely hard to stand.

Fitz got busy. Fitzpatrick is pretty good at doctoring. He wants to be a doctor, some day. And the Red Fox Scouts knew considerable about first-aids and simple Scouts' remedies.

"What kind of an ache is it, Tom?" queried Fitz. We were too bothered to call him "Major." "Sharp? Or steady?"

"It's a throbby ache. Keeps right at the job, though," grunted the major.

"Where?"

"Here." And the major pointed to the pit of his stomach, below the breast-bone. "It's a funny ache, too. I can't seem to strike any position that it likes."

"It isn't sour and burning, is it?" asked Red Fox Scout Ward.

"Uh uh. It's a green-apple ache, or as if I'd swallowed a corner of a brick."

We had to laugh. Still, that ache wasn't any laughing matter.

"Do you feel sick?"

"Just from the pain."

"We all ate the same, and we didn't drink out of that tin can, so it can't be poison, and it doesn't sound like just indigestion," mused Fitz to us. "Maybe we ought to give him an emetic. Shall we, Tom?"

"I don't think I need any emetic. There's nothing there," groaned the major. "Maybe I've caught cold. I guess the cramps will quit. Wish I had a hot-water bag or a hot brick."

"We'll heat water and lay a hot compress on. That will help," spoke Red Fox Scout Van Sant. "Ought to have thought of it before."

"Wait a minute, boys," bade Fitz. "Lie still as long as you can, Tom, while I feel you."

He unbuttoned the major's shirt (the major had taken off his belt and loosened his waist-band, already) and began to explore about with his fingers.

"The ache's up here," explained the major. "Up in the middle of my stomach."

"But is it sore anywhere else?" asked Fitz, pressing about. "Say ouch."

The major said ouch.

"Sore right under there?" queried Fitz.

The major nodded.

We noted where Fitz was pressing with his fingers—and suddenly it flashed across me what he was finding out. The ache was in the pit of the stomach, but the sore spot was lower and down toward the right hip.

Fitz experimented here and there, not pressing very hard; and he always could make the major say ouch, for the one spot.

"I believe he's got appendicitis," announced Fitz, gazing up at us.

"It looks that way, sure," agreed Red Fox Scout Van Sant. "My brother had appendicitis, and that's how they went to work on him."

"My father had it, is how I knew about it," explained Fitz.

"Aw, thunder!" grunted the major. "It's just a stomach-ache." He hated to be fussed with. "I'll get over it. A hot-water bag is all I need."

"No, you don't," spoke Fitz, quickly—as Red Fox Scout Ward was stirring the fire. "Hot water would be dangerous, and if it's appendicitis we shan't take any risks. They use an ice-pack in appendicitis. We'll put on cold water instead of hot, and I'm going to give him a good stiff dose of Epsom salts. I'm afraid to give him anything else."

That sounded like sense, except that the cold water instead of the hot was something new. And it was queer that if the major's appendix was what caused the trouble the ache should be off in the middle of his stomach. But Fitz was certain that he was right, and so we went ahead. The treatment wasn't the kind to do any harm, even if we were wrong in the theory. The Epsom salts would clean out most disturbances, and help reduce any inflammation. (Note 64.)

The major was suffering badly. To help relieve him, we discussed which was worse, tooth-ache or stomach-ache. The Red Foxes took the tooth-ache side and we Elks the stomach-ache side; and we won, because the major put in his grunts for the stomach-ache. We piled a wet pack of handkerchiefs and gauze on his stomach, over the right lower angle, where the appendix ought to be; and we changed it before it got warmed. The water from the creek was icy cold. We kept at it, and after a while the major was feeling much better.

And now he began to chafe because he was delaying the march. It was almost noon. The two renegade recruits had not come along yet. They might not come at all; they might be looking around for Sally, without sense enough to read the sign. But the major was anxious to be pushing on again.

"I don't think you ought to," objected Fitz.

"But I'm all right."

"You may not be, if you stir around much," said Red Fox Scout Ward.

"What do you want me to do? Lie here for the rest of my life?" The major was cross.

"No; but you ought to be carried some place where you can have a doctor, if it's appendicitis."

"I don't believe it is. It's just a sort of colic. I'm all right now, if we go slowly."

"But don't you think that we'd better find some place where we can take you?" asked Fitz.

"You fellows leave me, then, and go on. Somebody will come along, or I'll follow slow. Those Red Foxes must get to their train, and you two Elks must carry the message through on time."

"Not much!" exclaimed both the Red Foxes, indignant. "What kind of Scouts do you think we are? You'll need more than two men, if there's much carrying to be done. We stick."

"So do we," chimed in Fitz and I. "We'll get the message through, and get you through, too."

The major flushed and stood up.

"If that's the way you talk," he snapped (he was the black-eyed, quick kind, you know), "then I order that this march be resumed. Pack the burro. I order it."

"You'd better ride."

"I'll walk."

Well, he was our leader. We should obey, as long as he seemed capable. He was awfully stubborn, the major was, when he had his back up. But we exchanged glances, and we must all have thought the same: that if he was taken seriously again soon, and was laid out, we would try to persuade him to let us manage for him. Fitz only said quietly:

"But if you have to quit, you'll quit, won't you, Tom? You won't keep going, just to spite yourself. Real appendicitis can't be fooled with."

"I'll quit," he answered.

We packed Sally again, and started on. The major seemed to want to hike at the regulation fast Scouts' pace, but we held him in the best that we could. Anyway, after we had gone three or four miles, he was beginning to pant and double over; his pain had come back.

"I think I'll have to rest a minute," he said; and he sat down. "Go ahead. I'll catch up. You'd better take the message, Fitz. Here."

"No, sir," retorted Fitz. "If you think that we're going on and leave you alone, sick, you're off your base. This is a serious matter, Tom. It wouldn't be decent, and it wouldn't be Scout-like. The Red Foxes ought to go—"

"But we won't," they interrupted—

"—and we'll get you to some place where you can be attended to. Then we'll take the message, if you can't. There's plenty of time."

The major flushed and fidgeted, and fingered the package.

"Maybe I can ride, then," he offered. "We can cache more stuff and I'll ride Sally." He grunted and twisted as the pain cut him. He looked ghastly.

"He ought to lie quiet till we can take him some place and find a doctor," said Red Fox Scout Van Sant, emphatically. "There must be a ranch or a town around here."

"We'll ask this man coming," said Fitz.

The stream had met another, here, and so had the trail; and down the left-hand trail was riding at a little cow-pony trot a horseman. He was a cow-puncher. He wore leather chaps and spurs and calico shirt and flapping-brimmed drab slouch hat. When he reached us he reined in and halted. He was a middle-aged man, with freckles and sandy mustache.

"Howdy?" he said.

"Howdy?" we answered.

"Ain't seen any Big W cattle, back along the trail, have you?"

No, we hadn't—until suddenly I remembered.

"We saw some about ten days ago, on the other side of the Divide."

"Whereabouts?"

"On a mesa, northwest across the ridge from Dixon Park."

"Good eye," he grinned. "I heard some of our strays had got over into that country, but I wasn't sure."

We weren't here to talk cattle, though; and Fitz spoke up:

"Where's the nearest ranch, or town?"

"The nearest town is Shenandoah. That's on the railroad about eight miles yonder. Follow the right-hand trail and you'll come out on a wagon-road that takes you to it. But there's a ranch three miles up the valley by this other trail. Sick man?" The cow-puncher had good eyes, too.

"Yes. We want a doctor."

"Ain't any doctor at Shenandoah. That's nothing but a station and a store and a couple of houses. I expect the nearest doctor is the one at the mines."

"Where's that?"

"Fifteen miles into the hills, from the ranch."

"How far is Green Valley?" asked the major, weakly.

"Twenty-three or four miles, by this trail I come along. Same trail you take to the ranch. No doctor now at Green Valley, though. The one they had went back East."

"Then you let the Red Fox Scouts take me to the station and put me on the train for somewhere, and they can catch their own train; and you two fellows go ahead to Green Valley," proposed the major to Fitz.

"Ain't another train either way till to-morrow morning," said the cow-puncher. "They meet at Shenandoah, usually—when they ain't late. If you need a doctor, quickest way would be to make the ranch and ride to the mines and get him. What's the matter?"

"We don't know, for sure. Appendicitis, we think."

"Wouldn't monkey with it," advised the cow-puncher.

"Then the Red Foxes can hit for the railroad and Fitz and Jim and I'll make the ranch," insisted the major.

"We won't," spoke up Red Fox Scout Ward, flatly.

"We'll go with you to the ranch. We'll see this thing through. The railroad can wait."

"Well," said the cow-puncher, "you can't miss it. So long, and good luck."

"So long," we answered. He rode on, and we looked at the major.

"I suppose we ought to get you there as quick as we can," said Fitz, slowly. "Do you want to ride, or try walking again, or shall we carry you?"

"I'm better now," declared our plucky corporal. He stood up. "I'll walk, I guess. It isn't far."

So we set out, cautiously. No, it wasn't far—but it seemed mighty far. The major would walk a couple of hundred yards, and then he must rest. The pain doubled him right over. We took some of the stuff off Sally, and lifted him on top, but he couldn't stand that, either, very long. We tried a chair of our hands, but that didn't suit.

"I'll skip ahead and see if I can bring back a wagon, from the ranch," volunteered Red Fox Scout Van Sant; and away he ran. "You wait," he called back, over his shoulder.

We waited, and kept a cold pack on the major.

In about an hour and a half Van came panting back.

"There isn't any wagon," he gasped. "Nobody at the ranch except two women. Men folks have gone and taken the wagon with them."

That was hard. We skirmished about, and made a litter out of one of our blankets and two pieces of driftwood that we fished from the creek; and carrying the major, with Sally following, we struck the best pace that we could down the trail. He was heavy, and we must stop often to rest ourselves and him; and we changed the cold packs.

At evening we toiled at last into the ranch yard. It had not been three miles: it had been a good long four miles.



CHAPTER XX

A FORTY-MILE RIDE

The ranch was only a small log shack, of two rooms, with corral and sheds and hay-land around it; it wasn't much of a place, but we were glad to get there. Smoke was rising from the stove-pipe chimney. As we drew up, one of the women looked out of the kitchen door, and the other stood in a shed with a milk-pail in her hand. The woman in the doorway was the mother; the other was the daughter. They were regular ranch women, hard workers and quick to be kind in an emergency. This was an emergency, for Major Henry was about worn out.

"Fetch him right in here," called the mother; and the daughter came hurrying.

We carried him into a sleeping room, and laid him upon the bed there. He had been all grit, up till now; but he quit and let down and lay there with eyes closed, panting.

"What is it?" they asked anxiously.

"He's sick. We think it's appendicitis."

"Oh, goodness!" they exclaimed. "What can we give him?"

"Nothing. Where can we get a doctor?"

"The mines is the nearest place, if he's there. That's twenty miles."

"But a man we met said it was fifteen."

"You can't follow that trail. It's been washed out. You'll have to take the other trail, around by the head of Cooper Creek."

"Can we get a saddle-horse here?"

"There are two in the corral; but I don't know as you can catch 'em. They're used to being roped."

"We'll rope them."

The major groaned. He couldn't help it.

"It's all right, old boy," soothed Fitz. "We'll have the doctor in a jiffy."

"Don't bother about me," gasped the major, without opening his eyes. "Go on through."

"You hush," we all retorted. "We'll do both: have you fixed up and get through, too."

The major fidgeted and complained weakly.

"One of us had better be catching the horses, hadn't we?" suggested Red Fox Scout Ward. "Van and I'll go for the doctor."

"No, you won't," said I. "I'll go. Fitz ought to stay. I know trails pretty well."

"Then either Van or I'll go with you. Two would be better than one."

"I'm going," declared Van Sant. "You stay here with Fitz, Hal."

That was settled. We didn't delay to dispute over the matter. There was work and duty for all.

"You be learning the trail, then," directed Fitz. "I'll be catching the horses."

"You'll find a rope on one of the saddles in the shed," called the daughter.

Fitz made for it; that was quicker than unpacking Sally and getting our own rope. Scout Ward went along to help. We tried to ease the major.

"You should have something to eat," exclaimed the women.

We said "no"; but they bustled about, hurrying up their own supper, which was under way when we arrived. While they bustled they fired questions at us; who we were, and where we had come from, and where we were going, and all.

The major seemed kind of light-headed. He groaned and wriggled and mumbled. The message was on his mind, and the Red Fox Scouts, and the fear that neither would get through in time. He kept trying to pass the message on to us; so finally I took it.

"All right. I've got it, major," I told him. "We'll carry it on. We can make Green Valley easy, from here. We'll start as soon as we can. To-morrow's Sunday, anyway. You go to sleep."

That half-satisfied him.

We found that we couldn't eat much. We drank some milk, and stuffed down some bread and butter; and by that time Fitz and Scout Ward had the horses led out. We heard the hoofs, and in came Ward, to tell us.

"Horses are ready," he announced.

Out we went. No time was to be lost. They even had saddled them—Fitz working with his one hand! So all we must do was to climb on. The women had told us the trail, and they had given us an old heavy coat apiece. Nights are cold, in the mountains.

"You know how, do you?" queried Fitz of me.

"Yes."

"That gray horse is the easiest," called one of the women, from the door.

"Let Jim take it, then," spoke Van.

But I had got ahead of him by grabbing the bay.

"Jim is used to riding," explained Fitz.

"So am I," answered Van.

"Not these saddles, Van," put in Ward. "They're different. The stirrups of the gray are longer, a little. They'll fit you better than they'll fit Jim."

Van had to keep the gray. It didn't matter to me which horse I rode, and it might to him from the East; so I was glad if the gray was the easier.

We were ready.

"We'll take care of Tom till you bring the doctor," said Fitz.

"We'll bring him."

"So long. Be Scouts."

"So long."

A quick grip of the hand from Fitz and Ward, and we were off, out of the light from the opened door where stood the two women, watching, and into the dimness of the light. Now for a forty-mile night ride, over a strange trail—twenty miles to the mines and twenty miles back. We would do our part and we knew that Fitz and Ward would do theirs in keeping the major safe.

That appeared a long ride. Twenty miles is a big stretch, at night, and when you are so anxious.

We were to follow on the main trail for half a mile until we came to a bridge. But before crossing the bridge there was a gate on the right, and a hay road through a field. After we had crossed the field we would pass out by another gate, and would take a trail that led up on top of the mesa. Then it was nineteen miles across the mesa, to the mines. The mines would have a light. They were running night and day.

We did not say much, at first. We went at fast walk and little trots, so as not to wind the horses in the very beginning. We didn't dash away, headlong, as you sometimes read about, or see in pictures. I knew better. Scouts must understand how to treat a horse, as well as how to treat themselves, on the march.

This was a dark night, because it was cloudy. There were no stars, and the moon had not come up yet. So we must trust to the horses to keep the trail. By looking close we could barely see it, in spots. Of course, the darkness was not a deep black darkness. Except in a storm, the night of the open always is thinnish, so you can see after your eyes are used to it.

I had the lead. Up on the mesa we struck into a trot. A lope is easier to ride, but the trot is the natural gait of a horse, and he can keep up a trot longer than he can a lope. Horses prefer trotting to galloping.

Trot, trot, trot, we went.

"How you coming?" I asked, to encourage Van.

"All right," he grunted. "These stirrups are too long, though. I can't get any purchase."

"Doesn't your instep touch, when you stand up in them?"

"If I straighten out my legs. I'm riding on my toes. That's the way I was taught. I like to have my knees crooked so I can grip with them. Don't you, yours?"

"Just to change off to, as a rest. But cowboys and other people who ride all day stick their feet through the stirrup to the heel, and ride on their instep. A crooked leg gives a fellow a cramp in the knee, after a while. Out here we ride straight up and down, so we are almost standing in the stirrups all the time. That's the cowboy way, and it's about the cavalry way, too. Those men know."

"How do you grip, then?"

"With the thigh. Try it. But when you're trotting you'd better stand in the stirrups and you can lean forward on the horn, for a rest."

Van grunted. He was experimenting.

"Should think it would make your back ache," he said.

"What?"

"To ride with such long stirrups."

"Uh uh," I answered. "Not when you sit up and balance in the saddle and hold your spine straight. It always makes my back ache to hunch over. We Elk Scouts try to ride with heel and shoulders in line. We can ride all day."

"Humph!" grunted Van. "Let's lope."

"All right."

So we did lope, a little way. Then we walked another little way, and then I pushed into the same old trot. That was hard on Van, but it was what would cover the ground and get us through quickest to the doctor. So we must keep at it.

Sometimes I stood in the stirrups and leaned on the horn; sometimes I sat square and "took it."

We crossed the mesa, and first thing we knew, we were tilting down into a gulch. The horses picked their way slowly; we let them. We didn't want any tumbles or sprained legs. The bottom of the gulch held willows and aspens and brush, and was dark, because shut in. We didn't trot. My old horse just put his nose down close to the ground, and went along at an amble, like a dog, smelling the trail. I let the lines hang and gave him his head. Behind me followed Van and his gray. I could hear the gray also sniffing. (Note 65.)

"Will we get through?" called Van, anxiously. "Think we're still on the trail?"

"Sure," I answered.

Just then my horse snorted, and raised his head and snorted more, and stood stock-still, trembling. I could feel that his ears were pricked. He acted as if he was seeing something, in the trail.

"Gwan!" I said, digging him with my heels.

"What's the matter?" called Van.

His horse had stopped and was snorting.

"Don't know."

It was pitchy dark. I strained to see, but I couldn't. That is a creepy thing, to have your horse act so, when you don't know why. Of course you think bear and cougar. But we were not to be held up by any foolishness, and I was not a bit afraid.

"Gwan!" I ordered again.

"Gwan!" repeated Van.

I heard a crackling in the brush, and my horse proceeded, sidling and snorting past the spot. Van's gray followed, acting the same way. It might have been a bear; we never knew.

On we went, winding through the black timber again. We were on the trail, all right; for by looking at the tree-tops against the sky we could just see them and could see that they were always opening out, ahead. The trail on the ground was kind of reproduced on the sky.

It was a long way, through that dark gulch. But nothing hurt us and we kept going.

The gulch widened; we rode through a park, and the horses turned sharply and began to climb a hill—zigzagging back and forth. We couldn't see a trail, and I got off and felt with my hands.

A trail was there.

We came out on top. Here it was lighter. The moon had risen, and some light leaked through the clouds.

"Do you think we're on the right trail, still?" asked Van, dubiously. "They didn't say anything about this other hill."

That was so. But they hadn't said anything about there being two trails, either. They had said that when we struck the trail over the mesa, to follow it to the mines.

"It must be the right trail," I said, back. "All we can do is to keep following it."

Seemed to me that we had gone the twenty miles already. But of course we hadn't.

"Maybe we've branched off, on to another trail," persisted Van. "The horses turned, you remember. Maybe we ought to go back and find out."

"No, it's the right trail," I insisted, again. "There's only the one, they said."

We must stick to that thought. We had been told by persons who knew. If once we began to fuss and not believe, and experiment, then we both would get muddled and we might lose ourselves completely. I remembered what old Jerry the prospector once had said: "When you're on a trail, and you've been told that it goes somewhere, keep it till you get there. Nobody can describe a trail by inches."

We went on and on and on. It was down-hill and up-hill and across and through; but we pegged along. Van was about discouraged; and it was a horrible sensation, to suspect that after all we might have got upon a wrong trail, and that we were not heading for the doctor but away from him, while Fitz and Ward were doing their best to save Tom, thinking that we would come back bringing the doctor.

We didn't talk much. Van was dubious, and I was afraid to discuss with him, or I might be discouraged, too. I put all my attention to making time at fast walk and at trot, and in hoping. Jiminy, how I did hope. Every minute or two I was thinking that I saw a light ahead—the light of the mines. But when it did appear, it appeared all of a sudden, around a shoulder: a light, and several lights, clustered, in a hollow before!

"There it is, Van!" I cried; and I was so glad that I choked up.

"Is that the mines?"

"Sure. Must be. Hurrah!"

"Hurrah!"

The sight changed everything. Now the night wasn't dark, the way hadn't been so long after all, we weren't so tired, we had been silly to doubt the trail; for we had arrived, and soon we would be talking with the doctor.

The trail wound and wound, and suddenly, again, it entered in among sheds, and the dumps of mines. At the first light I stopped. The door was partly open. It was the hoisting house of a mine, and the engineer was looking out, to see who we were.

"Is the doctor here?" I asked.

"Guess so. Want him?"

"Yes."

"He has a room over the store. Somebody hurt? Where you from?"

"Harden's ranch. Where is the store?"

"I'll show you. Here." He led the way. "Somebody hurt over there?"

"No. Sick."

We halted beside a platform of a dim building, and the engineer pounded on the door.

"Oh, doc!" he called.

And when that doctor answered, through the window above, and we knew that it was he, and that we had him at last, I wanted to laugh and shout. But now we must get him back to the major.

"You're needed," explained the man. "Couple of kids." And he said to us: "Go ahead and tell him. I'm due at the mine." And off he trudged. We thanked him.

"What's the trouble?" asked the doctor.

"Appendicitis, we think. We're from the Harden ranch."

"Great Scott!" we heard the doctor mutter. Then he said. "All right, I'll be down." And we waited.

He came out of a side door and around upon the porch. He was buttoning his shirt.

"Who's got it? Not one of you?"

"No, another boy. He was sick on the trail and we took him to the ranch. Then we rode over here."

"What makes you think your friend has appendicitis?"

We described how the major acted and what Fitz had found out by feeling, and what we had done.

"Sounds suspicious," said the doctor, shortly. "You did the right thing, anyway. Do you want to go back with me? I'll start right over. Expect you're pretty tired."

"We'll go," we both exclaimed. We should say so! We wanted to be there, on the spot.

"I'll just get my case, and saddle-up." And he disappeared.

He was a young doctor, smooth-faced; I guess he hadn't been out of college very long; but he was prompt and ready. He came down in a moment with a lantern, and put his case on the porch. He handed us a paper of stuff.

"There's some lump sugar," he said. "Eat it. I always carry some about with me, on long rides. It's fine for keeping up the strength."

He swung the lantern to get a look at us, then he went back toward the stables, and saddled his horse. He was in the store a moment, too.

"I've got some cheese," he announced, when he came out again. "Cheese and sugar don't sound good as a mixture, but they'll see us through. We must keep our nerve, you know. All aboard?"

"All aboard," we answered.

That was another long ride, back; but it did not seem so long as the ride in, because we knew that we were on the right trail. The doctor talked and asked us all about our trip as Scouts, and told experiences that he had had on trips, himself; and we tried to meet him at least halfway. But all the time I was wondering about the major, and whether we would reach him in time, and whether he would get well, and what was happening now, there. But there was no use in saying this, or in asking the doctor a lot of questions. He would know and he would do his best, and so would we all.

Just at daylight we again entered the ranch yard. Fitz waved his one arm from the ranch door. He came to meet us. His eyes were sticky and swollen and his face pale and set, but he smiled just the same.

"Here's the doctor," we reported. "How is he?"

"Not so bad, as long as we keep the cold compress on. He's slept."

"Good," said the doctor. "We'll fix him up now, all right."

He swung off, with his case, and Fitz took him right in. Van and I sort of tumbled off, and stumbled along after. Those forty miles at trot and fast walk had put a crimp in our legs. But I tell you, we were thankful that we had done it!

And here was our second Sunday.



CHAPTER XXI

THE LAST DASH

That young doctor was fine. He took things right into his own hands, and Major Henry said all right. The major was weak but game. He was gamer than any of us. Fitz and Red Fox Scout Ward had slept some by turns, and the two women were ready to help, too; but the doctor gave Red Fox Scout Van Sant and me the choice of going to sleep or going fishing.

It was Sunday and we didn't need the fish. We didn't intend to go to sleep; we just let them show us a place, in the bunk-house, and we lay down, for a minute. For we were ready to help, as well as the rest of them. A Scout must not be afraid of blood or wounds. We only lay down with a blanket over us, instead of going fishing—and when I opened my eyes again the sun was bright and Fitz and Ward were peeking in on us.

They were pale, but they looked happy.

Van and I tried to sit up.

"Is it over with?" we asked.

"Sure."

"Did he take it out? Was that what was the matter?"

"Yes. Want to see it?"

No, we didn't. I didn't, anyway.

"How is he? Can we see him?"

"The doctor says he'll be all right. Maybe you can see him. He's out from under. It's one o'clock."

One o'clock! Phew! We were regular deserters—but we hadn't intended to be.

We tumbled out, now, and hurried to wash and fix up, so that we would look good to the major. Sick people are finicky. The daughter was in the kitchen, but the mother and the doctor were eating. There was a funny sweetish smell, still; smell of chloroform. It is a serious smell, too.

The doctor smiled at us. "I ought to have taken yours out, while you were asleep," he joked. "I've been thinking of it."

"Is he all right?" we asked; Fitz and Ward behind us, ready to hear again.

"Bully, so far."

"Indeed he is," added the mother.

"Can we see him?"

"You can stand on the threshold and say one word: 'Hello.'"

We tiptoed through. The bed was clean and white, with a sheet outside instead of the colored spread; and the major was in it. The Elks' flag was spread out, draped over the dresser, where he could see it. His eyes opened at us. He didn't look so very terrible, and he tried to grin.

"How?" he said.

"Hello," said we; and we gave him the Scouts' sign.

"Didn't even make me sick," he croaked. "But I can't get up. Don't you fellows wait. You go ahead."

"We will," we said, to soothe him. Then we gave him the Scouts' sign again, and the silence sign, and the wolf sign (for bravery) (Note 66), and we drew back. The doctor had told us that we could say one word, and we had been made to say three!

We had seen that the major was alive and up and coming (not really up; only going to be, you know); but this was another anxious day, I tell you! Having an appendix cut out is no light matter, ever—and besides, here was the fourteenth day on the trail! The major would not be able to stir for a week and a half, maybe; yet Green Valley, our goal, was only twenty-one miles away!

"It's all a question of the nursing that he has now, boys," said the doctor, in council with us. "I'm going to trust that to you Scouts; these women have all they can do, anyway. We got the appendix out just in time—but if it hadn't been for your first-aid treatment in the beginning we might have been too late. That old appendix was swollen and ready to burst if given half a chance. His pure Scout's blood and his Scout's vitality will pull him through O. K. That's what he gets, from living right, following out Scouts' rules. But he must have attention night and day according to hygiene. We don't want any microbes monkeying with that wound I made."

"No, you bet," we said.

"I'll leave you complete directions and then I'm going back to the mines; but I'll ride over again to-morrow morning. Can't you keep him from fussing about that message?"

"We'll try," we said.

"If you can't, then one of you can jump on a horse and take it over, so as to satisfy him. You can make the round trip in five hours."

Well, we were pledged not to do that; horse or other help was forbidden. But we did not say so. What was the use? And it didn't seem now as though either Fitz or I could stand it to leave the major even for five hours. The Red Fox Scouts of course must skip on, to the railroad, or they'd miss their big Yellowstone trip, and we two Elks would be on night and day duty, with the major. The doctor said that he would be out of danger in five days. By that time the message would be long overdue. It was too bad. We had tried so hard.

The doctor left us written directions, until he should come back; and he rode off for the mines.

Fitz and I took over the nursing, and let the two women go on about their ranch work. They were mighty nice to us, and we didn't mean to bother them any more than was absolutely necessary. The two Red Foxes stayed a while longer. They said that they would light out early in the morning, if the major had a good night, in time to catch the train all right. But they didn't; we might have smelled a mouse, if we hadn't been so anxious about the major. They were good as gold, those two Red Foxes.

You see, the major kept fussing. He was worried over the failure of the message. He had it on his mind all the time. To-morrow was the fifteenth day—and here we were, laid up because of him. We told him no matter; we all had done our Scouts' best, and no fellows could have done more. But we would stick by him. That was our Scouts' duty, now.

He kept fussing. When we took his temperature, as the doctor had ordered, it had gone up two degrees. That was bad. We could not find any other special symptoms. His cut didn't hurt him, and he had not a thing to complain of—except that we wouldn't carry the message through in time.

"You'll have to do it," said Red Fox Scout Van Sant to Fitz and me.

"But we can't."

"Why not?"

That was a silly question for a Scout to ask.

"We can't leave Tom."

"Yes, you can. Hal and I are here."

"You've got to make that train, right away."

"No, we haven't."

"But you'll miss the Yellowstone trip!"

"We can take it later."

"No, sir! That won't do. The major and we, and the general, too, if he knew, won't have it that way at all. You fellows have been true Scouts. Now you go ahead."

Scout Van flushed and fidgeted.

"Well, to tell the truth," he blurted, "I guess we've missed connections a little anyway. But we don't care. We sent a telegram in this afternoon by the doctor to our crowd, telling them to go ahead themselves and not to expect us until we cut their trail. The doctor will telephone it to the operator."

We gasped.

"You see," continued Van, "we two Red Foxes can take care of the major while you're gone, like a brick. We're first-aid nurses, and the doctor has told us what to do; and he's coming back to-morrow and the next day you'll be back, maybe. He said that if the major fussed you'd better do what's wanted."

"But look here—!" began Fitz. "The major'll feel worse if he knows you're missing your trip than if the message is delayed a day or two."

"No, he won't," argued Van. "We'll explain to him. We won't miss our trip. We'll catch the crowd somewhere. Besides, that's only pleasure. This other is business. You're on the trail, in real Scouts' service, to show what Scouts can do, so we want to help."

It seemed to me that they were showing what Scouts can do, too! They were splendid, those Red Foxes.

"The major'll just fuss and fret, you know," finished Van. "That's what has sent his temperature up, already."

"Well," said Fitz, slowly, "we'll see. We Elks appreciate how you other Scouts have stuck and helped. Don't we, Jim?"

"We sure do," I agreed. "But we don't want to ride a free horse to death."

"Bosh!" laughed Van. "We're all Scouts. That's enough."

Red Fox Scout Ward beckoned to us.

"The major wants you," he said.

We went in. The major did not look good to me. His cheeks were getting flushed and his eyes were large and rabbity.

"I can't quiet him," claimed Ward, low, as we entered.

"Do you know this is the fourteenth day?" piped the major. "I've been counting up and it is. I'm sure it is."

"That's all right, old boy," soothed Fitz. "You let us do the counting. All you need do is get well."

"But we have to put that message through, don't we?" answered the major. "Just because I'm laid up is no reason why the rest of you must be laid up, too. Darn it! Can't you do something?"

He was excited. That was bad.

"I've been thinking," proceeded the major. "The general was hurt, and dropped out, but we others went on. Then little Jed Smith was hurt, and he and Kit Carson dropped out, but we others went on. And now I'm hurt, and I've dropped out, and none of you others will go on. That seems mighty mean. I don't see why you're trying to make me responsible. Everybody'll blame me."

"Of course they won't," I said.

He was wriggling his feet and moving his arms, and he was almost crying.

"Would you get well quick if we leave you and take the message through, Tom?" asked Fitz, suddenly.

The major quit wriggling, and his face shone.

"Would I? I'd beat the record. I'd sleep all I'm told to, and eat soup, and never peep. Will you, Fitz? Sure?"

"To-morrow morning. You lie quiet, and quit fussing, and sleep, and be a model patient in the hospital, and then to-morrow morning early we'll hike."

"Both of you?"

"Yep."

"One isn't enough, in case you meet trouble. It's two on the trail, for us Scouts."

"I know it."

"And you'll take the flag? I want the Elks flag to go."

"We will," we said.

"To-morrow morning, then," and the major smiled a peaceful, happy little smile. "Bueno. Now I'll go to sleep. You needn't give me any dope. I'll see you off in the morning." And he sort of settled and closed his eyes. "When are you Red Foxes off?" he asked drowsily.

"Oh, we've arranged to be around here a day yet," drawled Van Sant. "You can't get rid of us. We want to hear that the message went through. Then we'll skip. We ought to rest one day in seven. And there's a two-pound trout in a hole here, Mrs. Harden says, and Hal thinks he can catch him to-morrow before I do."

"You mustn't miss that trip," murmured the major. And when we tiptoed out, leaving Fitz on guard, he was asleep already!

So it seemed that we had done the best thing.

Red Foxes Ward and Van Sant divided the night watch between them so that we Elks should be fresh for the day's march. We were up early, and got our own breakfast, so as not to bother the two women; but the report came out from the major's room that he had had a bully night, and that now he was awake and was bound to see us. So we went in.

He had the Elks flag in his hands.

"Who's got that message?" he asked.

I had, you know.

He passed the flag to Fitz.

"You take this, then. You're sure going, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. You can make it. Don't you worry about me. I'm fine. Be Scouts. It's the last leg."

"You be a Scout, too. If we're to be Scouts, on the march, you ought to be a Scout, in the hospital."

"I will." He knew what we meant. "But I wish I could go."

"So do we."

"All ready?"

"All ready."

He shook our hands.

"So long."

"So long."

We gave him the Scouts' salute, and out we went. We shook hands with the Red Foxes; they saluted us, and we saluted them. We crossed the yard for the trail; and when we looked back, the two women waved at us. We waved back. And now we were carrying the message again, with only twenty-one miles to go.

The trail was up grade, following beside the creek, and we knew that we must allow at least eight hours for those twenty-one miles. It was not to be a nice day, either. Mists were floating around among the hills, which was a pretty certain sign of rain.

We hiked on. I had the message, hanging inside my shirt. It felt good. I suspected that Fitz ought to be the one to carry it; he was my superior. But he didn't ask for it, and I tried to believe that my carrying it made no difference to him. I was thinking about offering it to him, but I didn't. He had his camera, and the flag wrapped about his waist like a sash. We'd left Sally and our other stuff at the ranch, and were traveling light for this last spurt.

It was a wagon trail right down the valley, and we could travel fast. The sun grew hotter, and a hole in my boot-sole began to raise a blister on my foot. Those fourteen days of steady trailing had been hard on leather, and on clothes, too.

We passed several ranches. Along in the middle of the morning thunder began to growl in the hills, and we knew that we were liable to be wet.

The valley grew narrower, as if it was to pinch out, and the thunder grew louder. The storm was rising black over the hills ahead of us.

"That's going to be a big one," said Fitz.

It looked so. The clouds were the rolling, tumbling kind, where drab and black are mixed. And they came fast, to eat the sun.

It was raining hard on the hills ahead. We could see the lightning every second, awful zigzags and splits and bursting bombs, and the thunder was one long bellow.

The valley pinched to not much more than a gulch, with aspens and pines and willows, and now and then little grassy places, and the stream rippling down through the middle. Half the sky was gone, now, and the sun was swallowed, and it was time that Fitz and I found cover. We did not hunt a tree; not much! Trees are lightning attracters, and they leak, besides. But we saw where a ledge of shelf-rock cropped out, making a little cave.

"We'd better get in here and cache till the worst is over," proposed Fitz. "We'll eat our lunch while we're waiting."

That sounded like sense. So we snuggled under. We could just sit up, with our feet inside the edge.

"Boom-oom-oom!" roared the thunder, shaking the ground.

"Boom-oom-oom! Oom! Oom! Boom!"

We could feel a chill, the breeze stopped, as if scared, drops began to patter, a few, and then more, faster and faster, hard and swift as hail, the world got dark, and suddenly with roar and slash down she came, while we were eating our first sandwich put up by the two women.

That was the worst rain that Fitz or I had ever seen. Between mouthfuls we watched. The drops were big and they fell like a spurt from a hose, until all the outside world was just one sheet of water. The streaks drummed with the rumble of a hundred wagons. We couldn't see ten feet. Before we had eaten our second sandwiches, the water was trickling through cracks in the shelf-rock roof, and dirt was washing away from the sides of our cave. Outside, the land was a stretch of yellow, liquid adobe, worked upon by the fierce pour.

"We'll have to get out of this," shouted Fitz in my ear. "This roof may cave in on us."

And out he plunged; I followed. We were soaked through in an instant, and I could feel the water running down my skin. We could scarcely see where to go or what to do; but we had bolted just in time. One end of the shelf-rock washed out like soap, and in crumpled the roof, as a mass of shale and mud! Up the gulch sounded a roaring—another, different roaring from the roaring of the rain and thunder. Fitz grabbed my hand.

"Run!" he shouted. "Quick! Get across!"

This was no time for questions, of course. I knew that he spoke in earnest, and had some good reason. Hand in hand we raced, sliding and slipping, for the creek. It had changed a heap in five minutes. It was all a thick yellow, and was swirling and yeasty. Fitz waded right in, in a big hurry to get on the other side. He let go of my hand, but I followed close. The current bit at my knees, and we stumbled on the hidden rocks. Out Fitz staggered, and up the opposite slope, through sage and bushes. The roaring was right behind us. It was terrible. We were about all in, and Fitz stopped, panting.

"See that?" he gasped, pointing back.

A wave of yellow muck ten feet high was charging down the gulch like a squadron of cavalry in solid formation. Logs and tree-branches were sticking out of it, and great rocks were tossing and floating. Another second, and it had passed, and where we had come from—trail and shelf-rock and creek—was nothing but the muddy water and driftwood tearing past, with the pines and aspens and willows trembling amidst it. But it couldn't reach us.

"Cloud-burst," called Fitz, in my ear.

I nodded. He was white. I felt white, too. That had been a narrow escape.

"We could have climbed that other side, couldn't we?" I asked.

"We were on the wrong side of the creek, though. We might have been cut off from where we're going. That's what I thought of. See?"

Wise old Fitz. That was Scouty, to do the best thing no matter how quick you must act. Of course, with the creek between us and Green Valley, and the bridges washed out and the water up, we might have been held back for half a day!

The yellow flood boiled below, but the rain was quitting, and we might as well move on, anyway.

According to what we had been told of the trail, up at the head of the gulch it turned off, and crossed the creek on a high bridge, and made through the hills northwest for the town. Now we must shortcut to strike it over in that direction.

The rain was quitting; the sun was going to shine. That was a hard climb, through the wet and the stickiness and the slipperiness, with our clothes weighting us and clinging to us and making us hotter. But up we pushed, puffing. Then we followed the ridge a little way, until we had to go down. Next we must go up again, for another ridge.

Fitz plugged along; so did I. The sun came out and the ground steamed, and our clothes gradually dried, as the brush and trees dried; but somehow I didn't feel extra good. My head thumped, and things looked queer. It didn't result in anything serious, after the hike was over, so I guess that maybe I was hungry and excited. The rain had soaked our lunch as well as us and we threw it away in gobs; we counted on supper in Green Valley.

We didn't stop. Fitz was going strong. He was steel. And if I could hold out I mustn't say a word. So it was up-hill and down-hill, across country through brush and scattered timber, expecting any time to hit the trail or come in sight of the town. And how my head did thump!

Finally in a draw we struck a cow-path, and we stuck to this, because it looked as if it was going somewhere. Other cow-paths joined it, and it got larger and larger and more hopeful; and about five o'clock by the sun we stepped into a main traveled road. Hurrah! This was the trail for us.

The rain had not spread this far, and the road was dusty. A signboard said, pointing: "Brown's Big Store, Green Valley's Leader, One Mile." We were drawing near! I tried not to limp, and not to notice my head, as we spurted to a fast walk, straight-foot and quick, so that we would enter triumphantly. As like as not people would be looking out for us, as this was the last day; and we would show them Scouts' spirit. We Elks had fought treachery and fire and flood, and we had left four good men along the way; those had been a strenuous fifteen days, but we were winning through at last.

That last mile seemed to me longer than any twenty. The dust and gravel were hot, the sun flamed, my blister felt like a cushion full of needles, my legs were heavy and numb, that old head thumped like a drum, and I had a notion that if I slackened or lost my stride I'd never finish out that mile. So when Fitz stumbled on a piece of rock, and his strap snapped and he stopped to pick up his camera, I kept moving. He would catch me.

A shoulder of rock stuck out and the road curved around it; and when I had curved around it, too, then I saw something that sent my heart into my throat, and brought me up short. With two leaps I was back, around the rock again, in time to sign Fitz, coming: "Halt! Silence!" And I motioned him close behind the shoulder.

Beyond the rock the road stretched straight and clear, with the town only a quarter of a mile. But only about a hundred yards away, where the creek flowed close to the road, were two fellows, fishing. One was Bill Duane!

Fitz obeyed my signs. He gazed at me, startled and anxious.

"What is it?" he asked, pantomime.

I held up two fingers, for two enemies. Then I cautiously peeked out. Bill Duane was leaving the water, as if he was coming; and the other fellow was coming. The other fellow was Mike Delavan. They must have seen me before I had jumped back. We might have circuited them, but now it was too late. I never could stand a chase over the hills, and maybe Fitz couldn't.

But there was a way, and a chance, and I made up my mind in a twinkling. I jerked out the message and held it at Fitz. He shook his head. I signed what we would do—what I would do and what he must do. He shook his head. He wouldn't. We would stick together. I clinched my teeth and waved my fist under his nose, and signed that he must. He was the one.

Then I thrust the message into his hand, and out I sprang. Around the shoulder of rock Bill and Mike were sneaking, to see what had become of me. They were only about fifty yards, now, and I made for them as if to dodge them. They let out a yell and closed in, and up the hill at one side I pegged. They pegged to head me.

My legs worked badly. I didn't mind breaking the blister (I felt the warm stuff ooze out, and the sting that followed); but those heavy legs! As a Scout I ought to have skipped up the hill as springy and long-winded as a goat; but instead I had to shove myself. But up I went, nip and tuck—and my head thumped when my heart did, about a thousand times a minute. Every step I took hurt from hair to sole. But I didn't care, if I only could go far enough. Bill and Mike climbed after, on the oblique so as to cut me off before I could reach the top of the ridge and the level there.

Straight up I went, drawing them on; and halfway my throat was too dry and my legs were too heavy and my head jarred my eyes too much, and I wobbled and fell down. On came the two enemy; but I didn't care. I looked past them and saw Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand pelting down the road. He had cached his camera, but he had the flag and the message, his one arm was working like a driving-rod, he was running true, the trail lay straight and waiting, with the goal open, and I knew that he would make it!



APPENDIX: SCOUT NOTES

CHAPTER I

Note 1, page 3: Many old-time "scouts" of Western plains and mountains did not amount to much. They led a useless life, hunting and fighting for personal gain, and gave little thought to preserving game, making permanent trails, or otherwise benefiting people who would follow. Their knowledge and experience was of the selfish or of the unreliable kind. They cared for nobody but themselves, and for nothing but their wild haunts. However, these trapper-explorers whose names the Elk Patrol took were of value to the world at large and deserve to be remembered.

General William H. Ashley lived in old St. Louis, and became a fur-trader and fur-hunter in 1822. By his great enterprise he encouraged other Americans to penetrate the Western country. He led numerous expeditions across the wild plains and the wild Rockies, and his parties were great training-schools for young trapper-scouts. He it was who fairly broke the famous Oregon and California emigrant trail across the Rocky Mountains by hauling a six-pounder cannon, on wheels, to his fort in Utah; his men were the first to explore the Great Salt Lake; he was the first brigadier-general of the Missouri State militia, and after his fur days he went to Congress.

Major Andrew Henry was General Ashley's partner in fur. But before joining with Ashley, in 1810 he had built, in Idaho, the first American trading post or fort west of the mountains.

Kit Carson was a real "boy scout," for he took the scout trail in 1826, when he was only sixteen. Because of his modesty, his bravery, his shrewdness, and his kindliness, his help to army and other Government expeditions, and his advice in Indian matters, he is the best-known of all Western frontiersmen.

Thomas Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand was an Ashley trapper, and was a captain of trappers. He afterwards served as a valuable guide for emigrants and the Government, and was a Government agent over Indians. He was called by the Indians "Bad Hand," because one hand had been crippled through a rifle explosion. He was called "White Head," too, because in a terrible chase by Indians his hair turned white.

Jedediah S. Smith is known as the Knight in Buckskin. He also was an Ashley scout or trapper, and he was the first American trapper to lead a party across to California. Jedediah Smith was a true Christian, and during all his wanderings the Bible was his best companion.

Jim Bridger was another Ashley scout. He became a scout when he was nineteen, before Kit Carson, and is almost as well known as Kit Carson. He was the Ashley man who discovered the Great Salt Lake, in 1825; he was the first to tell about the Yellowstone Park; and it was by his trail that the Union Pacific Railroad found its way over the Rocky Mountains.

Note 2, page 4: Boy Scouts know that "taking a message to Garcia" means "there and back and no breath wasted." When the war with Spain broke out, in 1898, Captain Andrew Summers Rowan, of the United States Army, was directed by the President to convey a message from the Government to General Garcia of the Cuban Army. Nobody seemed to know the exact whereabouts of General Garcia, who was concealed in the depths of the island. But Captain Rowan did not wait to ask "when" or "how." Not he. He pocketed the message, he made for Cuba, he plunged into the jungle, he found General Garcia, and he brought back the desired report. That was genuine Scouts' work, without frills or foolishness.

Note 3, page 5: Two pairs of thin socks are better for the feet than one pair of thick socks. They rub on each other, and this saves the skin from rubbing on the inside of the boot. Soldiers sometimes soap the heels and soles of their stockings, on the inside.

Note 4, page 6: The "tarp" or tarpaulin, or cowboy bed-sheet, is a strip of sixteen- or eighteen-ounce canvas duck six to eight feet wide and ten to twenty feet long. Fifteen feet is long for Boy Scouts. But it should be plenty wide enough to tuck in well and not draw open when humped by the body, and plenty long enough to cover, with room for the feet, and plenty heavy enough to shed wind and water. It is used on the outside, under and over; and in between, in his blankets, the Scout is snug. The tarp is simple and cheap and is easily accommodated to circumstances. If a few brass eyes are run along the edges, and in the corners, then it can be stretched for a shelter-tent, too. It is much used on the plains and in the mountains.

Note 5, page 6: The diamond hitch is the favorite tie by which packs and other loads are fastened upon burros and horses. It has been used from very early days in the West, and is called the "diamond" hitch because when taut the rope forms a diamond on top of the pack. There are several styles of the diamond hitch, but they all are classified as the single or the double diamond. Some require only one person to tie them; some require two persons. They bind the load very flat, they may be loosened or tightened quickly from the free end of the lash rope, and they do not stick or jam. Nobody has time to fuss with hard knots, when the pack must come off in a hurry.

The simplest form of the diamond hitch is tied as shown here. Scouts may practice it with a cushion laid upon a porch rail, a cord for a lash rope, a strip of cloth for the band or cincha, and a bent nail for the cincha hook.

The Elk Scouts had under their top-packs a "sawbuck" pack-saddle, which is a pair of wooden X's; and to the horns of the X's they hung on each side a canvas case or pannier, in which were stowed cooking utensils, etc. The blankets, etc., were folded and laid on top, with the tarpaulins covering, and the whole was then "laired up" (which is the army and packing term for tucking and squaring and making all shipshape), so that it would ride securely. The panniers must balance each other, even if rocks have to be put in on one side to even up; or else the burro's back will be made sore. Top-packs must not ride wobbly or aslant.

A splendid little book for Boy Scouts is the pamphlet "Pack Transportation," issued by the Quartermaster's Department of the United States Army, and for sale at a small price by the Government Printing Office, Washington. It tells about all the pack hitches, with pictures, and how to care for the animals on the march. This latter is very important.

Before Number 3 is formed, the cinch or cincha (the belly-band) must be drawn very tight, so that the double-twist which makes the loop in Number 3 will stick. But the rope and cincha are apt to slip and loosen, unless the Scout takes a jam-hitch or Blackwall hitch around the hook of the cincha. The rope should be kept taut throughout; and at the last should be heaved tauter still, so that the diamond bites into the pack well; and the end of the rope should be doubled back and tucked under so that it will not drag, and yet can be easily got at.



The lash rope, or pack-rope, in the Army is one-half inch in size and is fifty feet long; but a forty-foot rope is plenty long enough for Scouts. A lair rope also is useful in packing. This is a three-eighths inch rope, twenty-five or thirty feet long, by which the packs may first be laired or tied up securely so that nothing shall shake out.

A pack for a burro may weigh from 200 to 250 pounds; but on a long, rough trip 150 pounds is better. A pack is harder on a mule or a horse than a rider is, because it never lets up.

Note 6, page 6: The Indian bow was only two and one-half to four feet long, so that it could be carried easily when stalking or when on horseback. The Sioux bow, four feet long, was an inch and a half wide at the middle and an inch thick, and tapered to half an inch thick and half an inch wide, at the ends. The Indian bow was made of wood, and of mountain-goat horns, or of solid bones, glued together. The wooden bow frequently was strengthened by having hide or sinew glued along the back. Until they learned the knack of it, few white men could bend an Indian bow.

The arrows were of different lengths, but each warrior used the one length, if he could, so that he would shoot alike, every time. Each warrior knew his own arrows, by a private mark—by length or by pattern of stem or of feathers. Some tribes used two feathers, some three. Scouts can mark their arrows, in the same way.

The bow and arrow are good Scout weapons. They give no noise. They do not frighten animals or warn the enemy. They are not expensive. They can be made on the spot. And it takes Scoutcraft to make them and to use them successfully. As long as the Indians had only bows and arrows, there was plenty of game for all.

Note 7, page 6: The lariat rope, or simply "rope," in the West, is thirty-five or forty feet long. Usually it is five-eighths, four-ply manilla, but the best are of braided rawhide. Those bought at stores have a metal knot or honda through which the slipnoose runs; but cowboys and Boy Scouts do not need this. They tie their own honda, which should be a small fixed loop with space enough for the rope to pass freely. The inside of the loop, against which the rope slips back and forth, may be wrapped with leather. In throwing the rope, the noose or slipknot should be opened to four or five feet in diameter, and the free part of the rope outside the noose should be grasped together with the noose for about one third along the noose from the honda knot. The remainder of the rope is held in a coil in the other hand, ready to release when the noose is cast. The noose (with the part of the free rope) is whirled in thumb and fingers around the head, until it has a good start; and then it is jerked straight forward by the wrist and forearm. As it sails, the honda knot swings to the front and acts as a weight to open the noose wide. That is why part of the rope is taken up, with the noose, and the noose is grasped one third along from the knot itself.

The rope, or lariat, or lasso, is a handy implement for the Scout. The Western Indians and the old-time scouts or trappers used it a great deal, for catching animals and even enemies; and when the United States fought with Mexico, in 1846, some of the Mexican cavalry were armed with lassos.

Note 8, page 7: Anybody on the march always feels better and can travel better when he keeps himself as clean and as neat as possible. Each pair of Scouts in a Patrol should share a war-bag, which is a canvas sack about four feet long, with a round bottom and with a top puckered by a rope. This war-bag is for personal stuff, so that there is no need to paw around in the general baggage, and no chance of losing things.

Note 9, page 7: Coffee is popular, but tea is better, in the long run, and Scouts should not neglect it on the trail. It is lighter than coffee, is more quickly made, and is a food, a strength-giver, and a thirst-quencher in one. All explorers favor it.

Note 10, page 7: Scout Troops would do well to have an official physician who will make out a list of remedies to be used in camp or on the march. When Scouts know how to clean out the stomach and the intestines and how to reduce fever and to subdue chills, and what to give in case of poisoning, then they can prevent many illnesses and perhaps save life. The remedies should be in shape to be easily carried, and should be simple to handle.

Note 11, page 7: The Indian walk and the old scout walk was the straight-foot walk, because it covers the ground with the least resistance. When the foot is turned so that it is pushed sideways, there is waste motion. The toes should push backward, not quartering, to get the most out of the leg muscles. George Catlin, the famous Indian painter, who lived among the Indians of the West before any of us were born, says that he could not walk in moccasins until he walked straight-foot. The Indians turned their toes in a little.

Note 12, page 10: All the Indian tribes of the Western plains and mountains, and most of the old-time scouts, knew sign language. This was a language by means of motions of the hands, helped by the body and face; so that persons could sit and talk together for hours and not utter a word! In time of danger, when silence is desired, Scouts of to-day will find the sign language valuable; and by it the Scout of one country can talk with the Scout of a foreign country.

A book on the "Indian Sign Language" was written in 1884 by Captain W. P. Clark of the United States Army, and it gives all the signs for things from A to Z.

Fitzpatrick's sign for "Watch!" was to bring his right hand with back up, in front of lower part of the face, the first two fingers extended and separated a little and pointing down the trail. The thumb and other fingers are closed. The tips of the two fingers represent the two eyes looking! When he meant "Listen!" he put his hand, palm front, to his ear, with thumb and first finger open, so that the ear set in the angle of them; and he wriggled his hands slowly.

Jim Bridger's sign for "Horseback!" was two fingers of one hand placed astride the edge of the other hand, and the sign for "Wolf!" is the hand (or both hands) with palm to the front, before the shoulder, and the first two fingers pricked up, separated like two ears. Then the hand was moved forward and upward, just a little, like a wolf reconnoitering over a crest.

Occasionally the sign for something was not precisely the same among all the Indian tribes. The Pawnee sign for "wolf" was the first finger of each hand stuck up alongside the head, like ears pricking. But it was a sign easily read. All the signs were sensible and initiative. When the "future" was meant, the finger was thrust ahead with a screwing motion, as if boring; when the "past" was meant, the hand and finger were extended in front and drawn back with the screwing motion. When he was full of food the Indian drew his thumb and finger along his body from his stomach to his throat. When he was hungry he drew the edge of his hand back and forth across his stomach, as sign that he was being cut in two. The sign "talk" is to draw the words out of the mouth with thumb and finger; while to "stop talking" is the same motion half made and then slashed by the edge of the same hand being brought down through it. This means "All right," "That's enough," "I understand," and also "Cut it out!" "Chop it off!"

Years were reckoned as winters, and "winter" is signed by the two clenched hands shivering in front of the body. Days were "sleeps," and "sleep" is signed by inclining the head sideways, to rest upon the palm of the hand. "Man" is the first finger thrust upright, before, because man walks erect. The "question" sign is the right hand bent up, before, at the wrist, fingers apart, and turned from side to side. To ask "How old are you?" the Indian would sign: "You," "winter," "number," "what?"

So Scouts will not find it hard to pick up the sign language; the motions represent the thing itself. When a sign requires several motions, a good sign talker will make them all as rapidly as we pronounce syllables, and he will tell a long story using one hand or two, as most convenient.

CHAPTER II

Note 13, page 11: The sign for "Bird flying" is the sign for wings. The two hands are raised opposite the shoulders, palms to the front, fingers extended and together. Then the hands are waved forward and back, like wings—slowly for large birds, fast for little birds, to imitate the bird itself.

Note 14, page 13: A good way to spread the Scout or cowboy tarpaulin bed is to lay the tarpaulin out at full length, on the smooth place chosen, and to lay the blankets and quilts, open, full length on top. Both ends of the tarp are left bare, of course, for the bedding is shorter than the tarp. Then the whole is turned back upon itself at the middle; one edge of the tarp is tucked under, and part of the other edge, making a bag, with leeway enough so that the sleeper can crawl in. Now there is as much bedding under as over, which is the proper condition when sleeping out upon the ground. The bare end of the tarp, under, will keep the pillow off the dirt; the bare end which comes over will cover the face in case of storm. The Scout has a low, flat bed, which will shed wind and rain.

Note 15, page 13: A reflector is a handy baker. It is a bright-lined box like half of a pyramid or half of an oven. The dough is put into it, and it is set upon its base, open to the fire. The heat strikes it and reflects upon the dough and the dough bakes. It is simple, and can be made to fold together, so that it packs easily. Another trapper and scout method is to smear dough upon a shovel or even a flat, smooth board, and set it up against the fire. The Mexicans bake their tortillas, or thin flour cakes, by smearing them upon smooth stones.

Note 16, page 17: Scouts can readily invent a whistle code of their own. The Western Indians used whistles of bone, in war, and the United States Army can drill by whistle signals.

CHAPTER III

Note 17, page 21: The teeth are a very important item in Scout service. If Scouts will notice the soldiers of the United States Army, and the sailors of the United States Navy, they will notice also that their teeth are always kept clean and sound. Scouts, no matter where they are, should brush their teeth well with tooth powder every morning at least; and should keep them free from particles of food, and should wash their mouths with a dental antiseptic to kill microbes. Brushed teeth and combed and brushed hair after the wet rub make the Scout fit for the day's work. He feels decent.

Note 18, page 25: Scouts who are in camp or on the trail without fish-hooks and are hard-put to catch fish, may try an old Indian and scout method. A bent pin sometimes does not work, with large fish; but the Indians tied a cord or sinew to the end of a small, slender bone, and again, with a loop, to the middle of the bone.

When the fish swallowed the bait impaled upon the bone, the cord or sinew hauled the bone by the middle so that it usually snagged in the fish's throat or gills. A sharp, tough splinter or a small nail will do the same. Thus:



CHAPTER IV

Note 19, page 33: Newspaper stuffed into wet boots or shoes helps them to dry by holding them open and by absorbing the moisture. Of course, the newspaper should be changed frequently. Warm pebbles poured into wet boots or shoes dry them quickly, too. A stuffing of dead grass is another Scouty scheme.

Note 20, page 36: For a leader of a Scouts' party to write up the chief events of each day's march in a notebook, and to sketch the country traversed, teaches order and disciplines the memory, and oftentimes will prove a valuable record.

Note 21, page 38: The right-handed or the left-handed person usually is right-sided or left-sided, all the way down, but not always. So because a person is right-handed or left-handed he probably is right-footed or left-footed, but not necessarily so. Some persons use their left hands to write with, but throw with their right hands, and are likely to use either foot. And some may be left-handed but right-footed. A Scout should learn to use both hands and both feet alike. And he also will learn not to be cocksure and jump at conclusions. All rules have exceptions.

CHAPTER V

Note 22, page 39: Scouts will find that weather-signs among the high mountains are very different from those of the low or the flatter country. The easiest sign of storm is the night-caps. For when in the morning the mountains still have their night-caps on, and the clouds rest like shattered fog in the draws and hollows, the day will surely have rain, by noon. But among the Rockies there usually is a thunder-storm in the middle of every day during the summer.

No one wind for all localities brings rain. The weather is interfered with by the peaks and the valleys. However, here are a few signs to be noted:

When by day the air is extra clear, so that very distant ridges stand out sharply, a storm is apt to be brewing.

When the camp-fire smoke bends down, in the still air of midday or afternoon, a storm is apt to be brewing.

When by night the stars are extra sharp and twinkle less than usual, overhead, but are dim around the horizon, a storm is apt to be brewing.

When there is a halo or ring around the moon, a storm is apt to be brewing; and it is claimed that the larger the circle, the nearer the storm.

When the canvas of the tent stays tight or damp, showing a gathering dampness, a storm is apt to be brewing.

When ants are noted dragging leaves or twigs across the entrance to their nest, a storm is near.

The change of the moon is claimed to change the weather also. And an old maxim says that the third day before the new moon is the sign of the weather for that moon month. If the new moon comes upon the 10th, then the weather of the 8th is to be the general weather of the next thirty days.

Of course, in winter time, or in the late fall or early spring, when the sun-dogs appear, that is a pretty sure sign of cold weather. The Indians say that the "sun is painting both cheeks," or that the "sun has built fires to warm himself."

But Scouts will have difficulty in predicting mountain weather, because storms are diverted by the peaks, and swing off or are broken up; and besides, many mountain trails and mountain camps are one mile and two miles high—above ordinary conditions. The saying is that only fools and Indians predict weather, in the mountains!

Note 23, page 39: Scouts as well as anybody else should have their teeth approved of by a dentist, before starting out on the long trail. The tooth-ache saps the strength, and a cavity might result in a serious abscess, far from proper treatment.

Note 24, page 40: In the thick timber where there are many trees the chance of course is less that the tree which you are under will be struck by the lightning. But to seek refuge under any tree, in a field or other open place, is dangerous. Many persons are killed, every summer, by seeking some lone tree or small clump of trees, or a high-standing tree, in a thunder-storm.

Note 25, page 47: The low soft spot is not so good as the high hard spot, to sleep on. Green grass is damp, and softness gathers dampness. Cowboys and rangers always spread their beds on a little elevation, where the ground is drier and where there is a breeze for ventilation and to keep the insects away.

Note 26, page 49: Nobody can cook by a big fire, without cooking himself too! The smaller the fire the better, as long as it is enough. Just a handful of twigs at a time will cook coffee or roast a chunk of meat. It is an old scout saying that "Little wood feeds the fire, much wood puts it out." Cook by coals rather than by flame. In the West cedar makes the best coals, the cleanest flame; sage makes a very hot fire, and burns to ashes which hold the fire, but it does not give hard coals. Anything pitchy smokes the camp.

In the mountains meat wrapped in a gunnysack or a tarpaulin, to protect from the flies, and hung in the shade and particularly in a tree where the air circulates, will keep a long, long time.

Note 27, page 49: The brass eyes in the edges of the Elk Scouts' tarps here would come into good use for stretching the tarp as a low "A" shelter-tent or dog-tent. The small shelter-tents of the United States Army are called by the soldiers "pup" tents.

Note 28, page 53: The notion that many persons have, of taking guns with them into the mountains or the hills, for protection from wild animals, is a foolish notion. In this day and age the wild animals have been so disciplined by man that they are afraid of him. They would rather run than fight; and throughout the greater part of the United States in North America the animals who could be dangerous are scarce. Guns do much more harm than the animals themselves; and it is the wounded animal which is dangerous. To pack a big gun on the ordinary trail through the wilderness country West or East is the mark of a tenderfoot, unless the gun is needed for meat. Many and many a seasoned wilderness dweller—ranger, cowboy, rancher, prospector—travels afoot or horseback day after day, night after night, and never carries a gun, never needs a gun.

CHAPTER VI

Note 29, page 61: One of the regulations of the United States Army Pack Transportation Department says that packers must treat all the mules kindly, for a mule remembers kindness and never forgets injury. Packers must not even throw stones, to drive a mule into line. Of course, Boy Scouts know that kindness with animals always wins out over harshness, and that there is no greater cowardliness than the abuse of a helpless beast.

Note 30, page 62: Highness and dryness, wood and water, and grazing for the animals are the requirements of the Scouts' camp on the pack trail.

Note 31, page 63: By camp law bird or four-foot or other harmless animals within say two hundred yards of camp is safe from injury by man. This also prevents reckless shooting about camp. The wild life near camp is one of the chief charms of camping in the wilderness. No Scout wishes to leave a trail of blood and murder and suffering, to mark his progress through meadow and timber.

Note 32, page 67: This division of watches or guards should be noted by Scouts. Bed-mates or bunkies should not follow one another on guard; for A wakes B when he crawls out; and after he has changed with B, and has slept two or three hours, he is waked again by B crawling in. But each Scout listed for guard duty should so be listed that he is not disturbed through at least two of the watches.

CHAPTER VII

Note 33, page 72: A "trail" is made up of "sign" or marks which show that something has passed that way. The overturning of pebbles and sticks, dryness and wetness of the spots where they were, dryness and hardness of the edges of footprints, grass pressed down, twigs of bushes broken, dew disturbed, water muddied, ant-hills crushed—all tell a tale to the Scout. He must be able to figure out what was the condition of the trail when the person or animal passed—and that will tell him how long ago the marks or sign were made. And the shape of the sign, and the way in which it is laid, tell what manner of person or animal passed, and how fast. Steps vary in size, and in pressure and in distance apart. A man at a very hurried walk is apt to leave a deeper toe-print, and a loaded horse sinks deeper than a light one. A good trailer is a good guesser, but he is a good guesser because he puts two and two together and knows that they make four.

Note 34, page 74: A portion of a patrol on a scout should think to leave private signs, by marks in the dirt or on trees or by twigs bent or by little heaps of stones, which will tell their comrades what has been occurring. This the Indians were accustomed to do, especially in a strange country. To this day little stone-heaps are seen, in the plains and mountains of the West, marking where Indians had laid a trail.

Note 35, page 77: Great generals and captains make it a point not to do what the enemy wants them to do or expects them to do, and never to think that the enemy is less smart than they are themselves. To despise the enemy is to give him an advantage.

CHAPTER VIII

Note 36, page 88: "Parole" means word of honor not to attempt escape; and in war when a prisoner of rank gives this promise he is permitted his freedom within certain limits. Sometimes he is released entirely upon his promise or parole not to fight again during the war. Paroles are deemed serious matters, and few men are so reckless and deceitful as to break them. But of course there are two sides to a parole; and if it is not accepted as honestly as it is given, then there is no bargain. But if there is the slightest doubt or argument, then the Scout ought to stay a prisoner, rather than escape with dishonor, charged with breaking his word. That the other fellow is dishonest is no excuse for the Scout being dishonest, too.

Note 37, page 89: The sign for escape is this: Bridger crossed his wrists, with his fists doubled, and wrenched them apart, upward, as if breaking a cord binding them. He may have used the "Go" sign, which is the hand extended, edge up, in front of the hip, and pushed forward with an upward motion, as if climbing a trail.

Note 38, page 94: An old scout method of tying a prisoner's arms behind his back is to place the hands there with their backs together, and to tie the thumbs and the little fingers! This requires only ordinary cord and not much of it, and even a strip from a handkerchief will do. To prevent the prisoner from running away, he may be stood up against a tree and his arms passed behind that, before the hands are tied.

CHAPTER IX

Note 39, page 100: Persons who are lost and are going it blindly on foot usually keep inclining to the left, because they step a little farther with the right foot than with the left. After a time they complete a circle. Scouts should watch themselves and note whether they are making toward the left or not. Horses, too, are supposed to circle toward the left. But all this applies chiefly to the level country. In the mountains and hills the course is irregular, as the person or horse climbs up and down, picking the easier way. And on a slope anybody is always slipping downward a little, on a slant toward the bottom, unless he lines his trail by a tree or rock.

Scouts when they think that they are lost should hold to their good sense. If they feel themselves growing panicky, they had better sit down and wait until they can reason things out. The Scout who takes matters easy can get along for a couple of days until he is found or has worked himself free; but the Scout who runs and chases and sobs and shrieks wears himself down so that he is no good.

To be lost among the hills or mountains is much less serious than to be lost upon the flat plains. The mountains and hills have landmarks; the plains have maybe none. In the mountains and hills the Scout who is looking for camp or companions should get up on a ridge, and make a smoke—the two-smoke "lost" signal—and wait, and look for other smokes. If he feels that he must travel, because camp is too far or cannot see his smoke, or does not suspect that he is lost, his best plan is to strike a stream and stick to it until it brings him out. Travel by a stream is sometimes jungly; but in the mountains, ranches and cabins are located beside streams. Downstream is of course the easier direction.

It is a bad plan to try short cuts, when finding a way. The Scout may think that by leaving a trail or a stream and striking off up a draw or over a point he will save distance. But there is the chance that he will not come out where he expects to come out, and that he will be in a worse fix than before. When a course is once decided upon, the Scout should follow it through, taking it as easy as possible.

Note 40, page 106: Old-time scouts had to make all their fires by flint and steel; and it is well for modern Scouts to practice this. When the ground is too wet, and would be apt to put out the little blaze, the fire can be started in a frying-pan. Matches are very convenient, but they must be warded from dampness. They can be carried in a corked bottle; they can be dipped, before leaving home, in melted paraffin, which will coat them water-proof; and dampness can be rubbed out of them by friction by rolling them rapidly between the palms of the hands and scratching them quick. When every object is soaked through, matches (if dry) may be lighted upon a stone which has been rubbed violently against another stone.

If the Scout has a rifle or pistol or gun, then he can make a fire by shooting powder into a bunch of tinder—raveled handkerchief or coat lining, or frazzled cedar bark. The bullet or the shot should be drawn out of the cartridge, and the powder made loose, and the tinder should be fastened so that it will not be blown away.

In the rain a blanket or coat or hat should be held over the little blaze, until the flames are strong.

It was the old-time scouts who taught even the Indians to make fire by flint and steel, or by two flints. Two chunks of granite, especially when iron is contained, will answer. The Indians previously had used fire-sticks and were very careful to save coals. But they saw that "knocking fire out of rocks" was much easier.

Note 41, page 108: Scouts of course know the Big Dipper or the Great Bear, and the Little Dipper or the Little Bear, in the sky. The Big Dipper points to the North Star or Pole Star, and the North Star or Pole Star is the star in the end of the handle of the Little Dipper. These two formations up above are the Clock of the Heavens.

The "Guardians of the Pole" are the two stars which make the bottom of the cup of the Big Dipper. They are supposed to be sentinels marching around and around the tent of the North Star, as they are carried along by the Big Dipper. For the stars of the Big and the Little Dipper, like all the other stars, circuit the North Star once in about every twenty-four hours.

But the old-time scouts of plains and mountains told time by the "Pointers," which are the two bright stars forming the end of the cup of the Big Dipper. These point to the Pole Star, and they move just as the "Guardians of the Pole" move. They are easier to watch than the "Guardians of the Pole," and are more like an hour-hand. With every hour they, and the "Guardians of the Pole," and all the Dipper stars move in the same direction as the sun one and one-half the distance between the stars forming the top of the Big Dipper's cup. The Scout with a good memory and a good eye for distance can guess pretty nearly how time passes.

He has another method, too. The circuit of the stars is not quite the same as the circuit of the sun; for the stars swing about from starting-place to starting-place in about four minutes less than twenty-four hours, so that every month they gain 120 minutes, or two hours. On May 1, at nine in the evening, the "Pointers" of the Big Dipper are straight overhead, and point downward at the Pole Star, and if we could see them twelve hours later, or at nine in the morning, we should find them opposite, below the Pole Star, and pointing up at it. On June 1, they would arrive overhead two hours earlier, or at seven in the evening, and by nine o'clock would be west of overhead, while at seven and nine in the morning they would be opposite, or halfway around. On August 1 their halfway places would be at three in the afternoon and three in the morning.

So, figuring each month, and knowing where the "Pointers" are at nine, or at midnight, or at three in the morning, the Scout can read, for several nights running without appreciable change, what time it is. And on the plains the old trappers were accustomed to look up out of their buffalo-robes and say, "By the Pointers it is midnight."

The Big Dipper swings on such a wide circle that sometimes it drops into the hills or into mist. The Little Dipper stays high in the sky. Therefore sailors choose the two brighter stars in the end of the cup of the Little Dipper, and watch them, for an hour-hand.

The Blackfeet Indians call the Big Dipper the Seven Brothers, and they, and also other plains people such as sheep-herders and cowboys, tell the time by the "Last Brother," which is the star in the end of the handle. "The Last Brother is pointing to the east," or "The Last Brother is pointing downwards to the prairie," say the Indians. And by that they mean the hour is so and so.

Note 42, page 109: The "Papoose on the old Squaw's Back" is a tiny star, Alcor, very close to the star Mizar which forms the bend in the handle of the Big Dipper. To see this tiny star is a test for eyesight. The Sioux Indians say that the Big Dipper is four warriors carrying a funeral bier, followed by a train of mourners. The second star in the train (or the star in the bend) is the widow of the slain brave, with her little child, or the Little Sister, weeping beside her!

The Blackfeet and other Indians say that the Pole Star (which does not move) is a hole in the sky, through which streams the light from the magical country beyond. They call it "the star that stands still."