Pluck on the Long Trail | Page 3

Thomas Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand.
He is fifteen years old, and tow-headed and all freckled, and has only
half a left arm. He got hurt working in the mine. But he's as smart as
any of us. He can use a camera and throw a rope and dress himself, and
tie his shoe-laces and other knots. He's our best trailer. His father is a
miner.

Second-class Scout Richard Smith, or Jedediah Smith. He is only
twelve, and is a "fatty," and his father is postmaster.
Second-class Scout Charley Brown, or Jim Bridger the Blanket Chief.
That's myself. I'm fourteen, and have brown eyes and big ears, and my
father is a lawyer. When we started I had just been promoted from a
tenderfoot, so I didn't know very much yet. But we're all first-class
Scouts now, and have honors besides.
For Scout work we were paired off like this: Ashley and Carson; Henry
and Smith; Fitzpatrick and Bridger. (See Note 1, in back of book.)
Our trip would have been easier (but it was all right, anyway), if a
notice hadn't got into the newspaper and put other boys up to trying to
stop us. This is what the notice said:
The Elk Patrol of the local Boy Scouts is about to take a message from
Mayor Scott across the range to the mayor of Green Valley. This
message will be sealed and in cipher, and the boys will be granted
fifteen days in which to perform the trip over, about 100 miles, afoot;
so they will have to hustle. They must not make use of any vehicles or
animals except their pack-animals, or stop at ranches except through
injury or illness, but must pursue their own trail and live off the country.
The boys who will go are Roger Franklin, Tom Scott, Dick Smith,
Harry Leonard, Chris Anderson, and Charley Brown.
Of course, this notice gave the whole scheme away, and some of the
other town boys who pretended to make fun of us Scouts because we
were trying to learn Scoutcraft and to use it right planned to cut us off
and take the message away from us. There always are boys mean
enough to bother and interfere, until they get to be Scouts themselves.
Then they are ashamed.
We knew that we were liable to be interfered with, because we heard
some talk, and Bill Duane (he's one of the town fellows; he doesn't do
much of anything except loaf) said to me: "Oh, you'll never get through,
kid. The bears will eat you up. Bears are awful bad in that country."

But this didn't scare us. Bears aren't much, if you let them alone. We
knew what he meant, though. And we got an anonymous letter. It came
to General Ashley, and showed a skull and cross-bones, and said:
BEWARE!!! No Boy Scouts allowed on the Medicine Range! Keep
Off!!!
That didn't scare us, either.
When we were ready to start, Mayor Scott called us into his office and
told us that this was to be a real test of how we could be of service in
time of need and of how we could take care of ourselves; and that we
were carrying a message to Garcia, and must get it through, if we could,
but that he put us on our honor as Scouts to do just as we had agreed to
do. (See Note 2.)
Then we saluted him, and he saluted us with a military salute, and we
gave our Scouts' yell, and went.
Our Scouts' yell is:
B. S. A.! B. S. A.! Elk! Elk! Hoo-ray!!
and a screech all together, like the bugling of an elk.
This is how we marched. The message was done up flat, between
cardboard covered by oiled silk with the Elk totem on it, and was slung
by a buckskin thong from the general's neck, under his shirt, out of
sight.
We didn't wear coats, because coats were too hot, and you can't climb
with your arms held by coat-sleeves. We had our coats in the packs, for
emergencies. We wore blue flannel shirts with the Scouts' emblem on
the sleeves, and Scouts' drab service hats, and khaki trousers tucked
into mountain-boots hob-nailed with our private pattern so that we
could tell each other's tracks, and about our necks were red bandanna
handkerchiefs knotted loose, and on our hands were gauntlet gloves.
Little Jed Smith, who is a fatty, wore two pairs of socks, to prevent his

feet from blistering. That is a good scheme. (Note 3.)
General Ashley and Major Henry led; next were our two burros, Sally
(who was a yellow burro with a white spot on her back) and Apache
(who was a black burro and was named for Kit Carson's--the real Kit
Carson's--favorite horse).