CHAPTER XXA 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 disputeover 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 stirrupsall 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'twant 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 ofthe 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 ofyou?"
"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 wantto 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 whetherwe 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 XXITHE 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' flagwas 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 havebeen 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 dothat; 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 heshould 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'llfeel 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 quitfussing, 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 thenight 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 middleof 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, andthings 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 beena 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 fellowwas 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 hemust. 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 gofar 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!