Step Hen had one trait from which nothing ever seemed capable of breaking him. He was exceedingly careless by nature, and forever misplacing things that belonged to him. And the fun of it was, that he could never see how the fault lay with himself; but kept bewailing the misfortune that always picked him out as a victim; just as though some invisible little imp were haunting his footsteps forever, and watching for opportunities to hide his belongings in the most unheard-of places. It did not matter that they were usually found just where Step Hen had himself dropped them in a moment of absent-mindedness; he would grumble to himself, and observe his companions suspiciously, as though he really believed they had been playing a little joke upon him after all.
Thad had even lain awake nights, figuring on how the other might be radically cured of this failing; for Step Hen had many admirable traits of character, and it seemed a great pity that his record as a scout should be marred by so tenacious a fault. But up to the present the scoutmaster had not been able to build up a scheme that promised to effect a cure. And every once in a while the complaining voice of Step Hen might be heard in the land, wondering "where in Sam Hill that knife of mine has disappeared to; last time I had it I was mighty careful to put it away in the sheath; and now it's gone like magic. Who sneaked it off me, tell me that? Funny how it's only my things that disappear all the time. Oh! is that it sticking up there in the tree, Giraffe? You say you saw me put it there? Well, I don't remember the least thing about that. Guess you must have been dreaming; but of course I'm glad to find it again. I wish people would use their own knives."
Perhaps, some time or other Step Hen might be given a lesson that would make so lasting an impression on him that he would begin to see the absurdity of being careless. Thad often felt that he would like to help the good work along, if ever the chance arrived.
Smithy was more than a little curious in his way. He possessed a kindly nature, too, and had made friends with Mike, one of the pack mules. Often in the goodness of his heart the dude scout would walk alongside the burden bearer, talking to him, and patting the animal's nose. Sometimes Mike resented these attentions, for he was only a mule after all, and all scouts looked alike according to his manner of thinking.
Smithy was walking there now, having the leading rope that was connected with Mike in his hand; in fact, he had wrapped it around his wrist absent-mindedly. And as he talked confidingly to the animal, he was also engaged in rubbing Mike's nose. Twice the mule had plainly given him to understand that he preferred to be let alone while staggering along these mountain trails, bearing that big pack on his sturdy back; but Smithy was really thinking about some wonderfully beautiful wild flowers he had seen clinging to the face of a precipice further back, and wishing he might be so lucky as to get hold of such a prize; so that he paid no attention to the impatient thrust from the mule's nose.
It happened just then that Thad, Allan and the guide were in the advance. Something engrossed their attention, and they were holding an earnest talk-fest among themselves. Had it been otherwise, Toby Smathers, who knew mule nature like a book, must surely have warned the kindly Smithy that Mike was in a most irritable frame of mind, and that he would do well to leave him severely alone for the present.
Behind Smithy and Mike came Davy Jones, carrying his little camera, and looking for new worlds to conquer. He had snapped off the procession several times, and of course the mules always occupied posts of honor in the pictures. Back of him Bob White and Step Hen were sauntering along, telling stories, and observing things in general; after them came Bumpus, puffing and blowing with the exertion; while Giraffe brought up the rear, leading the other pack animal, known as Molly; and just about as full of tricks as Mike ever dreamed of being.
Thad was in the act of pointing toward the valley, glimpses of which they could obtain from their lofty position, when he heard a tremendous outcry from the rear that gave him a bad shock. Turning like a flash, the scoutmaster discovered that one of the patrol was missing. There was no need to ask who it was, for there he saw Mike, the pack mule, with his feet pushed out to keep himself from being pulled over the edge of the shelf of rock; while the taut rope told that poor Smithy must be dangling at the other end, with an ugly fall threatening him if by chance the rope came loose from his wrist, where he had wrapped it!