Pluck on the Long Trail; Or, Boy Scouts in the Rockies

by Edwin L. Sabin

JIM BRIDGER ON THE TRAIL

I turned, and climbed the hill. It was a long hill, and hot, but I wanted to get up where I could see. The top was grassy and bare, and here I stopped, to find out where things were.

Off in one direction (which was southwest, by the sun) rose Pilot Peak, rocky and snowy, with the main range stretching on either side of it. But between Pilot Peak and me there lay a big country of heavy timber. Yes, in every direction was heavy timber. I had run without thinking, and now it was pretty hard to tell exactly where I was.

I stood for a minute and tried to figure in what direction that beaver man probably had ridden. He had come in on our left, as we sat, and had probably gone along toward our right. I tried to remember which way the shadows had fallen, in the sunset, and which way west had been, from our right or left as we were sitting.

Finally I was quite certain that the shadows had fallen sort of quartering, from right to left, and so the man probably had made toward the west. It was a good thing that I had noticed the shadows, but to notice little things is a Scout's training.

I stuffed the flags inside my shirt, and tied my coat about me; only one arrow was left, out of six; the five others must have fallen when I was running. And I was hungry and didn't have a thing to eat, because when the gang had captured us they had taken our bread and chocolate, along with our match-boxes and knives and other stuff. That was mean of them. But with a look about for smoke signals I took my bow and started across the top of the hill.

It was to be the lone trail and the hungry trail for Jim Bridger. But he had slept on post, and he was paying for it. Now if he (that was I, you know) only could get back that message, and thus make good, he wouldn't mind lonesomeness or hunger or thirst or tiredness or wet or anything.

I wasn't afraid of the gang overtaking me or finding me, if I kept my wits about me. And after I was over the brow of the hill I swung into the west, at Scouts' pace of trot and walk mixed. This took me along the top of the hill, to a draw or little valley that cut through. The draw was thick with spruces and pines and was brushy at the bottom, so I went around the head of it. That was easier than climbing down and up again—and the draw would have been a bad place to be cornered in.

I watched out for trails, but I did not cross a thing, and I began to edge down to strike that stream which passed the gang's camp. Often trails follow along streams, where the cattle and horses travel. The man who had our message might have used this trail but although I edged and edged, keeping right according to the sun, I didn't strike that stream. Up and down and up again, through the trees and through the open places I toiled and sweated; and every time I came out upon a ridge, expecting to be at the top of somewhere, another ridge waited; and every time I reached the bottom of a draw or gulch, expecting that here was my stream or a trail, or both, I found that I was fooled again.

This up and down country covered by timber is a mighty easy country to be lost in. I wasn't lost—the stream was lost. No, I wasn't lost; but when I came out upon a rocky ridge, and climbed to the top of a bunch of granite there, the world was all turned around. Pilot Peak had changed shape and was behind me when it ought to have been before. West was west, because the sun was setting in it, but it seemed queer. You see, I had been zigzagging about to make easy climbs out of draws and gulches, and to dodge rocks and brush—and here I was. (Note 39.)