The Silver Fox Patrol is out in the Rocky Mountains, camping in the Big Timber. Many adventures await these boys, including a dunking in the river, an adventure involving a grizzly bear, and the appearance of some timber cruisers up to no good.
Herbert Carter is one of the many pseudonyms of St. George Rathborne.
By : St. George Henry Rathborne (1854 - 1938)
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“Call the roll, Mr. Secretary,” said the acting scoutmaster.
Of course this was a mere matter of form, because everybody knew that the entire membership of the Silver Fox Patrol, connected with the Cranford Troop of Boy Scouts, was present. But nevertheless Bob White gravely took out his little book, and made each boy answer to his name.
“Thad Brewster.”
“Present,” said the patrol leader, and assistant scoutmaster.
“Allan Hollister.”
“Here,” replied the second in command, a Maine boy, now living in Cranford, the New York town from whence these boys had journeyed to this far-off region along the foothills of the great Rocky Mountains.
“Bumpus Hawtree.”
“Ditto,” sang out the fat youth, looking up with a wide grin; for he was about as good-natured as he was ponderous.
“Giraffe Stedman.”
“More ditto,” answered the tall lad, with the long neck, and the quick movements, who was busying himself over the fire, being never so happy as when he could feed wood to the crackling blaze.
“Step Hen Bingham.”
“On deck,” replied the boy mentioned, who was busy with the supper arrangements.
“Davy Jones.”
“O. K.” came from the fellow who was walking on his hands at the moment, his waving feet being high in the air, where his head was supposed to appear; because Davy was a gymnast, and worked off his superfluous energy in doing all manner of queer stunts.
“Smithy.”
“Present,” and the speaker, a very natty chap, brushed off an imaginary insect from the sleeve of his coat; because it happened that Edmund Maurice Travers Smith, as he was known in his home circle, had been born with a horror for dirt: and it was taking his comrades a long time to bring him down to the ordinary level of a happy-go-lucky, care-free boy like themselves.
“Robert White Quail.”
And the last named being the secretary himself, he merely put a cross down, to indicate the fact of his being in the line of duty on that occasion.
“You neglected two other important members of the party!” called out Giraffe, who, of course had gained his peculiar name on account of the habit he had of often stretching that unusually long neck of his, until the boys likened him to an ostrich, and then a giraffe.
“Who are they?” demanded Bob White, scenting some sort of joke.
“Mike, and Molly, the honest, hard-working mules here that we have for pack animals,” replied the tall scout, with a chuckle.
“Oh! I reckon, suh, they don’t count on the roll call,” remarked Bob White, who was a Southern boy, as his soft manner of speech, as well as certain phrases he often used, betrayed.
“Well,” protested Giraffe, sturdily, “if you think now, that our pack mules ain’t going to make an impression on our camping through the big timber, and the foothills of the Rockies, you’ve got another guess coming, let me tell you.”
“Mike strikes me as particularly worthy of mention in the log book of the trip. He made a distinct impression on me, right in the start; and left a black and blue record of it that hurts yet,” with which remark, fat Bumpus—whose real name chanced to be Jasper Cornelius, began to ruefully rub a certain portion of his generous anatomy.
A general shout went up at this.
“Well, what could you expect, Bumpus?” demanded Davy Jones. “When Mike, out of the corner of his wicked eye, saw you stooping over that way, and offering such a wide target, the temptation was more than any respectable, well-educated mule could resist.”
“Yes,” put in Step Hen, who had divided his name in that queer fashion as a lad first attending school, and it had clung to him ever since; “you didn’t know the strong points of pack mules, Bumpus, or you would never have gone so close to his heels.”
“And,” continued Davy, humorously, “you turned over in the air three times, before you struck that dirty pool of water. And that time, Bumpus, I own up you beat me fairly at gymnastics; for try as I will, so far I’ve only been able to do two turns backward in the air, myself.”
Bumpus, being so good-natured, only chuckled and kept on rubbing, as in imagination he saw the “cartwheels” he made in the air on that memorable occasion.
“Only thing I deeply regret,” continued Davy, “was that I didn’t have my camera focussed at the time. That picture would sure have been the gem of our collection.”
Bumpus presently sat himself down again, to watch those who were serving as cooks for that occasion, get supper ready.
And while it is preparing, with the fragrant odor of coffee in the air, making the hungry boys almost frantic with suspense, perhaps, for the benefit of the reader who has not made the acquaintance of these lively, wide-awake boys in earlier stories of this series, a brief explanation of who and what they were, may be deemed appropriate at this point.
The Silver Fox Patrol had been organized for quite some time now, and the boys who made up the membership had been fortunate enough to take two long trips, with the idea of adding to their knowledge of woodcraft, and such qualities as all good scouts are supposed to desire to possess.
The first one had been to the region of the Land of the sky. Robert Quail had come from the Blue Ridge, in North Carolina, and it was mostly through his influence and persuasion that the scouts had gone thence. And while there, they had met with many adventures that have been faithfully chronicled in their log book, and portrayed in a previous story.
Their next trip came in very fortunately. An epidemic breaking out in Cranford, the school trustees closed the doors of the places of education until after the Christmas holidays. This gave the boys the chance they had long wanted to take a run up into Maine, and do a little camping, and hunting of big game; several of their number being very fond of handling a gun; and Allan having told them thrilling stories of the sport to be found in his native State after the law had been lifted.
And while enjoying themselves hugely, the scouts had had the good fortune to recover some stolen bonds and other valuables belonging to a bank that had been robbed. The reward offered for their restoration was paid over into their treasury, and was of such a size as to admit of their taking this long-desired journey into the mountain region of the Great Northwest, when vacation time came around.
During the balance of the winter, after their return from Maine, the story of the wonderfully good times they enjoyed there had so enthused other boys of Cranford, that a second full patrol, called the Eagle, had been organized; and a third addition to the troop, to be called the Gray Wolf, was in process of forming.
But of course none of these lads had any share in the reward that had come to the members of the first patrol; so that accounted for their not being present on his occasion.
Bumpus was a musician, and had a fine mellow voice, which he often used to entertain his mates while sitting around the roaring camp-fire. He could play on any instrument; indeed, with merely his doubled-up hands, and his melodious voice, he often imitated various calls on the bugle. And of course he had been elected as bugler to the troop, though on the present occasion they had induced him to leave his instrument at home, not thinking a hunting camp the place for such noisy demonstrations.
The boys carried guns of various sorts, though until lately Bumpus had never bothered himself about such a thing. But while in Maine the fever seized him, and he had purchased a big ten-bore Marlin double-barreled shotgun; because he always admired the twelve gauge of the same make which Thad owned.
Step Hen had a little beauty of a thirty-thirty six-shot repeating rifle, that had been given to him by his father on a recent birthday. Thad sometimes borrowed it, and could use the same with considerable skill. It carried those soft-nosed bullets that mushroom when striking, and thus do all the work of a ball several times the size. If big game must be killed, the quicker the thing is over with the better. Besides, that little fire-arm was “just as light as a feather,” as Step Hen always declared, when disputing with Giraffe, who carried the large rifle owned by his respected dad, also fond of the woods and game.
Davy managed to get along with a shotgun, while Allan had a rifle. Smithy and Bob White had brought no weapons along, deeming the number on hand amply sufficient to clean out most of the wild beasts inhabiting the Rocky Mountain region. In fact, Smithy had never shot a gun in his life, and was timid about trying; but on the other hand Bob was quite used to working with a good retriever in the grain fields, where the bird he was named after fattened, away down in the Old Tarheel State.
Davy seemed to be unusually full of animal spirits on this occasion. He just could not keep quiet, but kept up his tumbling, and standing on his head, even though no one paid much attention to what wonderful stunts the athletic lad was carrying on.
Close by them ran a noisy stream. It came out from the foothills of the great uplifts near by, and went brawling on its way. Indeed, it made so much music that the scouts had to call out to each other at times; but somehow the prospect of passing a night near such a rollicking stream pleased them all. Besides, they were sure it must contain trout, and several promised to get up at break of day to try for the speckled beauties, so that they might have a mess for breakfast, before continuing on their way.
“Say, has anybody seen my sweater around?” called out Step Hen, who was busily engaged looking over the contents of his pack, having turned over the control of the cooking meal to Allan and Thad. “I’m just sure I stowed it away in this knapsack I carry, but it ain’t there now. I’m the unluckiest feller you ever did see, about having my things taken. Everybody just thinks they’re general property, and grabs ’em up. Please hand it over, whoever’s got it. I might want it to-night, if it gets cool.”
Step Hen was careless. He had a long-standing habit of never knowing where he put his things, and hence, when he missed some object, loud were his wails about being pursued by a “little evil genius,” that was taking the greatest delight in misplacing his possessions. Even when one of the other scouts, taking pity on Step Hen, would show him where he had himself left the article, he would pass it off as easily as a duck shakes the water from its back.
The tents had been raised, and everything looked cozy and comfortable. Several of the scouts lay around, being footsore and weary; only that never-tired Davy was still exercising himself in all sorts of ways. In due time he would work off his superfluous energy, and behave. They were so accustomed to seeing Davy hang by his toes from the high limb of a tree, or doing some similar act better fitted for the circus than a camp of Boy Scouts, that little attention was ordinarily paid to his actions.
It came as a shock, then, when all of a sudden Thad started up with a shout, and started on a run toward the edge of the high river bank, where one could look down on the tumbling waters of the churning yeasty rapids.
“Hurry, boys!” the scoutmaster was calling at the top of his voice, as he covered the dozen yards separating the camp from the edge of the little bluff; “Davy went too near the edge, and took a header right over into the river!”
Every one of the other six lads hurried as fast as possible to join their leader on the brink of the bluff; and when they reached there, they saw a sight that for the moment seemed to freeze the very blood in their veins.
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