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