They were First-class Scouts of the Red Fox Patrol of New Jersey, and were traveling through this way on foot, from Denver, to meet the rest of their party further on at the railroad, to do Salt Lake and then the Yellowstone. They had had a late breakfast and a good clean-up, because this was Sunday; and now they were starting on, for a walk while it was cool, before they lay by again and waited till Monday morning. I had reached them just in time; I think I'd have had tough work trailing them. They looked as if they could travel some. Their clothes were the regulation Scouts uniform. One of them had a splendid little twenty-two rifle, and the other had a camera. The name of the boy with the rifle was Edward Van Sant; the name of the Scout with the camera was Horace Ward. They seemed fine fellows--as Scouts usually are. I don't know how they knew that I was hungry or faint, for I didn't say that I was. But the first thing I did know Van Sant had unstrapped his pack, and Ward had taken a little pan and had brought water from the creek. Then a little alcohol stove appeared, and while we talked the water was boiling, in a jiffy. Ward dropped into the water a cube, and stirred--and there was a mess of soup, all ready! They made me drink it, although I kept telling them I was all right. It tasted mighty good. They got out some first-aid dope, and washed my skinned chest with a carbolic smelling wash and shook some surgical powder over it, and put a bandage around, in great shape. Then they washed my scratches and even sewed the worst of the tears in my clothes. (Note 45.) By this time they knew my story. "Was he a dark-complexioned man, with a small face and no whiskers or mustache?" "He was dark, but he had a mustache and fresh whiskers," I answered. "On a bay horse?" "On a bay, with a blazed forehead. Why?" "A man rode by here, last evening, along the trail across the creek. He was dark-complexioned, he wore a black hat, and he rode a bay with a mark on its shoulders like this--" and Ward drew in the dirt a K+. "That's a K Cross," I exclaimed. And I thought it was right smart of them to notice even the brand. "He's the man, sure. He's shaved off his mustache and whiskers, but he's riding the same horse." And I jumped up. I felt strong and ready again. "Which way did he go?" Scout Van Sant pointed up the creek. "There's a trail on the other side," he said. "You'll find fresh hoof marks in it." "Bueno," I said; and I extended my hand to shake with them, for I must light right out. "I'm much obliged for everything, but I've got to catch him. If you meet any of my crowd please tell 'em you saw me and I'm O. K.; and if you're ever in Elk country don't fail to look us up. The lodge door is always open." "Hold on," laughed Scout Ward. "You can't shoo us this way, unless you'd rather travel alone. What's the matter with our going, too?" "Sure," said Scout Van Sant. "But your trail lies down creek, you said."