Because the Red Fox Scouts were Easterners, clear from New Jersey, and we were Westerners, of Colorado, we sort of eyed them sideways, at first. They had such a swell outfit, you know, and their uniform was smack to the minute, while ours was rough and ready. They set up their tent, and we let them--but our way was to sleep out, under tarps (when we had tarps), in the open. We didn't know but what, on the march, they might want to keep their own mess--they had so many things that we didn't. But right away a good thing happened again. "How did Fitzpatrick lose his arm?" asked Scout Van Sant of me, when we were out hunting and Fitz couldn't hear. "In the April Day mine," I said. "Where?" "Back home." He studied. "I _thought_ the name of that town sounded awfully familiar to me," he said. When we came into camp with our rabbits, he went straight up to Fitz. "I hear you hurt your arm in the April Day mine," he said. "Yes. I was working there," answered Fitz. "Why?" Van Sant stuck out his hand. "Shake," he said. "My father owns that mine--or most of it. Ever hear of him?" "No," said Fitz, flushing. "I'm just a mucker and a sorter. My father's a miner." "Well, shake," laughed Van Sant. "I never even mucked or sorted, and you know more than I do about it. My father just owns--and if it wasn't for the workers like you and your father, the mine wouldn't be worth owning. See? I'm mighty sorry you got hurt there, though." Fitz shook hands. "It was partly my own fault," he said. "I took a chance. That was before your father bought the mine, anyway." Then he went to cooking and we cleaned our game. But from that time on we knew the Red Fox Scouts to be all right, and their being from the East made no difference in them. So we and they used each other's things, and we all mixed in together and were one party. We had a good camp and a big rest, this night: the first time of real peace since a long while back, it seemed to me. The next morning we pushed on, following up along the creek, and a faint trail, for the pass. This day's march was a hard climb, every hour, and it took our wind, afoot. But by evening old Pilot Peak wasn't far at all. His snow patches were getting larger. When we camped in a little park we must have been up about eleven thousand feet, and the breeze from the Divide ahead of us blew cool. The march now led through aspens and pines and wild flowers, with the stream singing, and forming little waterfalls and pools and rapids, and full of those native trout about as large as your two fingers. There was the old Indian trail, to guide us. It didn't have a track except deer-tracks, and we might have been the only white persons ever here. That was fine. Another sign was the amount of game. Of course, some of the game may have been driven here by the forest fire. But we saw lots of grouse, which sat as we passed by, and rabbits and porcupines, and out of the aspens we jumped deer.