Boy Scout Explorers at Headless Hollow

The road wound through spike pines which stood silhouetted in the fading daylight.

Long, empty miles lay behind the weary travelers since they had left Philmont Boy Scout Ranch in the New Mexico Rockies. More miles stretched endlessly ahead.

“Hey, when do we stop for grub? This air sure gives a guy a whale of an appetite!”

“War” Washburn, a skinny, freckled youngster, rode with feet dangling out the car window. His question was shot at their driver, Hap Livingston, leader of Boy Scout Explorer Post 21 of Belton City.

Mr. Livingston and the four explorers were returning to their home state after twelve days of rugged fun at the Boy Scout ranch. They had hoped to reach the Colorado border by nightfall, but now that seemed impossible.

“Yeah,” piped up tow-headed Willie Medaugh. “What say we start looking for a camp site? It’s going to get dark early tonight.”

The fifteen-year-old sat wedged in the back seat of the sedan between Jack Hartwell and Ken Dougherty, the two more serious members of the husky Scout crew.

“Okay, boys,” Mr. Livingston agreed. “We’ve had a hard drive, and I’m ready to hit the sack—since you insist.”

Already Jack was consulting the road map. “Nearest town is Rocking Horse, eight miles ahead,” he reported.

“We’ll stop there,” the Scout leader decided. “If we can find a camp site with all the comforts of home, I’m for taking it.”

“Why, Hap!” Ken drawled. “Can’t stand the gaff any more?”

The question was asked in jest. As the four explorers knew well, their leader, a former FBI man, could stand up under grueling physical punishment. This he had proven during recent adventure trips to Peru and Emerald Valley in Colombia.

“I feel sort of lazy tonight,” Hap confessed. “Riding herd over War at Philmont must have worn me out.”

“Dragging him away from the ranch was the hardest,” Jack recalled, his blue eyes twinkling.

“Well, there was so much to do,” War defended himself. “I wanted to make another pack trip on the trail Kit Carson once rode. And I wanted to visit the old mine.”

From his shirt pocket he pulled out a handkerchief in which were wrapped several bits of sparkling rock.

“Still hoarding that junk?” Ken asked with a grin.

“Junk! Just see it shine in the sunlight!”

Ken pretended to cover his eyes. “The glow blinds me!” he chuckled.

“Well, it’s genuine gold,” War said indignantly. “I panned it at Philmont.”

“Sure, we know,” drawled Willie. “You’ve told us at least twenty times.”

“That rare specimen of yours should assay about 1/800ths of a cent to the ton!” Jack teased.

“Anyway, it was fun panning it.”

“Everything at Philmont was fun,” Jack declared.

“Seeing deer, elk, and bear in natural surroundings. Learning how to climb and handle an axe. Instruction in fire building and cooking. But now it’s behind us.”

“And Rocking Horse is ahead,” reminded Mr. Livingston. “Save the arguments, lads. You’ll need your energy for making camp.”

The Scouts took the hint and fell silent. True, everyone would have enjoyed another two weeks in the West, but money was dwindling. So, laden with souvenirs and happy memories, they were now on the way home.

Presently the dusty car pulled into Rocking Horse. The city, with a cluster of adobe houses at the outskirts, appeared to have not more than about eight thousand residents. After inquiry at a filling station, Mr. Livingston drove to a motel and camp site at the city’s northern edge.

Few cars were parked near the tiny office on the roadside. The reason for the comparative desertion was immediately apparent to the Scouts, for the motel buildings were run-down and in need of paint. The pine grove and camp site at the rear did not look too attractive, either.

“How about it, boys?” Mr. Livingston asked doubtfully.

“Oh, it may not be so bad,” Jack replied. “We’re all tired, so let’s hole in.”

The others agreed. Accordingly, Mr. Livingston drove up close to the office. He and Jack went inside to register for the group.

An old man who wore a soiled Stetson hat sat tipped back comfortably in a chair. His big heavy boots came down from the desk, and he squinted at them with watery blue eyes which were bright and sharp.

“Howdy!”

Mr. Livingston returned the hearty greeting and inquired about a camp site.

“Sure, we’ve got plenty o’ room for you,” the old man replied. He dug into the old-fashioned roll-top desk for a registry book. “How many in your party?”

“Five. We won’t need a cabin—only space for our two tents.”

“That’ll cost you two bucks for the night.” The old man thrust a pen at the Scout leader. All the while, he was studying Jack’s green uniform with the “BSA” strip over the right shirt pocket.

“Here in Rocking Horse we don’t ask a man where’s he going, or where he’s been,” he drawled. “But danged if I’m not curious about that BSA on your pocket. Reckon it means Better Stay Away.”

“It stands for Boy Scouts of America,” Jack explained. “Are you the motel owner?”