WESTY MARTIN ON THE SANTA FE TRAIL

LOLA, WESTY AND RIP WALKED AHEAD CHATTING GAYLY.

WESTY MARTIN

ON THE SANTA FE TRAIL

BY

PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH

Author of

THE TOM SLADE BOOKS

THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS

THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS

ILLUSTRATED BY

RICHARD A. HOLBERG

Published with the approval of

THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

Copyright, 1926, by

GROSSET & DUNLAP

WESTY MARTIN ON THE SANTA FE TRAIL

CHAPTER I—WESTY GETS A GOOD START

Westy felt that he was in hard luck! In fact, he felt that Fate had played the meanest kind of a trick on him, just when he needed all his vision to live up to the plaudits of the multitude.

The truth of the matter was, some stray particles of dust had been blowing around and at a most inopportune moment sought seclusion in his eye, much to the annoyance of our hero.

Now, Westy Martin had every qualification needed to deserve the title of hero. At least every scout in Bridgeboro was unanimous in this instance, so, what right has a tenderfoot questioning the wisdom of the scout’s decision!

Indeed, if one were to betray any tendency toward incredulity, by so much as a slightly uplifted brow, they would descend en masse upon the unbeliever and shout with loud derision. In short, you would be the object of their amazement that your stupidity could be carried to the point of not knowing who Westy Martin was.

They would then go on to tell you in stentorian voices (Pee-wee’s being the nearest and loudest, thus forcing you to move a little out of its range) that Westy Martin was now about to embark upon the motion picture industry through the intervention of Mr. Madison C. Wilde, Field Manager of Educational Films.

“Why, sure,” gasped Pee-wee, taking the center of the stage as usual, “this Mr. Wilde has always been friendly with the Martins ever since Westy did a good turn for him out in the Yellowstone. And now, this summer, Mr. Wilde is going down through some parts of Texas and New Mexico and take some pictures of the Santa Fe Trail. When it goes on the screen the name of the picture will be, To-day and To-morrow.”

“You poor dumb-bell, it will not,” interposed Ed Carlysle. “It’s to be titled, The Old Santa Fe Trail—Past and Present.”

“Well, what’s the difference anyhow? It all sounds the same to me.”

Whereupon Ed was at once silenced with a menacing stare from Pee-wee, who continued to tell the interested onlooker of just what Westy’s duties with Educational Films would consist of. Upon that point Pee-wee did not make himself quite clear, as he didn’t know, nor had he the faintest idea. Neither did any one else.

However, that did not detract one bit from the glamor that now encircled Westy like a halo. Enough that Mr. Wilde had invited Westy upon the trip. Who would want any more prestige than that? Pee-wee wanted to know.

Lastly, Westy was none other than the boy of Rocky Mountain fame and the protégée of Uncle Jeb Rushmore of Temple Camp, the best scout in America since Buffalo Bill. Yes, sir, and he had taught Westy all there was to know about real scouting in pioneer fashion.

After Pee-wee or any others got that explanation off their respective chests and you had the audacity to confess ignorance of Uncle Jeb’s fame also, why your case would be classed as hopeless. Hopeless, that is, so far as the affairs of real he-men were concerned. A look of the most profound pity would be cast in your direction and then, as if time was too valuable to be wasted on one of second-rate intellect, you would be dismissed from their minds.

Following the line of perspective, Westy presently came into view again on the observation platform, bowing to his comrades with adolescent indifference.

By this time, even the most incredulous bystander of the lot could not help thinking, in view of all Westy’s gathering, seeing must be believing. He did seem, by all the rules of the game, a veritable god and hero as it were, standing there surrounded by such a galaxy of admirers.

Yes, it could not be denied that he looked impressive with Mr. Wilde sitting at his elbow and his family gathered around him with Billy, the cameraman, also looking on.

Ripley Langley (Rip for short), the other junior member of the expedition, was among those present and also a nephew of Mr. Wilde’s. He was lolling about on the polished railing, watching the scene with amused interest. He was that kind of a boy. Things always amused and interested him simultaneously.

When the clang of steel platforms dropping and all the other last-minute activities warned them that time was short, Mr. Wilde bid farewell to Westy’s parents and went inside, leaving him alone for the moment before the train started.

Mrs. Martin kissed her son fondly and wiped aside the stray tear. Mr. Martin, with a brusque but kindly handclasp, ran true to form and admonished him to steer clear of the Indians he should encounter. He told Westy that they could not be trusted even in these civilized times; there always being danger of reverting to the savage state. After a few other warnings, Mr. Martin took his leave, thoroughly satisfied that his duty was well done.

Thereupon, in wild acclaim Westy’s brother scouts emitted cheers loud and long, led in a big voice by little Pee-wee.

“Bring me back an Indian souvenir, Wes!” Artie Van Arlen shouted.

“Yeh, me too!” came from Ed Carlysle and Warde Hollister in unison.

Then as the cries of All Aboard were heard and the train moved out slowly, Pee-wee’s voice roared. He just couldn’t resist a parting shot.

“Say, Wes, bring me back a hunk of cactus in your hip pocket, will you?”

“Sure thing! ’By!”

CHAPTER II—RIP ISN’T CONVINCED

Westy stood where he was for a few moments, loathe to leave the spot where he had so recently been the cynosure of every eye. Truly, it was gratifying, that knowledge, and he was pleased with himself. What boy wouldn’t be? He had been publicly acclaimed as a hero, and now being identified with the movies served to distinguish him more than ever.

If the casual bystander could have seen him at that moment, I am afraid that Westy’s heroic appearance would not have been quite so manifest. At any rate, he certainly looked for all the world as though he was in the throes of deepest grief.

Try as he would, he could not prevent the moisture from emanating out of his blinking eyes. He presented a pitiable contrast to his recent triumphant state, and he knew it. His other eye had also become afflicted with the same foreign substance, now making his visionary powers difficult with either one. And he was sore at the world. Sore, because he was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to convince Rip Langley of the true cause of his affliction.

He knew what Rip would think when he caught sight of his tear-stained face; that he was crying because he had just left his father and mother behind. That’s what Rip would think.

For some reason or other, Westy had a feeling about Rip already. He felt that this boy, his junior by a year and a half, was something of a skeptic and it was his first move to set him on the right track at the start.

Presently then, Westy sauntered in the smoking room with an air of perfect nonchalance. His friends were lounging about—Rip included.

Stepping up to a large mirror over the lounge, Westy made a great pretense of examining and administering to his overflowing orbs.

“’Lo!” said Rip suddenly, but friendly.

“’Lo!” answered Westy, relieved but yet feeling Rip’s searching eyes at his back.

Mr. Wilde also looked up with the inevitable unlighted cigar in his mouth and the derby hat in its accustomed place. He smiled.

Fine, so far, Westy commented to himself secretly.

“Well, what’s the dirt?” Rip questioned, typical of himself and looking straight at Westy.

“What dirt?” He floundered a little but, gathering courage again: “Where?”

A chuckle of cynical good humor escaped from Rip.

“In your eye! Where did you think I meant?”

CHAPTER III—A DANGEROUS SILENCE

It was quite late and the usual hum and buzz of masculine voices in the smoking room were missing. The train went screeching through the dark, rainy night, indifferent to all else save the purpose of its own mission in life.

Westy and Rip were sitting opposite one another, trying to penetrate the inky blackness outside the dripping window panes. Nothing but a shroud of blackness covered the earth. They gave it up.

“Gee, I’ll be glad to walk on the ground again,” Rip said, breaking the silence.

“Here, too,” agreed Westy. “Morning can’t come quick enough to suit me.”

Mr. Wilde, occupying the seat with them, laid down the book he had been reading and grinned genially.

“Getting kind of restless, eh, kids?”

“I’ll say we are!” said Rip, spokesman for the two. “Do we hoof it very much, Unk, after we leave this ring-tailed roarer in the morning?”

“Somewhat. I dare say you’ll both have enough walking by the time we’re ready to come back. We are to start out from a place called Wakarusa. Outfit will be all ready for us to get away at once. No waiting, thank goodness.”

“Outfit?” queried Rip. “What’s this going to be, Unk; another covered wagon affair?”

“Not so’s you’ll ever notice it. Catch you modern kids traveling in a covered wagon. With all that either of you have learned about scouting I’d like to see what you’d do with the few necessities that the old pioneers had to do with in the days on the Old Trail.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Westy protested. “Uncle Jeb gave me a lot of dope that I could use in a tight pinch. We could do a lot if we had to, eh, Rip?”

“Betcha life,” he replied airily. “We could show some of these modern pikers a thing or two.”

It is to be seen that when it came to getting on the defensive side of scouting, Westy and Rip pledged a momentary truce and became kindred spirits, to Mr. Wilde’s enjoyment. He was having the time of his life kidding them.

“All right, scouts, I hope you will get the chance to show me then some day. But I am afraid you’re going to be disappointed on this trip if you’ve been looking forward to anything more exciting than shooting the scenery. I gave my solemn promise to both your parents that I’d keep the watchful eye all over. When we get back home you and Westy can give me a few exhibitions of your skill and prowess in the back-to-nature bunk in Martin’s back yard.”

This was adding insult to injury of course, but neither of them could make a come-back. Mr. Wilde could see by their expressions that the parental promise hadn’t made a very big hit with them at all.

Billy, who had been peacefully dozing throughout the discussion, came to with a yawn.

“’S no use sitting up listening to the rain all night. What d’you say?” He addressed them all.

“I guess we better,” answered Mr. Wilde, and motioning to the boys as he walked toward the open doorway. “Better turn in, boys. We get out pretty early.”

“Gosh, I don’t feel a bit like it, do you, Wes?”

“Naw, I’m too excited to think about it even. They say all those old pioneers like Kit Carson and Uncle Dick Wooton hardly ever slept at all. They had to keep awake and watch for the Indians.”

“Watcha talking about? They didn’t watch for the Indians at all,” he contradicted in a superior tone of voice.

“What did they do then, huh?”

“Went out and got ’em red-handed. They had to, because they were redskins, get me?”

“Do I get you? I’m way ahead of you.”

“You score all right. You know what?”

“What?”

“I’d like to be a fireman on this road when I get older.”

“Not me. I’d rather be the engineer. Why’d you like to be the fireman, Rip?”

“They got better chances of seeing what’s going on while they’re riding and the engineer has to keep his mind and eyes straight ahead.”

“Gee, that’s right.” Westy was beginning to recognize the superior intelligence of his new friend and felt more kindliness toward him.

A few minutes after the porter entered, his arms occupied by various sizes and shapes of various colored shoes. Westy rose and Rip followed suit.

It lacked another minute before midnight would open her portals to welcome the infant day, and still Westy lay wide-eyed in his berth, staring into the darkness. Rip’s heavy breathing above him and the occasional light creak of the springs, betrayed the fact that Rip’s sleep was by no means dreamless.

Wes listened intently as the wheels glided on in flight. Sometimes it gave him the sensation that they weren’t in motion at all, for the roadbed was so smooth that the Limited annihilated the miles like a winged serpent.

They went over a crossing, for he could hear the bell as they passed tinkling its warning of danger to the unwary. Then all lapsed into silence again save the steady drowsy hum of the engine.

Yes, all was silent in the Pullman, too. Silent, except for the loud nasal chorus of those who would proclaim to the whole world their slumbering state. The porter, his cares laid aside for the time, was also contributing his bit in a minor key and at intervals he became very entertaining and shifted down to something that sounded like a bass note, but producing a weird echo like that of a rattlesnake dying. Westy was sure he preferred the minor key; it was much more comforting to hear.

He thought after a while that an hour or more must have passed. His eyes burned for the want of sleep and his throat was awful dry. Poking his head through the curtain he ascertained whether there was any one about. Not a soul anywhere at either end. Good thing they had the end section; he wouldn’t have to slip anything on. Padding out to the water cooler, he quenched his thirst hurriedly and got back in his berth again without encountering any one, and tried his luck at sleeping for the hundredth time.

Suddenly he felt an impact that fairly shook him in his berth. The emergency brake most likely, and in the next moment he knew he reasoned about right as the whole car seemed to throb and tremble before coming to a dead stop.

“Gee,” he whispered softly to himself, lying with eyes wide and ears straining for some sound, “every one else but me must be unconscious if that didn’t wake them.”

Evidently no one had heard anything, nor were they aware of the stationary attitude of the train. The heavy breathing and loud snores continued uninterrupted as before.

Of course, it wasn’t such an unusual thing for a fast train to stop suddenly out on the plains at night, nor anywhere else for that matter. But, he reasoned, it was unusual for the emergency brake to be applied as it was and then stand as they did without even a whistle or warning of any kind.

Save for the patter of the falling rain there was a dead silence; not a human sound outside and yet that very silence was pregnant with danger.

Westy got up and dressed.

CHAPTER IV—A HERO BY CHANCE

It didn’t take Westy half a minute to dress on that occasion, but it took him longer than that to rouse Rip, tug as he did at his bed clothes.

“Whassa matter, anyway?” His voice sounded startled.

“Shush!” warned Westy. “Get into your clothes quick as you can, ’n’ don’t make any noise.”

That was sufficient to silence the quick-witted Rip and in a second he was lowering himself from his upper berth and down into the darkened aisle as noiselessly as a cat. Westy made a gesture indicating the need of utmost secrecy as to their next move and motioned Rip to follow him.

On the platform, Westy tried to open the door on the right side of the train, but couldn’t seem to make the lever work. Then turning to the door on his left, he tried that and this time with success. They clambered down softly on the wet, soggy ground.

“I don’t know at all what’s the matter,” Westy confided to Rip in guarded tones.

“Well, by heck! What did you drag me out here for?”

“We’ll just go along easy and find out if there is anything wrong.” He wasn’t a bit perturbed at Rip’s peevishness.

Rip mumbled something about Westy being a poor misguided nut and all the other classical phrases so useful in our present-day vernacular. Nevertheless, he plodded on after him, albeit a good deal sleepy.

They stole along in the dark and through the pelting rain, keeping close beside the cars. Their Pullman was first in line after the mail and baggage cars, so it did not take them long to walk the distance between.

Westy couldn’t see a thing and, leading the way instinctively, held his arms out at length. Just as he could discern the dim outline of the engine ahead his outstretched hand came in contact with something. He stopped short as he heard the thud of a heavy object striking the soft, wet roadbed. Then to the surprise of both, they realized that another human being was also doing some sleuthing on his own and had muttered a low, almost unintelligible, curse.

“Aw right! I’m beat! Ya got me proper,” came the voice in true New York, east-side dialect. “Watcha going to do next, huh?”

Instinct and intuition probably prompted Westy’s answer more than anything else. Or, it might have been that his foot kicked something at the same time when he stepped forward in the direction of the voice. At any rate, he stooped and picked it up.

“Hold ’em up!” Westy’s voice commanded, sounding strange even to himself. Rip was holding his breath waiting for the next thing to happen, for he naturally thought that the deep hoarseness emanating from the throat of his comrade was a temporary bluff to make the east-sider believe his opponents were men. However, no one but Westy himself ever knew just what did cause this remarkable change and in view of subsequent happenings it wouldn’t be fair to reveal anything further.

“Get around on the other side of the engine!” Westy commanded, determination ringing in his tones. “Walk ahead and don’t look back once. I got you covered. D’ye get me?”

“Shure, I getcha,” the captured one answered sullenly.

As they reached the head of the engine and stepped to cross and go around it, Westy and Rip got a good view of their prisoner as he passed directly in the path of the powerful searchlight. A typical gunman he was, short of stature, but broad and stockily built, trudging obediently ahead.

These two boy scouts, fearless as they were, would not have meant so much as a feather in his ruffian hands had he but been aware of the extreme youth of his captors. They stepped quickly out of the light lest he should suddenly turn and discover how he was misled. But no, he led the way, groping in the darkness, and Westy felt perfectly confident that he would go on, blindly leading them to the source of the mystery.

Passing under the engine cab the boys could see it was empty, the fireman and engineer both gone. Obviously, there was foul play somewhere and Westy drew a deep breath to heighten his courage.

Nearing the second mail car, they perceived a chink of light shining through the aperture and the distinct hum of voices inside. At this juncture the boys both whispered a warning to their captive, Westy pushing the gun against his back.

“Tell them to open up, and if you let out one squeak——!” He left the sentence unfinished purposely.

The gunman nodded assent and rapped his knuckles against the door. A subdued silence prevailed and then a shuffle of feet.

“Zat you, Bull?” came from behind the door.

“Yeh, ’s me! Say——!”

Westy pushed the gun closer and Bull wriggled uncomfortably.

“Say, open up, will youse? I gotta put youse hip to sometin!”

As the door slid open slowly, throwing the light about the darkened area where they were standing, Westy and Rip jumped quickly and quietly back into the protecting shadows.

CHAPTER V—A STEP TO GLORY?

“Throw ’em down and out here quick!” Westy called out of the night.

Three guns immediately came tumbling out on the ground and within a few feet of each other. Their former owners were using violent language in deference to Bull and accusing him of being a stool pigeon, while he vainly protested his innocence.

Westy whispered something to Rip and resumed his authoritative manner.

“Get up there, you, Bull, and line up with the gang in the back of that car!”

Very submissively he ambled up and the gang obediently moved backward. Westy and Rip gathered up the guns hastily and fairly leaped inside the car, a revolver in each hand. Their captives gasped with astonishment, giving one another, particularly Bull, a look of total disgust.

The three mail clerks and the fireman and engineer, all bound and gagged, were sitting on the floor in a row. They presented a pitiful yet humorous spectacle, sitting there in such dejected-looking attitudes.

Westy viewed the scene hurriedly. Mail was strewn about the whole car in their frenzy to get what they wanted and depart. He looked the line of gunmen over and picked out the biggest and toughest one of the lot.

“Hey, you big boy, step around and relieve those fellows of all that linen!”

There was a perceptible movement on the part of Bull just then to make a plunge at Westy, whose attention he thought was centered upon the big bandit cutting the ties that bound the victims. He moved no further than a foot, however, for the alert scout had pulled the trigger deftly and before any one realized what had happened, the bullet winged its way clean through the crown of Bull’s brown fedora hat and landed straight in the niche that held the first-class mail for Larned.

“Score one for Uncle Jeb!” Westy said proudly. “It took me three weeks to learn that.” It is needless to say that in view of his marksmanship no one had any desire to show him further resistance.

When the poor victims were released and before they had sufficiently regained their composure, a conductor appeared on the scene, on his way to the engine to inquire the cause of delay. He immediately gave the alarm to the other train employees, taking care not to arouse the passengers.

Westy and Rip presented the guns to the perspiring clerks and during the excitement that followed with the bandits being securely placed under subjection, the boys slipped out unnoticed.

“Say, how do you get that way, Wes?” Rip’s disappointment was evident.

“What way?”

“Why, skipping away like that just when things were warming up nice. You remind me of one of those birds who get up in the theater at the beginning of the last act and steps all over your feet in his frenzy to be the first one out. He don’t want to see any more and he don’t want you to see any more, either. One of those nice accommodating fellows. I always like to see the whole show, close-up and all!”

“So do I!”

“Well, Jumping Jiminy, why didn’t you stay then?”

“Why, you half-baked ham, can’t you guess?”

“No, I never was good at riddles. Why?”

“If your Uncle found out about this, the rest of the summer would be spoiled. Keep mum about it whatever you do!”

“Oh, I’ll keep it under my hat all right, but he’s sure to find it out somehow.”

“How? We get off this train in a few hours, you simp! Neither the conductor on our car nor the porter saw us. They were just going in the mail car as we slipped out, for I watched closely. Mr. Wilde will hear about it, sure he will. But he couldn’t prove it was us after we get off. We probably aren’t the only two boys on this outfit.”

“I get you on that point and of course I won’t make a slip, but I can’t see where it would be so awful if he did hear about it.”

“You can’t? All right! If you want to run around all summer encased in one of those little horsey reins with bells on like they put on boy babies to keep them from running away when they’re first learning to walk, why we’ll turn back right now and see the rest of the show. What do you say?”

“Not a darned thing!”

CHAPTER VI—DISCUSSION

The porter had given them two calls and each time Westy and Rip dozed off again. Then when they were within ten minutes of their destination, Mr. Wilde had to pull the bed clothes off to get them up.

“What are you kids thinking of, anyhow? Do you think the railroad’s so kind-hearted as to allow their trains to stand at the station and give you time to leisurely dress before you get off. Railroads aren’t run that way. We’ll be in exactly nine minutes from now, so snap into it!”

When the two dilatory scouts collided over the same wash-basin four minutes later, the smoking room was filled with men talking loudly about a hold-up on the mail car the night before.

Mr. Wilde and Billy were discussing it with the porter who was excitedly reciting the full details to his listeners.

Westy and Rip, employing tooth-brushes with unusual diligence, gave one another a very significant look. About Westy’s right eye was the faintest suggestion of a wink. Three minutes later they were standing on the outer platform surrounded by their luggage and facing the door whose lever wouldn’t work the night before, in the interests of Fate.

They were all mighty glad to get out in the open again under blue skies and warm sunshine, the air redolent of sweet smelling earth, moist from the heavy rains.

Their outfit was there to meet them, a big high-powered car and a trailer with all the camp equipment. While Mr. Wilde and Billy conferred with the driver of the car, Westy and Rip watched the train take the curve like a flash, and disappear, leaving nothing but a curl of smoke in its wake.

An hour or so later, speeding along a modernly paved highway, the scouts listened intently to Billy as he repeated the hold-up story to the driver.

“It’s funny,” commented Mr. Wilde, occupying the back seat with the scouts, “that not one of the conductors or porters thought to investigate the cause of the train stopping so abruptly.”

“No,” replied Billy, “it wasn’t unusual at all, because the conductor on our car told me the train always stopped around there at that time to give Number Thirty the right of way. He said, of course, they hadn’t been in the habit of stopping right there exactly—about two miles further on was the usual place. The fact that they had used the emergency brake didn’t arouse any suspicion at first, on account of the storm. They thought perhaps the engineer had stopped on signal.”

“Well, how did he come to stop at all?”

“The bandits, of course. They gave him the signal and naturally he stopped quick. He had not taken his hand off the throttle before the gunmen covered him and also the fireman. The other two had overpowered the mail clerks by the time their pals joined them. The reason they marched the fireman and engineer along to the car was the fear of discovery and the desire to keep all their victims together. Then the one acted as lookout and he had just about made his rounds of the entire train thinking all was well, when these two unknown kids came up in back of him on the left side of the engine.

“He told it himself, afterward, that he was stricken dumb; never even heard them. Thought it was a couple of the conductors all along until they disarmed the whole bunch. Nervy kids all right, eh? Some thriller to have missed. Just my luck that I sleep so sound.”

“Who were the kids?” Mr. Wilde asked placidly.

“They don’t seem to know. During the excitement they must have slipped away unnoticed and no one was able to even give a good description of them. The conductor thought it might have been some one from the country around, but I doubt it on a stormy night like that.”

“The site of old Fort Zarah just ahead, sir!” the driver addressed Mr. Wilde.

“Whew!” Westy was thankful for that interruption. He was glad that he had been thoughtful enough to close the door when they sneaked back to the car. He wondered if Rip was thinking the same thing, so he very deftly nudged him in the ribs with his elbow and presently the nudge was fully returned. Then they rode along in silence for a while admiring the country’s beauty.

“Was any one hurt?” the driver inquired.

“No!” answered Billy pleasantly. “The fireman and engineer were pretty sore about the head. The bandits got real playful with them and knocked their heads a few times with the butts of the guns for getting a little balky. The engineer said that was the third time they’d been held up in the course of a few years. Three times is one time too many, eh?”

“I should say,” Mr. Wilde interrupted, and in the process of lighting another cigar, chuckled: “Quite a contrast in the type of these bandits from their predecessors of ’Forty-nine. They weren’t even considerate enough then to leave them with a sore head. They were so greedy they took scalp and all along home to remember their victims by, they thought so much of them. Then in after years when amusements were hard to find and time hung heavy on their hands, they could look at these rare mementos of a bright, hilarious past and shake venerable beards in gestures betokening their great longing for the return of the good old days, when scalps could be had for the asking. No, sir, I can’t for the life of me see what the engineer has to kick about at that. He ought to thank the present-day generation for turning out such nice, considerate gunmen.”

They went on, passing hamlet after hamlet, town after town, and back into the open prairie again. A perfect summer day!

“I’d like to go into Unk’s business,” Rip said suddenly, “when I get older.”

“How’s that?” answered Westy. “I thought you said you’d like to be a fireman on the A. T. and S. F!”

“I thought I would at first, but I’ve changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Aw, because they have to work nights sometimes!”

CHAPTER VII—IMAGINATION

At the start Westy and Rip’s interest was keenly aroused. They were stopping at places often and long enough to keep them from getting bored. Places that were rich in tradition failed to strike them very forcibly, it seemed. Helping out here and there it filled in time and they also posed at intervals to make the scenes abound with the human touch.

To boys craving adventure, it was just a daily routine of shooting scenes along a highway that occasionally ran through towns and hamlets of various sizes and descriptions. Nothing exciting about it, Westy mused. An old trail, it might have been once, but a plain, everyday, modern-looking highway now. Time had indeed spoiled everything for him, that was certain.

They had left the town of Great Bend in the distance after spending the morning there taking pictures of the Court House Square, through which place the Old Trail had run in its palmy days.

“What good does it do, Unk?” asked Rip, whose thoughts were following the same trend as Westy’s, “to take pictures like the one in Great Bend? How can people be interested in what’s there now? They can’t tell from that what the Old Trail really looked like. I know I couldn’t.”

“Do you know why you couldn’t, Rip?”

“No. Why?”

“Because you lack one of the greatest assets or gifts, call it what you like, that life could possibly endow a human being with. That gift is commonly called Imagination.”

“Each little hill and dell hereabouts”—Mr. Wilde swept his arms wide, indicating that he was taking the entire country surrounding them as an example—“has its own tale of adventure and romance to tell, if we have the mental capacity to draw out these tales from the dumb silence of their unspoken words and hidden secrets. A silence that reveals itself. Do you comprehend my meaning?

“Silence speaks only to those who are willing to listen. Imagination, if you want to call it such, but my theory is that any one who is highly spiritually attuned can hear the heart throbs in a pile of rock and detect the anguish in the tinkling murmur of a mountain brook.

“Why do people flock to see these pictures and landmarks that are but poor imitations of this once glorious Trail? Why? Because the sub-titles will inform them that on the site of what is now the Court House Square in the town of Great Bend the Old Trail ran through. And on that very spot occurred the terrible fight of Captains Booth and Hallowell in eighteen hundred and sixty-four. What happens? They absorb the seed and with plenty of fertility Imagination becomes a budding flower. That gift enables them to visualize from that peaceful picture another scene depicting a bloody encounter. Or, again, as the film unwinds a plateau is pictured with a herd of cows grazing and lying on its grassy slopes in the late twilight. That which was once famous as the battleground of a terrible conflict between the Pawnees and Cheyennes is now being used as a corral for cattle.

“Does that knowledge so lucidly pictured before them detract one bit from the glamor and charm that is Adventure and Romance and which even the ravages of Time cannot mellow?

“Not if they have imagination! Try it on your piano some time!”

CHAPTER VIII—A REAL FIND

Mile after mile they covered and still the snow-clad peaks of the Raton Range seemed as elusive as the will-o’-the-wisp.

The next morning, however, the outlines of the base became more perceptible as they drew nearer. At first sight it had a dark, grim look in the early morning light, a noticeable contrast to the green pastoral beauty of the foothills.

They were going to take some pictures of the summit and Mr. Wilde looked critically up at the crest that loomed before them now like a lighthouse in the heavens. He mentioned that they were going to foot it after they struck the base and they wouldn’t be riding again for at least a couple of weeks.

That statement was very gratifying to the boys. They experienced a thrill in the freedom they would have roaming about at will for the first time since they started. In short, they sat up and took notice immediately.

To Westy the mountains and the smell of pine and the camp-fire at night were alluring. There never was bacon that tasted like the bacon fried over hot coals and no kitchen range ever boiled or percolated coffee as redolent as the coffee that was boiled in the Great Outdoors.

“Gee, it’s a pip of a day!” Westy was full of enthusiastic anticipation.

“Yeh, could be much worse!” Rip said gloomily.

“Aw, quit the crépe-hanging, Rip! We’ll get a kick out of something if it’s only one of the mules.”

That afternoon they ascended the range and little by little the dark stretch of the base beneath them disappeared and the light seemed brighter with each forward step. Billy suggested that they look out for a good camping spot as they were reaching just about the right location to start out from each day and return to at night without having to move their stuff on all the time.

They were going along the main trail all the time and Westy mentioned that they would have to find a spot near a brook. Where else would they get their water? There was a little narrow path that ran between the thickly grown trees to their left. While Mr. Wilde and Billy were arguing about the best place to stop, the true scout did a little scouting on his own and followed the path for a while. He wasn’t walking more than five minutes when he came out to a place that had once been a clearing, but was now moss-grown and weedy. But joy of joys, there was an old dilapidated cabin with most of the windows broken, but seemingly a good substantial roof and a chimney that revealed the presence of an open fireplace within.

As he opened the creaking door whose hinges were thick in the rust of disuse, Westy realized that no human feet had crossed its threshold for many years past. A table of home-made manufacture stood in the center of the cabin and there were berths built on each side of the fireplace; four in all. Just made to order, Westy thought as he glanced through the broken window near the back. A brook was running merrily back of it about the distance of a long city block away. He hurried back to tell the news of his lucky find.

“I suppose you would never have come across that place if you weren’t a scout,” Mr. Wilde kidded him.

“A scout is observant!” Westy reminded him.

CHAPTER IX—LOLA

“Well, I’ll say you are, anyway,” Mr. Wilde said, as he viewed the place with a satisfied air. “It’s like manna in the wilderness to get a bunking-in place like this. I never was fond of sleeping in damp tents and I’m too blamed old to acclimatize myself to that sort of thing now. Bless your lil heart, Westy, my lad, you have all the so-called mascots beaten by a mile when it comes to being of service!”

“A scout is helpful!” Westy said proudly.

“All right, then get some supper and show us what you can do!” Billy demanded, feigning seriousness.

Westy decided to do the cooking and let Rip do the menial chores about and so break him in right. He ordered Rip to run down to the brook and get some water. He sauntered on down very leisurely and splashed the cool water about for some time before he decided to return.

WESTY DECIDED TO DO THE COOKING AND LET RIP DO THE MENIAL CHORES.

Just as he turned away from the brook to go back he felt instinctively the presence of some one near him. Glancing around, he saw nothing. Then he looked upward and something moved in the refractory light shining through the gaunt-limbed trees. Breathless, he fled. His uncle sensed something amiss as he ran toward them.

“Gee, you know, Unk, strike me pink if I didn’t see a girl sitting up in a tree down there. Looks to me like an Indian, s’ help me Sam!”

“You’re one heck of a scout, you are,” Mr. Wilde chided him, “running away from a poor helpless Indian girl. What in thunder were you afraid of?”

“Aw, I wasn’t afraid of her at all, I was just taken off my feet when I saw it was a girl. I don’t like ’em much, anyway. That is, most of ’em!”

“Of course not,” Mr. Wilde said with mock sympathy, and as an afterthought added, “Not until you get a little older! Come on, we’ll take a stroll down and inquire who this maid of the mountains happens to be.”

Westy left his bacon to an unknown Fate and followed the rest to the brook, where they beheld Rip’s dryad sitting, feet under her, on the limb of a huge tree.

The setting sun threw a halo of scarlet around her. Bobbed hair, dark and straight, with a band of crimson ribbon encircling her forehead. Eyes as dark as the forests at night with a laughing light in them. Her small face and strong looking arms were tanned. They could see at first glance that here was a child of the open spaces.

A girl of about thirteen, they judged, when she slipped out of the tree as noiselessly as a wildcat and stood before them slim and tall for her age.

One would gather at first that she was an Indian, until she smiled at them one and all, sweetly yet fearlessly.

“How do you do!” Mr. Wilde said, as he bowed graciously. “My name is Madison Wilde, young lady! Who, may I ask, are you?”

She laughed gayly at Mr. Wilde’s mock gallantry, and her voice echoed like a silver bell ringing throughout the forest.

“Why—I’m a girl called Lola!”

CHAPTER X—ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

“So you’re Lola, are you, and not some ephemeral wood-sprite that disappears with the advent of dawn? I feel disappointed that you cannot truthfully tell me your home is the trunk of the tree and that you sip the nectar from the flowers as your sole diet. Now that you’re really a human being we will have to make the best of it. I suppose you live near here?”

She pointed a slim brown finger southward where a column of smoke was curling high above the clump of evergreen pines and tall straight cedars beyond.

“I wonder,” she said, showing two rows of even white teeth, “if you gentlemen would take supper with us?” Manifestly, this was inclusive of all.

With all her feminine sweetness there was nothing coy about her nor her question. She spoke simply but with an amazing frankness, accentuated by the soft deep tones in her voice. A typical tomboy, Mr. Wilde thought.

Westy and Rip liked her at once and the fact that she included them as gentlemen had a marked effect upon this consideration.

“Now, that’s kind of you,” Mr. Wilde answered, “but we are all pretty tired to-night. We wouldn’t make very sociable guests I’m afraid. Besides, the hour is quite late now and for four men to presume upon your mother’s kind hospitality would be too much of a good thing.”

“Oh, no, not at all. I live alone with my grandmother, my father and mother are dead. It’s such a holiday when we have any visitors—it happens so very seldom.” She said it with a wistful sadness that touched them. “Are you camping here long?”

“Two weeks at the most. Perhaps we will take advantage of your invitation to-morrow evening if we are still welcome!”

“By all means, Mr. Wilde.” She moved away from the spot and extended her hand to each one in turn, acknowledging the introductions. “Our cabin is off the main trail; take the first path to the left. If you could make it in the afternoon I could show you some interesting views for your pictures. Good evening, gentlemen!”

They answered in chorus as she took the path through the trees, walking erect with long, graceful strides. Just before disappearing around the bend she turned and waved a hearty farewell.

“Gee, that’s what I call a regular girl,” Rip exploded. “Not pretty, but straight from the shoulder.”

“I’ll say,” Westy exclaimed. “She’d certainly knock the spots out of Bridgeboro’s dumb Doras.”

“Well, are you kids going to stand there gassing all night while I’m starving to death? Come on with the feed!” This was from Billy, who looked upon life as a continual unwinding of film, interrupted only by the process of eating and sleeping.

Late that night, under a moon not quite full, they sat outside talking over the events of the day.

“I say, Mr. Wilde, how did that girl know about your pictures?”

“I don’t know, Westy. It would seem uncanny—her knowing that, only I have a faint idea she saw us before we saw her. Probably when we were unloading our stuff. I hadn’t any idea of a human being living around here. Of course, it’s perfectly delightful, but inaccessible. I dare say it must be dreadfully lonely for such a spirited girl as she.”

About mid-afternoon of the next day they set out for Lola’s cabin. It was a longer hike than they thought, judging from the distance they had reckoned where the smoke was curling the previous evening.

Presently a clearing appeared just ahead and, reaching it, they beheld the “cabin” as she called it, but really a little cottage, painted white with green trimmings and embowered in flowers of variegated hue. Truly a veritable little paradise in the heart of the mountains.

So sequestered, so cool and peaceful it stood there, with the brook to one side bubbling its hurried way as its crystal waters glistened and sparkled in the sunlight.

Running back of the cottage to the south, the ground ended abruptly in a jagged ledge of rock that looked down into a deep ravine from its dizzy heights.

“I told Grandmother one time that at least we have the distinction of living on the edge of the world!” Lola had come out of the house quietly and noting their evident abstraction in the awe-inspiring depths of the ravine, she had spoken—their very thoughts.

Unconsciously, Westy had made that deduction. On the edge of the world! Indeed it was, for the formidable-looking chasm with the mountains rising ever higher to the south seemed to separate the little cottage in its realms of imagination from the world of reality beyond!

CHAPTER XI—MANY YEARS AGO

In this everyday world of ours, what with the rapid strides that civilization has taken in every direction and the progress of our own generation, we have become cynical and apathetic regarding the ingenuity of mankind.

This fact was never brought to mind so much as on that Sunday afternoon when Westy got his first glimpse of Lola’s home. It must represent the love and labor of three quarters of a century and more, he thought, to attain such a triumph against such odds. How these sturdy people had outwitted stubborn Nature, to have made this paradise possible in a wilderness, when all the soil surrounding it even now seemed unwilling to give sustenance to anything save a few hardy trees and lifeless mosses. It was astounding and worthy of praise.

A little arbor had been built to one side of the house and it was here that Lola entertained them. At length her grandmother appeared, Lola introducing her as Mrs. Redmond.

Mr. Wilde could not help noticing that in spite of her simple costume she was a woman of marked aristocratic bearing, welcoming them all in the same soft, deep voice as her granddaughter.

Their hospitality was overwhelming, and in spite of the plainness of the food served at supper, the sweetness and wholesomeness of the two lonely creatures made the meal taste like a king’s feast.

Their eager interest about everything in the world outside was pathetic. They encouraged Mr. Wilde and Billy to talk of their work and listened attentively to Westy and Rip talk of the scouts. It was obvious that they did not want to talk of themselves at all, mentioning nothing of their own daily lives and routine.

Westy’s heart was filled with pity as he watched Lola’s dark eyes widening with interest as she listened to the desultory conversation around the table. She fairly gurgled with delight at times when little touches of humor were added here and there. It was a meal that none of them ever forgot.

After supper was over, the night being so warm, it was suggested that they go outside. The air was heavy with the scent of the flowers and the crooning hum of all the mountain night folk had begun.

Lola and the boys flopped themselves in the cool, thick grass at the feet of the older folks who were sitting in the rough-hewn chairs, bearing all the earmarks of true pioneer handicraft.

“I say, Miss Lola,” Westy said suddenly, breaking the spell, “are there any Indians in these woods? The honest-to-goodness kind, I mean!”

He wasn’t sure, but Westy imagined that he saw Lola startle at his question and in the faint light from the rising moon he detected a bright flush on her cheeks. Glancing at Mrs. Redmond, he saw that she also wore that same strange look. But then in the next moment Lola seemed to have regained her poise, for she smiled—perhaps a trifle sadly, he thought.

“You must remember, Westy, the red man no longer roams the mountain forests at will, nor does he fish in the streams unmolested that were once his by the divine right of Providence. The government sees to it that the Indian makes his home where the white man wishes him to make his home. They are now herded together, these once proud red men, like cattle and their freedom is as limited. The white man has wished it so!”

To say that they were startled at this speech from so young a girl was putting it mildly. They were amazed and no one missed the bitterness that infused her outburst.

“Gee, I know, you sure are right—there, Miss Lola,” Westy said sympathetically. “I’ve always thought it a darn shame to coop them up. They wouldn’t do any harm now, that’s a cinch!”

“I have often wondered myself,” Mr. Wilde put in, “wherein the fault did really lie in the beginning. It is true after all I suppose that the white man has been more or less of a thief, too. He took away their land at the start and then snatched from them the very birthright of every red man—his freedom. It is a fact to be deplored by the white man, really!”

Both Lola and her grandmother seemed to be looking back into the past, so grave were they in their meditation.

“Would you like to hear a long story, gentlemen?” Lola said inquiringly.

The very silence spoke consent.

In the realms of imagination they sat, waiting for Lola to begin. The moon broke full through the dark, star-flecked heavens as an elfin breeze stirred the sleeping flowers, wafting their heavy languorous perfume through the air. The cry of some distant night-prowler pierced the stillness and she looked away where the black shadows hid the deep ravine from view. With her face uplifted to the moonlight, her lips parted slowly:

“Many years ago——”

CHAPTER XII—JUST A FEW

“When the Moon of the Snow Shoes had come upon the prairies, the North Wind, cruel and merciless, blew its stinging fury in the faces of the red men. Ice and snow covered the earth, spreading itself like a huge blanket.

“Months passed and still no sunrise nor sunset could penetrate the frozen ground beneath its icy coverlet. The moon and stars each night looked down upon a silent, shivering world.

“The owl in the forest, the birds from the northland; all living things were rendered inanimate by the wrath of the Ice-god who ruled the plains that winter.

“When the early spring should have caused the sap to run in the trees, making ready to burst forth the tiny buds, still nothing stirred. Even the sun was implacable, withholding its warmth and brightness from the pleading earth.

“Day was as night, with the dark clouds hiding the blue of the heavens and the mantle of white still draping the whole world beneath.

“Death, stark and grim, hovered over the wigwams of the red men and the cabins of the white man. Suffering, sorrow and hunger were everywhere, recognizing no creeds nor classes.

“Then, when the spring was late and his purpose accomplished, this harbinger of all that was Misery and Gloom, stole subtly away into the night, giving way to a day that brought sunshine and new hope.

“On that day a band of braves were returning to the lands of their fathers, having wearied of waiting for the ice to break and had ventured forth to hunt. Turning back with much rejoicing and provisions, they hurried homeward. Thankful, they were, these warriors of the Cheyennes, that the God of the Sun was shining once more upon their people.

“Their leader, in the course of their journey, sighted a lone tepee standing in the heart of the prairie wilderness.

“Bold and brave though they were, the scene that they beheld upon entering the wigwam caused them great anguish. A scene of past suffering and desolation it had been.

“In the center of the lone tepee sat an Indian chief attired in his full splendor. Kneeling, as in an attitude of prayer, his squaw, her head resting in his lap and her hands clasped before her, was found. They had either frozen or starved to death.

“While deploring this tragedy, they heard a faint cry and found a tiny cradle with a girl babe inside, just on the borderland. They fought for many hours to keep the spark kindled, and after hope was almost gone—it came back—to live.

“With due ceremony the babe’s royal father and mother were started on the way to the Happy Hunting Grounds and the braves set out again with the tiny princess, bearing it tenderly home.

“The whole tribe came out to welcome this little daughter of an unknown chief and she was given to Black Waters, tribal chief and very powerful.

“A feast, very joyful, was held that night and the girl babe was named in honor of her finding—alone with Death.

“Lone Star, they called the babe, and she, gentlemen, was my great-grandmother!”

CHAPTER XIII—PAGES

“The years went by swiftly and Lone Star grew into girlhood. Adored by her foster father and his squaw, Singing Bird, her precocious wisdom soon made itself manifest among the tribe.

“Peace-loving, gentle and tolerant, Lone Star exercised great influence over Black Waters, and the Cheyennes lived many, many moons contented and at peace with even their hereditary enemies.

“Under her tuition a plea was sent to the white man by Black Waters, asking them not to entice their warriors with fire-water. On the whole, this plea was respected except by those unprincipled enough to make use of the Indians’ ignorance when their brains were befuddled with liquor. Braves were prohibited from indulging and to those whose behavior lapsed from this rule, punishment was meted accordingly.

“The Cheyennes were not inherently peace-loving and a time came when they chafed under their subjection and longed for war paint and feathers again.

“Lone Star’s serenity was a source of bitterness to the restless braves. Their dislike for her deepened into hate, but they dared not voice this openly in fear of incurring Black Waters’ wrath.