emigrant. the last stop on the long, long journey from new york. the last stop till the thundering train would reach the gardiner entrance of the yellowstone national park. they were within thirty miles of that wonderland.
westy was glad that there was one more station to be reached before his dream should be a reality. his nerves were so much on edge that the one, poor, little station of emigrant would act as a sort of valve to relieve him of the tension that he felt. he was glad that they weren’t going to reach their destination quite yet—he was too excited. yes, he was glad there was just one more station. then, then——
as for the traveling man, he seemed to be about as excited and anticipatory as if he were strolling across the street to buy another cigar.
the train thundered along through the rugged montana country, its screeching whistle now and again echoing from the towering mountains. on, on, on it rushed with a kind of disdainful preoccupation, going straight about its business, circling the frowning heights, crossing torrents, unhindered, invincible. did anybody live or even venture in those wild mountains, westy wondered. were there trails there? could it be that grizzly bears heard in their fastnesses the shriek of that steel monster that was rushing straight to its end?
only this roaring, swerving, thundering, rushing train stood between westy martin and those uninhabited wilds. no smudge signal would save him there. no approved device for helping the lost pilgrim in distress would serve him in that endless, rugged wilderness. the leather seat of the smoking car seemed good to him.
“who’s going to look after you kids?” their traveling acquaintance asked.
the boys, particularly warde, did not like to hear it put that way but he answered, “the auto is going to meet us at gardiner; there’s a scout official who’s going to be there and they’ll call our names out. they’re going to take us to the hotel at mammoth hot springs. after that we go on a kind of a tour. it’s all planned out for us.”
“well, i’ll be with you as far as the springs,” said the stranger, “so if you don’t make connections all right i’ll get things fixed up for you. how the dickens did you three kids happen to beat it out here anyway?”
“if we told you, you’d only laugh,” said ed carlisle. “we did some stunts, that’s how. we——”
“don’t you tell him unless he tells us what he’s doing out here,” warde said.
“all right, that’s a go,” laughed the stranger.
“i bet you’re just selling things to tourists,” said westy. “i bet you’re bringing a lot of souvenirs of yellowstone park from new york to sell out here.”
“yes, and how about you?” the stranger asked.
“we’re sent by the rotary club,” said warde, “because we did three things to win the award.” the traveling man cocked his head sideways and listened in a humorously skeptical way which was very annoying. “you found somebody who was lost in the woods?” he queried.
“no, we didn’t find somebody who was lost in the woods,” warde said somewhat testily.
“no? well then they sent you because you’re the only three boy scouts that haven’t done that. i congratulate you, here’s my hand.”
“this fellow, westy martin,” said warde, “killed a deer that somebody else had shot because he wanted to put it out of its suffering and he let people think he was the one that shot it; he did that so they wouldn’t punish the other person. but it was found out so they gave him the good turn award. this other fellow put out a forest fire and i took a long hike and got a job for somebody. so now what are you doing out here? you didn’t even tell us your name.”
“well, that’s very nice,” said their acquaintance; “my name is madison c. wilde and i’m mixed up with the educational films——”
“you’re in the movies?” shouted ed.
“just at present,” said mr. madison c. wilde. “i’m in the business of getting snap-shots of wild animals to show you fellows when you happen to have thirty cents to buy a ticket. anything else you’d like to know?”
“i’d like to know if you’re really going up on that mountain, pelican cove, like you said,” westy asked.
“what do you suppose i’ve been hanging around washington, d. c. for the last two weeks for?” mr. wilde asked. “i’d rather stalk grizzlies on pelican cone than stalk national park directors in washington. i’d rather go after pictures than permits, i can tell you that if anybody should ask you. grizzlies are bad enough, but park directors”—he shook his head in despair—“that bunch in washington,” and shook his head again.
the boys stared at him. in their minds the pursuit of wild animals, for whatever purpose, was associated with buckskin and cartridge-laden belts. yet here was a little man with a bristly mustache whose only weapon was an unlighted cigar innocently pointing toward heaven. they had already imbibed enough of the atmosphere of the legendary west to be somewhat shocked at the thought of this brisk, little man, with all the prosaic atmosphere of the city about him, going into the wilds to stalk grizzlies. he did not seem at all like buffalo bill.
“gee whiz!” ejaculated westy. “i thought you were a salesman or something like that.”
mr. madison c. wilde gave him a whimsical look and proceeded to draw forth from an inside pocket a mammoth wallet while the three boys stared speechless. could this man be just fooling them? the wallet was formidable enough to stagger any grizzly. it was bulging with money, which to the boys seemed to confirm the stranger’s connection with the movies, where fabulous sums are possessed and handed about. mr. wilde was as deliberate with his wallet as any hunter of the woolly west could possibly have been with his gun. he screwed his cigar over to the end of his mouth, tilted it to an almost vertical position, then closing one eye he explored the caves and fastnesses of his wallet with the other.
his quest eventually resulted in the capture of a paper which he brought forth out of a veritable jungle of bills and documents. “here we are,” said he, tenderly unfolding the document.
