westy was still laughing as he climbed the hill. he was thinking that these two companions of his were pretty good scouts after all. in his mood of dissatisfaction with himself and modern scouting, it had not occurred to him that being a good scout consists not in getting along with nothing, but in getting along with what you happen to have.
a little way up the hill he looked back and could see ed sitting on a rock, one foot cocked up in the air with several strands of worsted about it. he seemed to be bent on the task of braiding these and there was something whimsical about the whole appearance of the thing which amused westy and made him realize his liking for this comrade who was of another troop than his own.
reaching the summit of the hill he saw that the tree he had seen from below was not as isolated as it had looked to be. it was a great elm and rose out of a kind of jungle of brush and rock and smaller trees. these near surroundings had not been discernible from the distant road. a given point in nature is so different seen from varying distances and from different points of view.
but the hill was not disappointing in affording an extensive view southward. there was no object in that direction which gave any hint of yellowstone park, but probably much of the wild scenery he beheld was within the park boundaries. it was significant of the vastness of the park and of the smallness of westy’s mental vision that he had expected to behold it as one may behold some local amusement park. he had thought that upon approach he might be able to point to it and say with a thrill, “there it is!” he had not been able to fix it in his mind as a vast, wild region that just happened to have a tame, civilized name—park.
there was something very peculiar about this great tree and westy wondered if some terrific cyclone of years gone by might have caused it. evidently it had once been uprooted, but not blown down. at all events a great rock was lodged under its exposed root, causing the tree to stand at an angle. it seemed likely that the same wind-storm which had all but lain the tree prone had caused the rock to roll down from a slight eminence into the cavity and lodge there. great tentacles of root had embraced the rock which seemed bound by these as by fetters. and under a network of root was a dark little cave created by the position of the rock.
westy poked his head between the network of roots and peered into this dank little cell. it smelled very damp and earthy. some tiny creature of the mountains scampered frantically out and the stir it caused seemed multiplied into a tumult by the darkness and the smallness of the place. westy weakened long enough to wish he had a match so that he might make a momentary exploration of this freakish little hole.
his first impulse was to throw off his jacket before climbing the tree, but he did not do this. he was good at climbing and he shinned up the tree with the agility of a monkey. he rested at the first branch and was surprised to see how even here the view seemed to expand before him. he felt that at last he was doing something free from the contamination of roads and railroad tracks. he was alone in the rockies. he had once read a boys’ book of that title, and now he reflected with a thrill that he, westy martin, was, in a sense, alone in the rockies. not in the perilous depths, perhaps, but just the same, in the rockies. he wondered if there might be a grizzly within a mile, or two or three miles of him. the rockies!
he ascended to the next branch, and the next. slowly he climbed and wriggled upward to a point beyond which he hesitated to trust the weight of his body. and here he sat in a fork of the tree and looked southward and eastward where a vast panorama was open before him.
to the north and west was a near background of towering mountains, making his airy perch seem low indeed. but to the south and east he saw the west in all its glory and majesty. mountains, mountains, mountains! magnificent chaos! distance unlimited! wildness unparalleled! such loneliness that a whisper might startle like a shout. it needed only the roar of a grizzly to complete this boy’s sense of tragic isolation and to give the scene a voice.
from where he sat, westy could look down into the cosy little cleft and see ed carlyle standing clearly outlined in the first gray of twilight; standing like a statue, hopefully angling with his converted safety-pin and braided worsted. warde was gathering sticks for their fire. westy’s impulse was to call to them, but then he decided not to. he preferred not to call, nor even see them. for just a little while he wanted to be alone in the rockies.
so he did not call. he looked in another direction and as he did so his heart jumped to his throat and he was conscious of a feeling of unspeakable gratitude to the saving impulse which had kept him silent. for approaching up the hill from the direction in which he now looked were the figures of two men. and one glimpse of them was enough to strike horror to westy martin’s soul.
