this was the kind of man that westy had to get away from. for he found it unthinkable that he and his companions should be shot down and left in that wild region, a prey to vultures. he tortured himself with the appalling thought that perhaps the great bird he had just seen and heard was one of those horrible creatures of uncanny instinct waiting patiently among its aerial crags for the bodies of the slain; for him, westy martin!
he had been able to realize, or rather to believe, that he was alone in the rockies. he had, in the few moments that he had been there, indulged the thrilling reflection that he was actually in the storied region where grizzlies prowled, and other savage beasts woke the echoes with their calls, where eagles screamed in their dizzy and inaccessible domains. he had thrilled to the thought that he was at least within the limits of that once trackless wonderland of adventure where guides and trappers, famed in his country’s romantic lore, had wrought miracles renowned in the annals of scouting.
but westy had not carried these reflections so far as to include the reality which now confronted him. he had been a trapper for a few sweet moments; he had penetrated the wilds after indians—in his imagination, which is always a safe place to hunt. and now suddenly here he was, actually trapped in the rocky mountains; the victim of cold-blooded desperadoes. his life hung by a thread. his killing would be a trifling incident in the aftermath of a typical western train robbery.
it was odd how ready his imagination had been to feast upon the perils of the wild west and how his blood turned cold at this true western adventure into which he was drawn. the day before, in his comfortable seat in the speeding train, he would have said that such a thing as this was just impossible. it would have been all right in the books; but as involving him, westy martin, why, the very thought of it would have been absurd.
yet there he was. there he was, the thing was a reality, and he knew that every chance was against him. he wondered what shining sun, the red boy, that silent master of the forest, would have done in this predicament. then his thoughts wandered away from that exploited hero to his own pleasant home in bridgeboro and he pictured his father sitting by the library table reading his evening paper. he pictured his father telling his sister doris for goodness’ sakes to stop playing the victrola till he finished reading. then doris strolling out onto the porch and ejecting himself and pee-wee harris from the swinging seat and sitting down herself to await the arrival of charlie easton. . . .
he looked anxiously in the direction of the cleft, fearful that at any minute smoke would arise out of it or voices be audible there. the two men were talking below, but he could not see them now nor hear what they said. the whole thing seemed so strange, so incredible, that westy could not appreciate the extraordinary fact that the very property, the wallet of his traveling acquaintance, mr. wilde, was in possession of these outlaws.
one slight advantage (it was not even a forlorn hope) seemed to be accruing to him. it was growing dark. this at least might prevent the smoke from the distant fire being seen. as for the blaze, that could not be seen from the foot of the tree because of the precipitous descent at the base of the hill. from his vantage point in the tree westy would have been able to see the fire. but there was no blaze to be seen and he wondered why, for surely, he thought, they must have been able to catch some sort of fish.
then in his distraction, he found a measure of relief in thinking of matters not pertinent to his desperate situation. he thought how after all ed’s safety-pin and braided worsted had probably not made good. this aroused again his morbid reflections about boy scouting. shining sun, without so much as a safety-pin, would have been able to catch fish, probably with his dexterous hands.
westy was disgusted with himself and all his claptrap of scouting, when he thought of this primitive little master of the woods and water. frightened as he was, he was reflective enough to be indignant at mr. wilde for that skeptic’s irreverent use of the name of stove polish. shining sun was all but sacred to serious westy.
