westy told his story simply, modestly, while a swelling crowd clustered about. it seemed that he and his comrades had not been missed from the train during the short run after they had been left behind. doubtless the excitement caused by the train robbery had sufficiently extinguished any curiosity among their chance acquaintance en route. indeed, mr. wilde very frankly observed, “you kids were the least of my troubles; i was thinking of my wallet. i was trying to write out some descriptive stuff about wild animals and hoping you wouldn’t come back again when the train stopped and a woman screamed and the next thing i knew i was handing my writing tablet to bill hart and telling another woman to shut up. never gave you kids another thought.”
westy and his comrades were greatly relieved to learn that no word of their non-appearance had been wired to bridgeboro. it is true that they had only just escaped with their little adventure and saved themselves from prosaic complications, for the gentleman who was to have received them at gardiner had been in communication with livingston and had engineered the dispatch of an auto over the road to pick them up. but fate was kind to them and somehow they had not encountered the rescue car, which (to make matters worse) was a ford sedan.
so it befell that the three award boys, in despite of all modern claptrap, crossed the boundary of yellowstone national park as some scout or trapper of old might have crossed it, having safely eluded two western desperadoes and a ford sedan. but it was a narrow escape.
“could we see shining sun? is he here?” westy asked almost in a reverend whisper.
“all is over between stove polish and myself,” said mr. wilde. “never mention his name again. that canny, little red-face wanted five hundred dollars down before leaving this hotel, and his manager, pink vulture or black hawk or whatever he calls himself, insists on the kid being featured in all the exploitation stuff. n-o-t-h-i-n-g doing, i told him! that ain’t the way we put over educational films. lo, the poor indian—bunk. why, stove polish is starting his own outfit in hollywood next year. what d’yer know about that? don’t talk to me about that cheyenne! it’s good he wasn’t around when the yankees bought cape cod for a couple of spark plugs or something or other.”
westy gasped.
“as a pathfinder that kid is o.k.,” said mr. wilde. “he can track a dollar to its silent lair. n-o-t-h-i-n-g doing, i told him! if you want to meet him, there he is in the next room or somewheres or other. keep your hands on your watches.”
dumbfounded at this hearty tirade, the three boys, followed by an admiring throng of other boys, explored the public places of the big hotel. they penetrated the dining room and glanced about curiously. they peered into the remotest fastnesses opening from corridors and stole into all the carpeted nooks and crannies where they thought a cheyenne indian might lurk. mr. wilde had declined to hit the trail with them.
“i’ll show him to you,” said an accommodating youngster who clung to westy; “i know him; i’ll find him for you. mr. creston was bawling him out; oh, boy, you ought to have heard him.”
so it was that westy’s cup of joy was full and he found himself hunting indians like the gallant custer or like buffalo billy. and, at last, they brought poor westy’s hero to bay in one of the parlors. he sat in a rocker, talking with his manager, mr. hawk, black hawk of the rockies—and hollywood.
poor westy, he could only gaze speechless. more atrocious than all the atrocities committed by the movies was shining sun, the indian boy. he was ravishing in his sartorial splendor, wearing a red-ribboned straw hat and spats! and he carried a cane—young boy though he was. oh, shades of pontiac and sitting bull! he carried a cane! wesley barryized, jackie cooganized, movieized, he sat there talking to mr. hawk about the disagreement they had had with educational films. and if old massasoit did not turn in his grave it must have been because he was too shocked or grieved to stir!
westy gazed at this sophisticated youngster in chilled disillusionment. shining sun had indeed been shining while he, the parlor woodsman, the back-yard scout, had been getting away from the most notorious bandit west of the mississippi. if westy had beheld bloodhound pete in a dress suit and stove-pipe hat he could hardly have received a greater shock. that the indian boy had real skill and woods lore did not save him in the eyes of this sturdy little hero of the silver fox patrol, who had found money the only false note in his memorable adventure.
“come on away,” warde whispered, “he’s talking business. shh! don’t you know he’s the cheyenne valentino?”
“he ought to be stabbed to the heart with my safety-pin,” said ed. “if i ever meet him in a lonely spot on broadway some dark night, i’ll lasso him with worsted from my sweater. come on, let’s get away from here. i’m sorry for you, west, you old tramp; i’m for the boy scouts of america. i’d rather live on fish and wear honest rags.”
“you tell ’em,” said warde, earnestly.
he put his arm over his patrol mate’s shoulder as if to claim a kinship of which even ed could not boast. but it made no difference to ed, for a scout is a brother to every other scout throughout the whole length and breadth of the land. westy seemed conscious of this as he rapped ed on the shoulder while the three strolled away together. “well, are you cured?” warde asked.
“yes, i’m cured,” said westy.
“you admit you’re a scout?” queried ed.
“i admit you’re one,” westy said.
“thanks for those kind words.”
“you always smile and look pleasant and that’s the main thing,” said westy.
“wrong the first time,” said ed. “the main thing is not to accept anything for a service; law five, also law nine; handbook page thirty-four.”
“you said it,” enthused warde. “the trouble with——”
“tarnished sun,” interrupted ed.
“the trouble with him,” said warde, “he’s been commercialized.”
“repeat that word,” said ed.
“commercialized,” said warde.
“go to the head of the class and take a slap on the wrist,” said ed.
“it means kind of spoiled by money and being famous and all that,” said warde.
“i’ll take your word for it,” said ed. “it’s a mighty nice word, i’ll say that.”
“there are people trying to commercialize boy scouts, too,” said warde.
“not if we see ’em first,” said westy.
“if we get killed, we’ll get killed for love,” said ed. “we won’t take any money for it—not even a tip.”
“let’s all make a solemn vow that we won’t carry canes,” said warde.
“i’m with you,” said ed. “or wear spats.”
“right,” said warde.
“i’ve got to get some clothes somewhere,” said westy.
“i think there’s a clothing store at the bottom of the canyon,” warde observed.
“first i’d like to go to the devil’s kitchen and get something to eat,” said ed.
“don’t you want to see the petrified forest?” westy asked.
“not unless i can eat it,” said ed. “just at present i don’t want to see anything i can’t eat—except fish. if anybody mentions fish to me, i’ll stab him with my safety-pin. i wouldn’t even listen to a fish story.”
“i bet mr. creston and mr. wilde had an awful scrap with tarnished sun,” said warde.
“i bet shining sun hit him with his cane,” said ed. “if he did, i hope mr. wilde just puffed cigar smoke in his face; it would serve him right.”
“do you smell roast beef?” said warde.
“boy, that smells good,” said westy.
“i think we’re on the right trail,” said ed.
