WESTY MARTIN IN THE ROCKIES
[Illustration: HIS WARM BLOOD SEEMED TO TURN INTO AN ICE-LIKE
SUBSTANCE.]
WESTY MARTIN
IN THE ROCKIES
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, 1925, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP
CONTENTS
I A Sure Aim
II The Spirit of the Camp
III Good Man Friday
IV The Captive
V It Shall Not Pass
VI The Rescuer
VII Wicked Mr. Temple
VIII What Might Have Been
IX Friends
X Out of the Past
XI The Lost Agreement
XII Mr. Martin’s Ultimatum
XIII Westy Makes a Decision
XIV Vindication
XV A Life in the Balance
XVI They’re Off
XVII “Hills”
XVIII “Silent” Ollie Baxter
XIX Uncle Jeb Sounds a Warning
XX Westy Makes a Discovery
XXI The Mysterious Hollow
XXII Something to Think About
XXIII The Object on the Cliff
XXIV Artie as a Modern Daniel
XXV Taking Chances
XXVI The Eagles’ Return
XXVII Help
XXVIII Between Two Fires
XXIX Face to Face
XXX Cries
XXXI Westy Makes a Sacrifice
XXXII The Bond Is Sealed
XXXIII Uncle Jeb Faces a Crisis
XXXIV Forgotten Footprints
XXXV Ghosts
XXXVI Westy Circumvents a Ghost?
XXXVII Evidence
XXXVIII Gone
XXXIX The Man Without a Soul
XL Ollie Makes His Exit
XLI Skeletons
XLII The Lost Is Found
WESTY MARTIN IN THE ROCKIES
CHAPTER I—A SURE AIM
Westy Martin sat speechless in utter consternation. He glanced about him
as if dazed. He seemed to be trying to make sure that he was awake, that
the whole thing was not a dream. Then a sudden burst of shouting and
applause recalled him to the reality of the clamorous scene.
The scene was very real. It was a familiar scene at Temple Camp and real
with the savory realities of clam chowder and hunter’s stew and crullers
piled high in tin dishpans. And waffles built into miniature skyscrapers
and big glass pitchers full of sirup and honey. And Pee-wee Harris
shouting, “I’ll go with you, I’ll go with you, I’ll be the one!” And
Uncle Jeb Rushmore sitting at the head of the “eats board” with a smile
of amusement hovering under his drooping white mustache.
Uncle Jeb Rushmore was one of those men who looked out of place at a
dining table, even at a rustic “eats board.” By all the rules he should
have eaten his meals squatting on the ground in proximity to a campfire,
in the dense wilderness or on the prairie. He should never have eaten a
meal without his trusty rifle by his side and without a keen eye on the
lookout for stealthy Indians. He should certainly never have been waited
on by a smiling negro connected with the cooking shack of a great modern
camp. He should have dined in remote fastnesses, mountain passes, and in
sound of the appalling voices of savage beasts. Everything about Uncle
Jeb suggested not the covered table, but the covered wagon. He was an
old western trapper and guide who had cooked bear’s meat with Buffalo
Bill and fried his venison on silent trails while the caravan waited.
That this picturesque old member of a race that has all but passed away
should be sitting at the head of a camp “eats board” was the fault of
Mr. John Temple, the beneficent founder of Temple Camp in the Catskills.
And so Westy Martin, scout, became identified with a series of
adventures which I shall chronicle for you; adventures in the wildest
region of the Wild West. Such adventures as boys do not even read of in
these days of football and baseball and boarding schools and Saturday
hikes. It is odd, when you come to think of it, how things happen. That
Westy Martin should participate in adventures which in these days are
commonly thought too extravagant even for boy’s stories! Yet this thing
happened and it should be told. If the worst that can be said about it
is that it is a wild-west story I will gladly bear the responsibility of
telling it to my young friends.
To go back to where I started--they were having dinner at Temple Camp.
It was Labor Day and soon the camp would close for the season. Mr. John
Temple was its guest, as he usually was just before the season closed.
He was standing at the head of the main “eats board” and it was
something which he had just said in the course of his remarks that had
set Westy Martin aghast. There were three of these “eats boards” in a
vast open pavilion. The middle one was larger than the two that flanked
it, and it was at the head of this large, rustic table that the guest of
honor had been seated. At the head of Westy’s table sat Uncle Jeb in his
accustomed place. And at the head of the other sat Mr. Bronson, resident
trustee. Somewhat removed from these three enormous dining boards was
another rough table for scoutmasters. In that great scout community some
troops cooked their own meals near their cabins, but all were crowded in
the “eats” pavilion on this memorable day in honor of the distinguished
visitor.
“And now one word more,” said Mr. Temple. “It is both good news and bad
news. Those of you who come next summer will not see Uncle Jeb.” Murmurs
of surprise and apprehension greeted this announcement. “Uncle Jeb is
going home, not to stay, but to visit for a season his beloved Montana
and his old cabin, those scenes which I took him from to bring him here.
I think you will all agree--our trustees have already agreed--that Uncle
Jeb is entitled to visit his old home. He expects to return here next
fall or, at the latest, early the following spring. He has said that he
will do that, and as you know Uncle Jeb always hits the mark. He aims to
be back with you after next summer and I never heard anybody ever say
that he missed his aim.” This remark was greeted with laughter and
applause.
“There is one thing more,” said Mr. Temple. “It has been thought that
Uncle Jeb’s sojourn might afford a couple of our scouts an opportunity
to visit the woolly West; I mean the regular West with all its wool on;
the West that Uncle Jeb knows and which he once showed me. Uncle Jeb
himself seems to like that idea. So I suggested that he be asked to
choose one of the boys he knows best to go with him, and that this
fortunate boy be permitted to choose a comrade in the great adventure.
Uncle Jeb has named Westy Martin of the First Bridgeboro Troop of
Bridgeboro, New Jersey. Westy Martin,” Mr. Temple added, glancing about,
“wherever you are, I congratulate you.”
“There he is, third from the end, eating a waffle!” thundered the
uproarious voice of Pee-wee Harris, “and I’ll be the one to go with
him!”
So you see how it was. Uncle Jeb was seven years older than when he had
come to cast the glow of pioneer and western romance over Temple Camp.
But his eye was just as keen and his aim was just as true as in the days
when he had hunted grizzlies and struck terror to Indians in his beloved
Rockies. For those keen gray eyes had seen Westy Martin and picked him
out and knocked him clean off his feet, in a way of speaking....