If it was natural that Uncle Jeb should have selected Westy to accompany
him to Montana, it seemed quite as natural that Westy should select
Artie to be his companion on the big adventure. At camp it was taken for
granted that he would do this, not only because Artie was in Westy’s
troop and the two were pals, but because Artie was often with Uncle Jeb,
and was serviceable to him in many ways. He was a frequent if not a
steady helper.
Since work on the new trail had progressed to the opposite side of the
lake from camp, the toilers saw much of him. They would hear the steady
clink of oarlocks as the boat approached the shore and then Artie’s
voice calling from below, “Are you hungry up there? Any big rocks that
you can’t handle? If so, say the word; now’s your chance.” Then he would
come scrambling up, all out of breath, to where the work was going on.
They enjoyed his visits. Everybody liked Artie.
On this occasion he tied the boat (it was impossible to draw it up
because the shore was so precipitous) and started scrambling up with the
pail of soup to where the trail was being cut along the lower reaches of
the mountain. A narrow and irregular shelf of land was being utilized to
carry the trail through this precipitous area.
“How’s she coming?” Artie asked. “Here’s some soup; I nearly spilled it.
There’s a boxful of muffins down in the boat--hot ones.”
“I’ll go down and get them,” Westy said; “you sit down and rest. What
you been doing all morning? I thought we’d see you sooner.”
“Oh, swimming and playing basketball and reading,” said Artie. “Boy, but
you’re getting along, hey?”
“I’ll say so,” said Westy. “What were you reading?”
“Oh, a book.”
Westy laughed. “That’s a wise crack. What kind of a book?”
“‘Winning of the West,’ by Roosevelt,” said Artie, with a slight
suggestion of embarrassment. “It’s in the camp library. I just happened
to pick one of the volumes up. That’s so, when you write to me from the
Rockies, I’ll know what you’re writing about.”
“Maybe I won’t write you,” said Westy rather mysteriously.
Uncle Jeb winked at Artie and all three laughed; Artie’s laughter had
that faint suggestion of embarrassment in it that had been discernible
when he mentioned the subject of the book he had been reading. The fact
is that Westy had every intention of asking Artie to share his great
adventure with him, but he had said nothing about this. That was because
the shadow of his father lay across the whole affair. He was a careful,
thoughtful boy and he preferred not to say anything to his friend which
he might have to unsay later. But just the same there was a tacit
understanding (and Artie was a party to it) that these three would be
the ones to visit the Far West. Perhaps Artie was a bit puzzled that
Westy had not put his invitation into words. But he was just as sure of
going as ever he had been sure of anything in his life.
To change the subject he laughed and said, “All right, go ahead down to
the boat and get the muffins and look out you don’t drop them coming up;
they’ll all roll back down into the lake if you do.... All right to sit
down on this rock?” he asked Uncle Jeb as Westy departed.
Uncle Jeb sat down on a log and opened the dinner pail which he usually
carried with him.
“Some trail, hey?” said Artie, glancing about.
“Good ’n’ plain so even boy scouts can foller it,” said Uncle Jeb.
“Westy wants street lamps onto it, but I says no, you youngsters can
shout across ter camp if yer get lost.”
“Oh, sure,” said Artie, taking the gibe in good part; “but maybe a
sidewalk would be good, hey? You like bean soup, Uncle Jeb?”
“I reckon,” said the old scout.
Artie had leaned forward to pour some of the soup into the cover of
Uncle Jeb’s pail when he felt a stirring of the rock on which he was
seated. It was hardly more than a tremor, but it was followed almost
immediately by a more pronounced jarring. He thought and acted quickly.
Jumping up he hauled a small log around and got it under the rock, thus
steadying it in its precarious position on the hillside. Uncle Jeb
hauled the log on which he had seated himself over to the rock to
reënforce the prop that Artie had jammed under it. The heavy rock
stirred, then seemed to settle against this combined support and for a
few seconds did not move.
“Guess she’s all right,” said Artie. “I prefer another seat though.”
He was looking about for a place to sit down when he happened to glance
down to the lake. To his surprise Westy was sitting in the boat his body
turning and wriggling; he seemed to be intent upon some physical effort.
“Are you eating all the muffins?” Artie called.
“No, but my foot’s caught under this plaguy stern seat,” Westy called;
“it’s like a blamed old woodchuck trap.”
“Turn it sideways,” Artie laughed.
“I did, also endways and upside down,” Westy answered. “It’s a puzzle.
I’ll manage it.”
As Artie moved his position for the better enjoyment of Westy’s
predicament he saw that the rock which he and Uncle Jeb had wedged up
was directly above the rowboat. He shuddered at this thought, but the
rock seemed secure so he indulged himself in the pleasure of a few
humorous taunts and bits of mirthful advice to the writhing captive.
Then, suddenly, there was a crash, one of the logs went rolling down the
hillside while the rock, still poised, trembled visibly. Then it moved
ominously and some earth and small stones went out from beneath it,
rolling away. It seemed to Artie that if he touched it or even breathed
upon it, it would go crashing down to the lake. He held his breath,
every nerve on edge....