They had left Lamy and were climbing steadily upward. Westy was looking
out of the train window at the uninhabited miles of land, relieved by
the juniper, piñon and scrub dotting the landscape.
“Here’s hoping the city of Santa Fe is one of promise,” Mr. Wilde
remarked. “I haven’t really thought out any special line of attack as
yet.”
“Well, I think you can leave that part to me,” Westy said with a tone of
finality. “I’ve planned it all out.”
“I’m glad to hear it. What is your first step? That’s all you need tell
me.”
“To ask the clerk at the hotel where the Mitchells live and how to get
there.”
“That sounds good. No beating around the bush for you, eh? Go straight
for the mark--that’s good sense. I’ll give you time enough. We have to
beat it in a week or so. You ought to find out what’s what in that space
of time, eh?”
“Sure. Easy!”
They were in the station and could hear the enthusiastic cries of the
hackmen and busmen and taxi drivers. Certainly a conglomeration, Westy
thought as they stepped into a Ford taxi and were whisked to their
hotel.
“This bird must have had his training on Forty-second Street,” Billy
said, as the taxi driver perilously piloted his car through a street so
narrow that two people could have shaken hands across the street without
leaving the sidewalk.
At the hotel they all registered before Westy, and when it came his turn
he looked up at the clerk, an amiable-looking chap, and smiled broadly.
No one ever could resist the warmth of Westy’s smile and this clerk was
certainly more than susceptible. He smiled back.
“Came quite a distance to Santa Fe?” he said cordially. “Staying long?”
“No, only a week,” Westy answered.
“Well, you can see a lot in that time,” he said, “if you’re observing.”
“Oh, I’m observant, all right,” Westy remarked casually. “I’m a Boy
Scout!”
“Oh, are you?” He seemed interested.
“Sure. We always like to meet scouts when we go to other cities. Do you
happen to know any?”
Mr. Wilde, seeing that Westy was started on the right track, motioned
Billy and Rip to go on up with him to their rooms.
“No, I don’t know any,” the clerk said, leaning over the counter, “but I
know of them. There’s a mighty rich family here that’s always donating
to them. The son is in it, I think. See it in the papers often. They’re
multi-millionaires and live near the outskirts of the city. Snobs,
though, I hear!”
“Huh,” Westy said. “Know their name?”
“Mitchell.”
* * * * *
Westy entered the room, a broad grin on his face. “I see you’ve hit it!”
Mr. Wilde said.
“Harder than that,” he said and got into his scout suit.
“What,” said Rip, “so quick?”
“Sure. A scout has got to get on the job while the getting is good.”
“Atta boy!” Billy remarked.
When he was all ready and went to the door he turned back as Mr. Wilde
spoke.
“We’re going to take some shots of the Plaza here, Westy! It used to be
the western terminus of the Old Trail. If you don’t find us here when
you get back take a stroll on down.”
A few minutes later Westy was hurrying through quiet, narrow, unpaved
streets, lined on each side with one-story adobes.
Some Santa Feans strolling leisurely along in the mid-afternoon sun
stopped to turn and look after Westy’s slim figure, so gorgeously
arrayed in complete scout attire.
Westy was unconscious of any stares, however. He walked on indifferent
to the picturesque Tesuque Indian with his black hair bound with its
scarlet bandeau and brilliantly colored blanket.
The cries of the newspaper boys with their English and Spanish papers he
left behind as he entered the residential district, where one could see
at first glance that the adobes here were much larger and more
pretentious.
Inquiring the way of a very Spanish-looking gentleman, Westy felt quite
grown up as that honorable Don greeted him with a “Buenos dias, señor!”
He walked away after he had been given the information, but had only
gone a few feet when the Don called him back. He nodded ahead in the
direction of a boy about Westy’s age who was standing in conversation
with an older boy.
“That is the young Señor Mitchell just ahead,” the man told him.