ON THE WAY
To be sure, a hike of thirty miles is no exploit, not in the field of
scouting, certainly. If the road went straight to the park, then the
boys could hardly hope to face that doubter, Mr. Wilde, with any
consciousness of glory.
On the time-table map which Westy had left in the train, the way from
Livingston to Gardiner seemed very simple. A little branch of the
Northern Pacific Railroad connected the two places with a straight line.
And a road seemed to parallel this.
But maps are very seductive things. You have only to follow a road with
your lead pencil to reach your destination. Nature’s obstacles are not
always set forth upon your map. Lines parallel on a map are often not
within sight of each other on the rugged face of Nature. A little, round
dot, a village, is seen close to a road. But when you explore the road
the village is found to nestle coyly a mile or two back.
So if what the boys had undertaken was not so very _big_, at least it
held out the prospect of being not so very little. But big or little,
something _big_ did happen among those lonely mountains that very day,
an exploit of the first order. It was a bizarre adventure not uncommon
in the Far West and it had an important bearing on the visit of these
three scouts to the Yellowstone Park. And Westy Martin, hiking along
that quiet, winding, western road, dissatisfied with himself because of
what a chance acquaintance had said to him, was face to face with the
biggest opportunity in all his young scout life. He did not know it, but
he was walking headlong into it.
He had been proud when he had won the stalking badge. He was soon to
know that this badge meant something and that it was no toy or gewgaw.
“I suppose it’s pretty wild on Pelican Cone,” said Warde, as they hiked
along.
They were all cheerful for they were sure of their way for the present
and were not disposed to borrow trouble. It was a pleasant summer
morning, the sun shone bright on the rock-ribbed mountains, a fresh,
invigorating breeze blew in their faces, birds sang in the neighboring
trees, all Nature seemed kindly disposed toward their little adventure.
As the railroad line left the roadside and curved away into a mountain
pass, they felt a momentary lonesomeness, the trusty rails had guided
them so far on the long journey. It was like saying good-by to a friend,
a friend who knew the way. For a minute they conferred again on whether
they should “count the ties,” but they decided in favor of the road. So
they went upon their adventure along the road, just as the great,
thundering, invincible train had gone upon its adventure along the
shining tracks.
“Yellowstone Park is just about like this,” said Westy; “I mean the wild
parts. Of course there are things to see there like geysers and all
that, but I mean the wild parts; it’s wild just like this. I suppose
there are trails,” he added with a note of wistfulness in his voice. “I
suppose they know just where to go if they want to get a look at
grizzlies. I’d be willing to give up the other things, you bet, if I
could go on a trip like that. I was going to ask Mr. Wilde, only I knew
he’d just guy me about it.”
“We can see the film when it comes out anyway,” said Ed, always cheerful
and optimistic. “We can go up on Mount what-do-you-call it, Pelican——”
“Pelican Cone,” said Westy. Already that hallowed mountain was familiar
to him in imagination and dear to his heart. “Can’t you remember
_Cone_?”
“I can remember it by ice cream cone,” said Ed. “What I was going to say
was if that film comes to Bridgeboro we can go up on that cone for
thirty cents and the war tax. What more do we want?”
“Sugar-coated adventures,” said Warde.
“Sugar-coated is right,” said Westy disgustedly.
“Now you’ve got me thinking about candy,” said Ed. “I hope we can buy
some in the Park.”
“Do you suppose they have merry-go-rounds there?” Warde asked.
“Gee whiz, I hope so,” said Ed. “I’m just crazy for a sight of wild
animals. Imitation ones would be better than nothing, hey, Westy?”
“Imitation scouts are better than no kind,” said Warde. “We’re pretty
good imitations.”
“I wouldn’t admit it if I were you,” said Westy with the least
suggestion of a sneer.
“A scout that gives imitations is an imitation scout,” said Ed. “Dutch
Cleanser is an imitation scout; he imitates animals, Mr. Wilde West said
so. That proves everybody’s wrong. What’s the use of quarreling? None
whatever. Correct the first time. You can be a scout without knowing it,
that’s what I am.”
“Nobody ever told you you were Daniel Boone, did they?” Westy sulked.
“They don’t have to tell me, I know it already,” said the buoyant Ed.
“Come on, cheer up, Westy, old boy,” said Warde. “We came out here to
see Yellowstone Park and now you’re grouching because a funny little man
with a cigar as big as he is that we met on the train says we’re just
playing a little game, sort of. What’s the matter with the little game?
We always had plenty of fun at it, didn’t we? Are you going to spoil the
party because a little movie man wouldn’t take us up in the forest with
him? Gee whiz, I wouldn’t call that being grateful to the Rotary Club
that wished this good time on us. I wouldn’t call that so very big; I’d
call it kind of small.”
Westy gave him a quick, indignant glance. It was a dangerous moment. It
was the ever-friendly, exuberant Ed who averted angry words and perhaps
prevented a quarrel. “If there’s anything big anywhere around and it
wants to wait till I get to it, I’ll do it. I won’t be bullied. I’m not
going to run after it, it will have to wait for me. I’m just as big as
_it_ is—even more so. It will have to wait.”
They all laughed.