THE HAUNTING SPIRIT OF SHINING SUN
This was the kind of man that Westy had to get away from. For he found
it unthinkable that he and his companions should be shot down and left
in that wild region, a prey to vultures. He tortured himself with the
appalling thought that perhaps the great bird he had just seen and heard
was one of those horrible creatures of uncanny instinct waiting
patiently among its aerial crags for the bodies of the slain; for him,
_Westy Martin_!
He had been able to realize, or rather to believe, that he was alone in
the Rockies. He had, in the few moments that he had been there, indulged
the thrilling reflection that he was actually in the storied region
where grizzlies prowled, and other savage beasts woke the echoes with
their calls, where eagles screamed in their dizzy and inaccessible
domains. He had thrilled to the thought that he was at least within the
limits of that once trackless wonderland of adventure where guides and
trappers, famed in his country’s romantic lore, had wrought miracles
renowned in the annals of scouting.
But Westy had not carried these reflections so far as to include the
reality which now confronted him. He had been a trapper for a few sweet
moments; he had penetrated the wilds after Indians—in his imagination,
which is always a safe place to hunt. And now suddenly here he was,
actually _trapped_ in the Rocky Mountains; the victim of cold-blooded
desperadoes. His life hung by a thread. His killing would be a trifling
incident in the aftermath of a typical western train robbery.
It was odd how ready his imagination had been to feast upon the perils
of the Wild West and how his blood turned cold at this true Western
adventure into which he was drawn. The day before, in his comfortable
seat in the speeding train, he would have said that such a thing as this
was just impossible. It would have been all right in the books; but as
involving him, Westy Martin, why, the very thought of it would have been
absurd.
Yet there he was. There he was, the thing was a reality, and he knew
that every chance was against him. He wondered what Shining Sun, the red
boy, that silent master of the forest, would have done in this
predicament. Then his thoughts wandered away from that exploited hero to
his own pleasant home in Bridgeboro and he pictured his father sitting
by the library table reading his evening paper. He pictured his father
telling his sister Doris for goodness’ sakes to stop playing the
Victrola till he finished reading. Then Doris strolling out onto the
porch and ejecting himself and Pee-wee Harris from the swinging seat and
sitting down herself to await the arrival of Charlie Easton. . . .
He looked anxiously in the direction of the cleft, fearful that at any
minute smoke would arise out of it or voices be audible there. The two
men were talking below, but he could not see them now nor hear what they
said. The whole thing seemed so strange, so incredible, that Westy could
not appreciate the extraordinary fact that the very property, the wallet
of his traveling acquaintance, Mr. Wilde, was in possession of these
outlaws.
One slight advantage (it was not even a forlorn hope) seemed to be
accruing to him. It was growing dark. This at least might prevent the
smoke from the distant fire being seen. As for the blaze, that could not
be seen from the foot of the tree because of the precipitous descent at
the base of the hill. From his vantage point in the tree Westy would
have been able to see the fire. But there was no blaze to be seen and he
wondered why, for surely, he thought, they must have been able to catch
some sort of fish.
Then in his distraction, he found a measure of relief in thinking of
matters not pertinent to his desperate situation. He thought how after
all Ed’s safety-pin and braided worsted had probably not made good. This
aroused again his morbid reflections about boy scouting. Shining Sun,
without so much as a safety-pin, would have been able to catch fish,
probably with his dexterous hands.
Westy was disgusted with himself and all his claptrap of scouting, when
he thought of this primitive little master of the woods and water.
Frightened as he was, he was reflective enough to be indignant at Mr.
Wilde for that skeptic’s irreverent use of the name of Stove Polish.
Shining Sun was all but sacred to serious Westy.