A DESPERATE PREDICAMENT
The peril from visible smoke was gone, but there was small comfort in
this. Warde and Ed had probably not succeeded in catching any fish and a
fire was therefore useless. Presently one or other of them would shout
or come to investigate. And what then? Westy’s life and the lives of his
comrades seemed to hang on a thread.
He roused himself out of his silent fear and suspense and realized that
if he were going to do anything he must act quickly. He was between two
frightful perils. If he were to act, _do something_ (he knew not exactly
what), it must be before his friends called, yet not till the men below
had fallen asleep. Haste meant disaster. Delay meant disaster. When
should he act? And what should he do? If he had only a little time—a
little time to think. What would the Indian boy do?
He listened fearfully, his heart in his throat, but there was no sound.
He was thankful that Ed Carlyle was not such a good scout—no, he didn’t
mean exactly that. He was glad that Ed was not exactly what you would
call a _real_—no, he didn’t mean that either. He was glad that Ed had
not been scout enough—had not been able to catch any fish. There are
times when not being such a marvelous super-scout is a very good thing.
Silence. Darkness. And the minutes passed by. He was jeopardizing his
life and his companions’ lives, and he knew it. If he waited till they
shouted all three of them would be—— He could not bear to think of it.
_Would be killed! Shot down!_ He, Westy Martin, and his two pals.
What would Shining Sun do?
Well, he, Westy Martin, would act at once. He would take a chance, be
brave, die game. He would, if need be, be killed in the Rockies, like so
many heroes before him. He would not be a parlor scout. He had dreamed
of being in peril in the Rockies. Well, he would not falter now. He
could not be a Shining Sun, but at least he could be worthy of himself.
He would not be wanting in courage, and he would use such resource as he
had.
He could not afford to wait for a shout from the cleft. He must descend
and trust to the men being asleep. He wished that Bloodhound Pete had
not made that remark about sleeping with one eye open. He wished that
that grim desperado had not unconsciously informed him that he could
track anything but an airplane. Then it occurred to him that he might
disclose his presence to these men, promise not to tell of their hiding
place, and throw himself on their mercy. Perhaps they—the tall one at
least—would understand that a scout’s honor——
Honor! A scout’s honor. What is that? Shining Sun was a scout, a _real_
scout. What would _he_ do? He would escape!
Westy listened but heard no sound from below. He hoped they were in the
little cave, but he doubted that; it was too small and stuffy. A place
to shoot from and hold pursuers at bay, that was all it was.
Silently, with an arm around an upright branch, he raised one foot and
unlaced a shoe, pausing once or twice to listen.
No sound from below or from afar. Only the myriad voices of the night in
the Rocky Mountains, an owl hooting in the distance, the sound of
branches crackling in the freshening breeze, the complaining call of
some unknown creature. . . .
He hung the shoe on a limb, releasing his hold on it easily, then
listened. No sound. Then he unlaced the other shoe and hung it on the
branch. Strange place for a Bridgeboro, New Jersey, boy to hang his
shoes. But Shining Sun wore no shoes, perish the thought! and neither
would Westy. He removed his scout jacket with some difficulty and hung
it on a limb, then he removed the contents of its pockets.
Westy Martin, scout of the first class, First Bridgeboro Troop, B. S.
A., Bridgeboro, New Jersey, had won eleven merit badges. Nine of these
were sewed on the sleeve of the khaki jacket in which he had traveled.
This had been his preference, since he was a modest boy, and was
disinclined to have them constantly displayed on the sleeve of his scout
shirt which he usually wore uncovered. But two of the medals had been
sewed on the sleeve of his shirt at some time when the jacket was not
handy. These were the pathfinder’s badge and the stalker’s badge. So it
happened that he carried these two treasured badges with him, when he
left his jacket hanging in the tree and started to descend upon his
hazardous adventure.
He had received these two honors with a thrill of pride. But throughout
this memorable day they had seemed to him like silly gewgaws, claptrap
of the Boy Scouts, signifying nothing. They were obscured by the
haunting spirit of Shining Sun.
For another moment he listened, his nerves tense, his heart thumping.
Then he began ever so cautiously to let himself down through the
darkness. A long, plaintive moan was faintly audible far in the mountain
fastnesses. . . .