THE WAY OF THE SCOUT
Much of Mr. Wilde’s bantering comment on the train had related to these
same good turns. He had referred to the heroic act of mowing a
neighbor’s lawn or of pursuing some gentleman’s recreant hat in a
wind-storm. Well, here was the sort of good turn that would open his
eyes. _To return him his wallet._
Westy did not believe that he could do this. He seemed, by a miracle of
good luck, to have attained a point of safety. Flight was possible now,
and he had an idea which he thought would baffle pursuit. He had thought
cautiously to take three or four long strides then run as fast as he
could and rejoin his friends before one or other of them shouted to him.
Now the thought of a higher obligation deterred him, and he paused,
gazing wistfully, yet fearfully, through the darkness in the direction
where he had thought safety and permanent escape awaited him. Then he
glanced fearfully back at the tall black tree trunk, and considered that
little distance he had achieved by his skill and deathlike silence.
That little distance represented more effort, certainly more strain,
than would have been required to walk half a dozen miles. It seemed like
a little bank account, a treasury of hard-earned safety. And now he was
to squander this in a foolhardy attempt. He almost wished that a shout
from his friends would take the matter out of his hands and give him an
excuse for flight. Then he was ashamed of that thought.
With hesitating, reluctant step he drew nearer to the tree, cautiously,
silently, pausing with each step to listen. He placed his hand over his
heart as if to muffle its beating; it seemed as if the whole country
could hear the thumping in his breast. In that little area surrounding
the tree, Westy Martin was living a whole life. So intense was his
concentration, so taut his nerves, that there seemed nothing, no
interests, no world, outside this little sphere of action, where every
move was fraught with ghastly peril. He placed each foot upon the ground
and waited, as a chess player considers and waits before releasing his
hold of the chessman.
Going from the tree each step had meant fresh assurance of safety. Going
toward it each move meant greater peril. He could not rid his mind of
the curiosity about whether he would _know it_ if he were suddenly shot
dead. Would he hear a sound first—a click, a stir? Was some one watching
and listening even now, with pistol upraised and ready? _He, Westy
Martin!_ It seemed incredible, unthinkable.
Then he made an important decision. What trifles were such things to
seem important, to stand between him and death. _Death!_ He lowered
himself to his hands and knees.
That would mean four points of contact with the ground instead of two,
doubling the danger of sound. But it would lower his height. It was the
carriage of the animals, and Westy had read that it is always best to
imitate the animals when one’s purpose is similar to that of an animal.
He remembered that a cat in stealing up on a bird holds its body as
close to the ground as possible.
Then, in the tenseness of his fear, an irrelevant thought came to him.
It was odd how irrelevant thoughts relating to the outer world came to
him in this desperate situation. Perhaps his thought about the cat and
the bird suggested it. He remembered reading how the famous Wright
Brothers, pioneers in aviation, had learned to make their first airplane
by studying the flight of birds. Then he thought how Bloodhound Pete had
declared that he could track anything but an airplane. Westy smiled; a
ghastly, terror-haunted smile, but he smiled. He was thinking of his
scheme for eluding pursuit if he should ever be so fortunate as to be in
flight.
He crept around the tree trunk and peered into the dark opening of the
tiny cave.