IN THE DARKNESS
But there was no movement of the sleeper.
Westy clutched the warm, dark thing and retreated, or rather shrank
back. He paused, watching, listening, and moved backward a few feet. Was
it safe to stand? He could do this silently, but would not the radical
change of posture arouse the sleeper? Might not it stir the air enough
to—No—yes, he would.
He drew himself to his feet, silent, trembling. Then he backed away a
few paces more, clutching the thing on which his groping hand had
descended. He knew what it was now. It was the mackinaw jacket of
Bloodhound Pete which had been folded up for use as a pillow. In his
sleep the outlaw’s head must have rolled off it and that but a minute or
two prior to Westy’s approach for, as we know, the spot on which the
cautious hand of the scout had descended was still warm.
Now Westy’s heart beat frantically, but with a new suspense, with
imminent triumph and elation. Hurriedly he put his hands into the
pockets of the jacket and presently, wonder of wonders, stood under the
black sky, alone in the Rockies, with the big wallet of Mr. Wilde, the
Philistine, gripped in his soil-covered hands. And still he heard the
distant wailing. It seemed to him that that savage voice in the night
ought to change or cease, in view of his triumph; that the Rocky
Mountains should take notice of this thing that he had done. He seemed
to be in Aladdin’s Cave or on the brink of Captain Kidd’s treasure hole,
or in a dream.
Westy felt of the big wallet, smelled of it; it was real, it was
leather. He blinked his eyes and knew he was awake. Silently, oh, with
such joyous caution, he stole a few paces farther from the tree. Suppose
Warde or Ed should call now. _Warde!_ _Ed!_ It seemed as if he had not
seen them for years.
Again he clutched the wallet to make sure it was substantial. It was
very substantial; Mr. Wilde did not deal in the ethereal. Well, then
(Westy gulped with nervous elation as he tried to formulate the fact in
orderly fashion in his mind) he, Westy Martin, scout of Bridgeboro, New
Jersey, had in the twentieth century when there are autos and electric
lights and radios and things—he, Westy Martin, had outwitted a
desperado, a wild western train robber in the Rocky Mountains and
recovered a quantity of booty—_he, Westy Martin!_
Suppose, just suppose his friends should call to him now! This thought
aroused him to the realization that he was not yet out of danger, that
every second’s delay jeopardized his triumph. He took a few long strides
with utmost caution as before, then paused again, listening. Everything
seemed to be quiet and he gave way to a little, silent, incredulous
laugh, the whole affair seemed so unreal, so at odds with his simple
young life. He had a queer feeling that this was not his own experience.
His first relaxation after what he had done was this silent, mirthless
laugh. Then he gathered himself together, assured himself of his
direction and started running with all his might and main.
A few moments should have brought him to the cleft, but he ran for five
minutes as fast as he could, yet did not reach it. He knew he was going
down hill and he was sure he was running in the direction in which the
lowest branch of the tree pointed. He remembered noticing that branch in
the daylight and now in his flight he had made assurance doubly sure by
noticing where it pointed.
Yet he did not reach the cleft. He ran a little farther, then paused,
bewildered, anxious. Here was a fine state of things! _He was lost._ His
friends would shout, would undoubtedly ascend the hill in search of him.
They would either be heard or would stumble onto that desperate pair of
robbers. What was he to do now? Where was he? Wherever he looked there
was only darkness. Standing still he could not even be sure about the
slope. He ran a little to make sure of this. Yes, he was running _down_;
he could tell by the way each foot struck the ground. He ran a little
further, then paused irresolute.
Silence, darkness; darkness impenetrable. Westy tried to believe that he
could see the outline of a mountain he had noticed in the daylight. He
remembered where this was in relation to the cleft. It seemed like
blackness hovering in blackness; there was no real outline, it was all
elusive. He became greatly agitated. To be baffled like this in the very
fullness of his achievement galled him to distraction.
He was seized with a rash impulse to scream and let happen what would.
He was within hearing of four people, yet he could not shout. He
wondered what would happen if he did shout, or if his comrades shouted.
If one of them shouted _just once_, he might run with all his might and
main to them and prevent a second shout. But even one shout would be
perilous business. He was panic-stricken.
How easily Shining Sun would have sped to his destination through
wilderness and darkness! With what unerring instinct that hero of the
wilds would have extricated himself from this predicament. “Shining Sun
with a coat full of money and things.” Westy laughed nervously. Shining
Sun and money seemed not to go together at all. He was of the race that
sold vast tracts of country for glass beads and trinkets.
It was only in a nervous way, caused by his perplexity and panic, that
Westy thought then of the Indian boy who had haunted him as much as Mr.
Wilde had. Such thoughts jump in and out of the troubled and preoccupied
mind like spirits.
He was now on the verge of utter panic. He ran a few paces, paused, then
ran a few paces in another direction. In this way he became the more
confused. He had no more idea of his direction than he would have had at
midnight on the trackless ocean. He had escaped from the outlaws. But
the Rocky Mountains had caught him. The one thing to deliver him out of
this penetrable blackness was his voice, and that would only betray him
to criminals as black as the night itself. He stood stock still, not
knowing what to do, cold with desperation, his morale gone; a pitiful
spectacle.
The Rocky Mountains had him by the throat.