THE CUT TRAIL
Westy found the water refreshing to his bare, scratched feet. And he was
happy now and hopeful. He was puzzled about not seeing a light, but he
would not worry about that. He was proud of what he had done; it had a
flavor of real scouting about it—if it worked. He had deliberately given
a clew to his direction, and for the time being this constituted a
peril. But he could retrace his steps without its being known and escape
south while his pursuers were proceeding north. Eluding pursuit was just
a question of getting away quickly now.
His little subterfuge acted like a tonic to his exhausted nerves and
weary body. He was having some fun. His success so far and the need of
haste were exhilarating. He hurried along through the cool, murmuring,
enveloping water, feeling indeed that this little Rocky Mountain brook
was his friend. There were no telltale footprints now for the grim,
invincible outlaw to follow; _he had cut his trail_. He liked that
expression _cut his trail_. It was every bit as good as the coyote
stunt. . . .
Soon the rocks began enclosing him, and the brook flowed swiftly and
noisily. He could feel the swish of the oncoming water against his
ankles. In a few moments he was bucking a tiny waterfall, and it was
hard for him to lift himself up over the mossy, slippery rocks. But he
kept in the stream; nothing could have tempted him out of its
protection.
[Illustration: IN A FEW MINUTES HE WAS BUCKING A TINY WATERFALL.]
He was climbing up where he and his two companions had climbed late that
afternoon, except that he was in the water. He knew the spot well
enough, even in the dark. It seemed an age since he had seen his
friends. His return was almost like going home to Bridgeboro. If he
could only know they were there! Suppose they had gone searching for him
on the hill!
At this appalling thought he paused and listened, fearful of hearing a
pistol shot in the darkness. But all he could hear was the rippling
water merrily covering his tracks. What he did not realize was that he
was confusing actual time with the strain he had been under. He had
lived a whole lifetime in less than an hour, and he seemed to have been
absent from his comrades for days.
Soon the narrow way he had been climbing spread into the cleft, with the
slope on one side, the precipitous wall on the other, and the little
area of shore on either side of the stream. The place looked different
in the darkness, but he knew it.
“Warde—Ed—are you here?” he scarce more than whispered.
There was no answer.
“Where are you, anyway?” Westy asked, emboldened by his fright to speak
louder.
There was no answer.
He knew not what to do now; he dared not leave the water to investigate
and he could see little in the dense darkness. He peered about trying to
penetrate the night with his eyes. Thus he was able to distinguish
something, he knew not what, on the shore not far distant. He spoke
again in a hoarse whisper and listened. Only the cheery little brook
answered him. He thought the something, whatever it was, had not been
there before.
Well, if it was a rock he would soon know. He picked a pebble out of the
brook and threw it at the uncertain, intangible mass. It made no sound.
He picked up a larger one and threw it and was rewarded by an
unpretentious and complaining grunt.
Thus, encouraged and greatly relieved, he selected his third missile
with a view to immediate and emphatic results.
“Wasmatanyway,” he heard in the darkness, accompanied by an unmistakable
stirring.
Westy’s first impulse was to be angry but he realized at once that the
slumber of his friends had probably saved all their lives. He realized
too, as he had not realized when he left them, how dog-tired they all
had been.
“Who’s—wass—there?” stammered Warde, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “I
bes a grizzly, wake up, Ed, you ole——”
“Shut up,” said Westy. “Wake up and stand up quick and do what I tell
you. Stand up and don’t move. We’re in danger! _Stand up and don’t move,
do you hear?_ Shake Ed and make him stand up—and stand just where you
are. Hear?”
Fortunately Warde was in that compliant mood induced by half sleep. He
shook Ed and soon both of them were on their feet.
“Now do what I tell you, _quick_,” said Westy. “For goodness’ sake grab
hold of Ed so he don’t topple over again. Do you hear me—do you
understand? Get awake and do—stand where you are, can’t you—now listen,
both of you. Do you want to see Yellowstone Park or do you want to be
trailed and shot?”
“What’s matter with you?” Warde asked mildly, in amiable drowsiness.
“J’get any frankfurters?” asked Ed, emerging into consciousness. “I
remind myself (yawn) of the (yawn) of the sleeping sickness, I’m so
dopey. You back, Westy, old boy? Glasseeyer.”
“I’d be mad at you only maybe you saved my life,” said Westy. “I suppose
I have to be grateful.”
“You’re entirely welcome,” yawned Ed. “’N’ many of ’em—_absoloootly_.”