THE POLISH OF SHINING SUN
Westy told his story simply, modestly, while a swelling crowd clustered
about. It seemed that he and his comrades had not been missed from the
train during the short run after they had been left behind. Doubtless
the excitement caused by the train robbery had sufficiently extinguished
any curiosity among their chance acquaintance en route. Indeed, Mr.
Wilde very frankly observed, “You kids were the least of my troubles; I
was thinking of my wallet. I was trying to write out some descriptive
stuff about wild animals and hoping you wouldn’t come back again when
the train stopped and a woman screamed and the next thing I knew I was
handing my writing tablet to Bill Hart and telling another woman to shut
up. Never gave you kids another thought.”
Westy and his comrades were greatly relieved to learn that no word of
their non-appearance had been wired to Bridgeboro. It is true that they
had only just escaped with their little adventure and saved themselves
from prosaic complications, for the gentleman who was to have received
them at Gardiner had been in communication with Livingston and had
engineered the dispatch of an auto over the road to pick them up. But
fate was kind to them and somehow they had not encountered the rescue
car, which (to make matters worse) was a Ford sedan.
So it befell that the three award boys, in despite of all modern
claptrap, crossed the boundary of Yellowstone National Park as some
scout or trapper of old might have crossed it, having safely eluded two
western desperadoes and a Ford sedan. But it was a narrow escape.
“Could we see Shining Sun? Is he here?” Westy asked almost in a reverend
whisper.
“All is over between Stove Polish and myself,” said Mr. Wilde. “Never
mention his name again. That canny, little red-face wanted five hundred
dollars down before leaving this hotel, and his manager, Pink Vulture or
Black Hawk or whatever he calls himself, insists on the kid being
featured in all the exploitation stuff. _N-o-t-h-i-n-g_ doing, I told
him! That ain’t the way we put over Educational Films. _Lo, the poor
Indian_—bunk. Why, Stove Polish is starting his own outfit in Hollywood
next year. What d’yer know about that? Don’t talk to me about that
Cheyenne! It’s good he wasn’t around when the Yankees bought Cape Cod
for a couple of spark plugs or something or other.”
Westy gasped.
“As a pathfinder that kid is O.K.,” said Mr. Wilde. “He can track a
dollar to its silent lair. _N-o-t-h-i-n-g_ doing, I told him! If you
want to meet him, there he is in the next room or somewheres or other.
Keep your hands on your watches.”
Dumbfounded at this hearty tirade, the three boys, followed by an
admiring throng of other boys, explored the public places of the big
hotel. They penetrated the dining room and glanced about curiously. They
peered into the remotest fastnesses opening from corridors and stole
into all the carpeted nooks and crannies where they thought a Cheyenne
Indian might lurk. Mr. Wilde had declined to hit the trail with them.
“I’ll show him to you,” said an accommodating youngster who clung to
Westy; “I know him; I’ll find him for you. Mr. Creston was bawling him
out; oh, boy, you ought to have heard him.”
So it was that Westy’s cup of joy was full and he found himself hunting
Indians like the gallant Custer or like Buffalo Billy. And, at last,
they brought poor Westy’s hero to bay in one of the parlors. He sat in a
rocker, talking with his manager, Mr. Hawk, Black Hawk of the
Rockies—and Hollywood.
Poor Westy, he could only gaze speechless. More atrocious than all the
atrocities committed by the movies was Shining Sun, the Indian boy. He
was ravishing in his sartorial splendor, wearing a red-ribboned straw
hat and spats! _And he carried a cane_—young boy though he was. Oh,
shades of Pontiac and Sitting Bull! He carried a cane! Wesley Barryized,
Jackie Cooganized, movieized, he sat there talking to Mr. Hawk about the
disagreement they had had with _Educational Films_. And if old Massasoit
did not turn in his grave it must have been because he was too shocked
or grieved to stir!
Westy gazed at this sophisticated youngster in chilled disillusionment.
Shining Sun had indeed been shining while he, the parlor woodsman, the
back-yard scout, had been getting away from the most notorious bandit
west of the Mississippi. If Westy had beheld Bloodhound Pete in a dress
suit and stove-pipe hat he could hardly have received a greater shock.
That the Indian boy had real skill and woods lore did not save him in
the eyes of this sturdy little hero of the Silver Fox Patrol, who had
found money the only false note in his memorable adventure.
“Come on away,” Warde whispered, “he’s talking business. Shh! Don’t you
know he’s the Cheyenne Valentino?”
“He ought to be stabbed to the heart with my safety-pin,” said Ed. “If I
ever meet him in a lonely spot on Broadway some dark night, I’ll lasso
him with worsted from my sweater. Come on, let’s get away from here. I’m
sorry for you, West, you old tramp; I’m for the Boy Scouts of America.
I’d rather live on fish and wear honest rags.”
“_You tell ’em_,” said Warde, earnestly.
He put his arm over his patrol mate’s shoulder as if to claim a kinship
of which even Ed could not boast. But it made no difference to Ed, for a
scout is a brother to every other scout throughout the whole length and
breadth of the land. Westy seemed conscious of this as he rapped Ed on
the shoulder while the three strolled away together. “Well, are you
cured?” Warde asked.
“Yes, I’m cured,” said Westy.
“You admit you’re a scout?” queried Ed.
“I admit _you’re_ one,” Westy said.
“Thanks for those kind words.”
“You always smile and look pleasant and that’s the main thing,” said
Westy.
“Wrong the first time,” said Ed. “The main thing is not to accept
anything for a service; law five, also law nine; handbook page
thirty-four.”
“You said it,” enthused Warde. “The trouble with——”
“Tarnished Sun,” interrupted Ed.
“The trouble with him,” said Warde, “he’s been commercialized.”
“Repeat that word,” said Ed.
“Commercialized,” said Warde.
“Go to the head of the class and take a slap on the wrist,” said Ed.
“It means kind of spoiled by money and being famous and all that,” said
Warde.
“I’ll take your word for it,” said Ed. “It’s a mighty nice word, I’ll
say that.”
“There are people trying to commercialize boy scouts, too,” said Warde.
“Not if we see ’em first,” said Westy.
“If we get killed, we’ll get killed for love,” said Ed. “We won’t take
any money for it—not even a tip.”
“Let’s all make a solemn vow that we won’t carry canes,” said Warde.
“I’m with you,” said Ed. “Or wear spats.”
“Right,” said Warde.
“I’ve got to get some clothes somewhere,” said Westy.
“I think there’s a clothing store at the bottom of the canyon,” Warde
observed.
“First I’d like to go to the Devil’s Kitchen and get something to eat,”
said Ed.
“Don’t you want to see the petrified forest?” Westy asked.
“Not unless I can eat it,” said Ed. “Just at present I don’t want to see
anything I can’t eat—except fish. If anybody mentions fish to me, I’ll
stab him with my safety-pin. I wouldn’t even listen to a fish story.”
“I bet Mr. Creston and Mr. Wilde had an awful scrap with Tarnished Sun,”
said Warde.
“I bet Shining Sun hit him with his cane,” said Ed. “If he did, I hope
Mr. Wilde just puffed cigar smoke in his face; it would serve him
right.”
“Do you smell roast beef?” said Warde.
“_Boy_, that smells good,” said Westy.
“I think we’re on the right trail,” said Ed.