WESTY MARTIN, SCOUT
“What makes yer say maybe I’m good at that sort of thing?” asked Luke
Meadows.
“I don’t know,” said Westy; “just sort of you seem that way. But anyway,
that hasn’t got anything to do with what _I_ have to do, has it? I got
that merit badge by passing six tests, if anybody should ask you. And
the last one of those tests is doing something that helps enforce the
game laws, and you can bet I’m going to keep on doing that too. You’ll
have to pay a fine, that’s what you’ll have to do, and it serves you
right.”
“Yer goin’ ter tell ’em in Chandler haow yer found my gun near the
spot?”
“Yes, I am and it serves you right,” said Westy. “You broke the law and
you made me shoot—— Do you think it was fun for me to do that?” he
flared up angrily.
“Waal, I reckon that’ll be enough fer ’em,” said Meadows. “It’ll cook my
goose. They’ve got the knife in me, as you easterners say.”
He sat down on the top step of his miserable home and seemed to
meditate. “Mis Ellis over yonder, I reckon she’ll look out fer the kid,”
he said. “’Tain’t been nuthin but carnsarned trouble ever sence we come
from Cody. If I could get one—_jes one_—good aim—_jes—one—good—shot_—at
the man that told me ter come east and work in that thar busted up
factory! The wife, she worked in it till she got the flu last winter and
died. And here we are, me ’n’ the kid—stranded like play-actin’ folk. I
can’t shoot them factory people nor that thar loon I run into in Cody,
so I get off in the woods ’n’ shoot. Yer can get ten dollars fer a
deerskin if yer kin get through without them game sharks catchin’ yer.
Yer a pretty likely sort o’ youngster, yer are. Never had that thar flu,
did yer?”
He said no more, only sat with his hands on his knees, occasionally
spitting. And for a few moments there was silence.
“Is Cody a town?” Westy asked.
“In Wyoming,” Meadows answered.
And again there was silence.
“That’s where Yellowstone Park is,” said Westy.
“’Baout thirty or forty mile,” said Meadows.
“That’s where I’m going to go,” said Westy.
Still again there was silence, and Westy felt uncomfortable. He felt
that he would like to know a little more about this man. And that was
strange seeing that he was going to Chandler to report him. It seemed
odd that Meadows did not threaten or try to dissuade him.
Then, suddenly the whole matter was roughly taken out of Westy’s hands.
Two men, with a leashed dog, came diagonally across the road. They had
evidently come out of the woods and their importance and purpose were
manifested by the group representing Barrett’s younger set which
followed them in great excitement, running to keep up and be prompt upon
the scene. There was no mistaking the air of vigorous assurance which
the men bore. But if this were not enough the badge upon the shirt of
one of them left no doubt of his official character. It was this one who
held the dog and the tired beast was panting audibly.
“Well, Luke, at it again, hey?” said the game warden, in that
counterfeit tone of sociability which police officials acquire.
[Illustration: “WELL, LUKE, AT IT AGAIN, HEY?” SAID THE GAME WARDEN.]
“H’lo, Terry,” drawled Luke, not angrily.
Surrounding the two men stood the gaping throng of curious boys. One or
two slatternly women gave color to the scene. Somewhat apart from the
group, a frightened, pitiful little figure, stood the child, Luke’s
daughter.
“You run over to Mis Ellis’,” Luke said to her. But the little girl did
not run over to Mrs. Ellis. She just stood apart, staring with a kind of
instinctive apprehension.
“Well, Luke,” said the game warden, “seems like you got some explainin’
to do this time. What was you doin’ in the woods? Killin’ another deer,
hey? When was you goin’ back to get him, Luke? Better get your hat,
Luke, and come along with us. Farmer Sands here seen you comin’ out
through the back fields——”
Then the little girl interrupted the game warden’s talk by rushing
pell-mell to her father. Luke put his big, brown hand about her and then
Westy noticed that his forearm was tattooed with the figure of a
buffalo.
“You run along over t’ Missie Ellis,” said Luke, “and she’ll show yer
them pictur’ books; you run like——”
Here he arose, slowly, deliberately, as if with the one action to
dismiss her and place himself in the hands of the law. Then, suddenly,
he lifted her up and kissed her. In all the long time that Westy was
destined to know Luke Meadows, this was the only occasion on which he
was ever to see him act on impulse.
But Westy Martin’s impulse was still quicker. Before the little child
was down upon the ground again he spoke, and his own voice sounded
strange to him as he saw the gaping loiterers all about, and the
astonished gaze of Terry, the game warden. In the boy’s trousers pocket
(which is the safe deposit vault pocket with boys) his sweaty palm
clutched the hundred and three dollars which he was taking home to save
for his trip to the Yellowstone He had kept one hand about it almost
ever since he left the farm, till his very hand smelled like the roll of
bills. But he clutched it even more tightly now. His voice was not as
sure as that unseen clutch.
“If you’re hunting for the fellow who killed the deer over in the
woods,” he said, “then here I am. I’m the one that killed the deer
and—and if—if you’re going to take—arrest—anybody you’d better arrest
me—because I’m the one that did it. I killed the deer—I admit it. So you
better arrest me.”
For a few seconds no one spoke. Then, and it seems odd when you come to
think of it, the dog pulled the leash clean out of Terry the game
warden’s hand, and began climbing up on Westy and licking his hand....