THE STRANGER
Emigrant. The last stop on the long, long journey from New York. The
last stop till the thundering train would reach the Gardiner entrance of
the Yellowstone National Park. They were within thirty miles of that
wonderland.
Westy was glad that there was one more station to be reached before his
dream should be a reality. His nerves were so much on edge that the one,
poor, little station of Emigrant would act as a sort of valve to relieve
him of the tension that he felt. He was glad that they weren’t going to
reach their destination quite yet—he was too excited. Yes, he was glad
there was just one more station. Then, _then_——
As for the traveling man, he seemed to be about as excited and
anticipatory as if he were strolling across the street to buy another
cigar.
The train thundered along through the rugged Montana country, its
screeching whistle now and again echoing from the towering mountains.
On, on, on it rushed with a kind of disdainful preoccupation, going
straight about its business, circling the frowning heights, crossing
torrents, unhindered, invincible. Did anybody live or even venture in
those wild mountains, Westy wondered. Were there trails there? Could it
be that grizzly bears heard in their fastnesses the shriek of that steel
monster that was rushing straight to its end?
Only this roaring, swerving, thundering, rushing train stood between
Westy Martin and those uninhabited wilds. No smudge signal would save
him there. No approved device for helping the lost pilgrim in distress
would serve him in that endless, rugged wilderness. The leather seat of
the smoking car seemed good to him.
“Who’s going to look after you kids?” their traveling acquaintance
asked.
The boys, particularly Warde, did not like to hear it put that way but
he answered, “The auto is going to meet us at Gardiner; there’s a scout
official who’s going to be there and they’ll call our names out. They’re
going to take us to the hotel at Mammoth Hot Springs. After that we go
on a kind of a tour. It’s all planned out for us.”
“Well, I’ll be with you as far as the Springs,” said the stranger, “so
if you don’t make connections all right I’ll get things fixed up for
you. How the dickens did you three kids happen to beat it out here
anyway?”
“If we told you, you’d only laugh,” said Ed Carlisle. “We did some
stunts, that’s how. We——”
“Don’t you tell him unless he tells us what _he’s_ doing out here,”
Warde said.
“All right, that’s a go,” laughed the stranger.
“I bet you’re just selling things to tourists,” said Westy. “I bet
you’re bringing a lot of souvenirs of Yellowstone Park from New York to
sell out here.”
“Yes, and how about you?” the stranger asked.
“We’re sent by the Rotary Club,” said Warde, “because we did three
things to win the award.” The traveling man cocked his head sideways and
listened in a humorously skeptical way which was very annoying. “You
found somebody who was lost in the woods?” he queried.
“No, we didn’t find somebody who was lost in the woods,” Warde said
somewhat testily.
“No? Well then they sent you because you’re the only three boy scouts
that haven’t done that. I congratulate you, here’s my hand.”
“This fellow, Westy Martin,” said Warde, “killed a deer that somebody
else had shot because he wanted to put it out of its suffering and he
let people think he was the one that shot it; he did that so they
wouldn’t punish the other person. But it was found out so they gave him
the good turn award. This other fellow put out a forest fire and I took
a long hike and got a job for somebody. So now what are you doing out
here? You didn’t even tell us your name.”
“Well, that’s very nice,” said their acquaintance; “my name is Madison
C. Wilde and I’m mixed up with the Educational Films——”
“You’re in the movies?” shouted Ed.
“Just at present,” said Mr. Madison C. Wilde. “I’m in the business of
getting snap-shots of wild animals to show you fellows when you happen
to have thirty cents to buy a ticket. Anything else you’d like to know?”
“I’d like to know if you’re really going up on that mountain, Pelican
Cove, like you said,” Westy asked.
“What do you suppose I’ve been hanging around Washington, D. C. for the
last two weeks for?” Mr. Wilde asked. “I’d rather stalk grizzlies on
Pelican Cone than stalk National Park Directors in Washington. I’d
rather go after pictures than permits, I can tell you that if anybody
should ask you. Grizzlies are bad enough, but park directors”—he shook
his head in despair—“that bunch in Washington,” and shook his head
again.
The boys stared at him. In their minds the pursuit of wild animals, for
whatever purpose, was associated with buckskin and cartridge-laden
belts. Yet here was a little man with a bristly mustache whose only
weapon was an unlighted cigar innocently pointing toward heaven. They
had already imbibed enough of the atmosphere of the legendary west to be
somewhat shocked at the thought of this brisk, little man, with all the
prosaic atmosphere of the city about him, going into the wilds to stalk
grizzlies. He did not seem at all like Buffalo Bill.
“Gee whiz!” ejaculated Westy. “I thought you were a salesman or
something like that.”
Mr. Madison C. Wilde gave him a whimsical look and proceeded to draw
forth from an inside pocket a mammoth wallet while the three boys stared
speechless. Could this man be just fooling them? The wallet was
formidable enough to stagger any grizzly. It was bulging with money,
which to the boys seemed to confirm the stranger’s connection with the
movies, where fabulous sums are possessed and handed about. Mr. Wilde
was as deliberate with his wallet as any hunter of the woolly west could
possibly have been with his gun. He screwed his cigar over to the end of
his mouth, tilted it to an almost vertical position, then closing one
eye he explored the caves and fastnesses of his wallet with the other.
His quest eventually resulted in the capture of a paper which he brought
forth out of a veritable jungle of bills and documents. “Here we are,”
said he, tenderly unfolding the document.