The peril from visible smoke was gone, but there was small comfort in this. Warde and Ed had probably not succeeded in catching any fish and a fire was therefore useless. Presently one or other of them would shout or come to investigate. And what then? Westy’s life and the lives of his comrades seemed to hang on a thread. He roused himself out of his silent fear and suspense and realized that if he were going to do anything he must act quickly. He was between two frightful perils. If he were to act, do something (he knew not exactly what), it must be before his friends called, yet not till the men below had fallen asleep. Haste meant disaster. Delay meant disaster. When should he act? And what should he do? If he had only a little time—a little time to think. What would the Indian boy do?
He listened fearfully, his heart in his throat, but there was no sound. He was thankful that Ed Carlyle was not such a good scout—no, he didn’t mean exactly that. He was glad that Ed was not exactly what you would call a real—no, he didn’t mean that either. He was glad that Ed had not been scout enough—had not been able to catch any fish. There are times when not being such a marvelous super-scout is a very good thing.
Silence. Darkness. And the minutes passed by. He was jeopardizing his life and his companions’ lives, and he knew it. If he waited till they shouted all three of them would be—— He could not bear to think of it. Would be killed! Shot down! He, Westy Martin, and his two pals.
What would Shining Sun do?
Well, he, Westy Martin, would act at once. He would take a chance, be brave, die game. He would, if need be, be killed in the Rockies, like so many heroes before him. He would not be a parlor scout. He had dreamed of being in peril in the Rockies. Well, he would not falter now. He could not be a Shining Sun, but at least he could be worthy of himself. He would not be wanting in courage, and he would use such resource as he had.
He could not afford to wait for a shout from the cleft. He must descend and trust to the men being asleep. He wished that Bloodhound Pete had not made that remark about sleeping with one eye open. He wished that that grim desperado had not unconsciously informed him that he could track anything but an airplane. Then it occurred to him that he might disclose his presence to these men, promise not to tell of their hiding pla............