But there was no movement of the sleeper. Westy clutched the warm, dark thing and retreated, or rather shrank back. He paused, watching, listening, and moved backward a few feet. Was it safe to stand? He could do this silently, but would not the radical change of posture arouse the sleeper? Might not it stir the air enough to—No—yes, he would.
He drew himself to his feet, silent, trembling. Then he backed away a few paces more, clutching the thing on which his groping hand had descended. He knew what it was now. It was the mackinaw jacket of Bloodhound Pete which had been folded up for use as a pillow. In his sleep the outlaw’s head must have rolled off it and that but a minute or two prior to Westy’s approach for, as we know, the spot on which the cautious hand of the scout had descended was still warm.
Now Westy’s heart beat frantically, but with a new suspense, with imminent triumph and elation. Hurriedly he put his hands into the pockets of the jacket and presently, wonder of wonders, stood under the black sky, alone in the Rockies, with the big wallet of Mr. Wilde, the Philistine, gripped in his soil-covered hands. And still he heard the distant wailing. It seemed to him that that savage voice in the night ought to change or cease, in view of his triumph; that the Rocky Mountains should take notice of this thing that he had done. He seemed to be in Aladdin’s Cave or on the brink of Captain Kidd’s treasure hole, or in a dream.
Westy felt of the big wallet, smelled of it; it was real, it was leather. He blinked his eyes and knew he was awake. Silently, oh, with such joyous caution, he stole a few paces farther from the tree. Suppose Warde or Ed should call now. Warde! Ed! It seemed as if he had not seen them for years.
Again he clutched the wallet to make sure it was substantial. It was very substantial; Mr. Wilde did not deal in the ethereal. Well, then (Westy gulped with nervous elation as he tried to formulate the fact in orderly fashion in his mind) he, Westy Martin, scout of Bridgeboro, New Jersey, had in the twentieth century when there are autos and electric lights and radios and things—he, Westy Martin, had outwitted a desperado, a wild western train robber in the Rocky Mountains and recovered a quantity of booty—he, Westy Martin!
Suppose, just suppose his friends should call to him now! This thought aroused him to the realization that he was not yet out of danger, that every second’s delay jeopardized his triumph. He took a few long strides with utmost caution as before, then paused again, listening. Everything seemed to be quiet and he gave way to a little, silent, incredulous laugh, the whole affair seemed so unreal, so at odds with his simple young life. He had a queer feeling that this was not his own experience. His first relaxation after what he had done was this silent, mirthless laugh. Then he gathered himself together, assured himself of his direction and started running with all his might and main.
A few moments should ............