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 t............