Westy Martin on the Santa Fe Trail E-Book

Percy Keese Fitzhugh

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Westy felt that he was in hard luck! In fact, he felt that Fate had played the meanest kind of a trick on him, just when he needed all his vision to live up to the plaudits of the multitude.
The truth of the matter was, some stray particles of dust had been blowing around and at a most inopportune moment sought seclusion in his eye, much to the annoyance of our hero.
Now, Westy Martin had every qualification needed to deserve the title of hero. At least every scout in Bridgeboro was unanimous in this instance, so, what right has a tenderfoot questioning the wisdom of the scout’s decision!
Indeed, if one were to betray any tendency toward incredulity, by so much as a slightly uplifted brow, they would descend en masse upon the unbeliever and shout with loud derision. In short, you would be the object of their amazement that your stupidity could be carried to the point of not knowing who Westy Martin was.
They would then go on to tell you in stentorian voices (Pee-wee’s being the nearest and loudest, thus forcing you to move a little out of its range) that Westy Martin was now about to embark upon the motion picture industry through the intervention of Mr. Madison C. Wilde, Field Manager of Educational Films.

Leseprobe

WESTY MARTIN ON THE SANTA FE TRAIL

LOLA, WESTY AND RIP WALKED AHEAD CHATTING GAYLY.

WESTY MARTIN

ON THE SANTA FE TRAIL

BY

PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH

© 2023 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782385745011

CONTENTS

I

Westy Gets a Good Start

II

Rip Isn’t Convinced

III

A Dangerous Silence

IV

A Hero by Chance

V

A Step to Glory?

VI

Discussion

VII

Imagination

VIII

A Real Find

IX

Lola

X

On the Edge of the World

XI

Many Years Ago

XII

Just a Few

XIII

Pages

XIV

Out

XV

Of the Past

XVI

Thoughts

XVII

A Lake Bewitched

XVIII

The Legend of Death River

XIX

Rip Makes Himself Heard

XX

Shadows of Doubt

XXI

Growing Deeper

XXII

To the Rescue

XXIII

Westy Has a Struggle

XXIV

A Thought for To-morrow

XXV

Lost

XXVI

They Meet a Lowly Stranger

XXVII

A Little Hope

XXVIII

Water

XXIX

Despair

XXX

A Scout with Wings

XXXI

The Trail Once Again

XXXII

Dreaming

XXXIII

Just a Few Hours to Go

XXXIV

When Ignorance Was Bliss

XXXV

Westy Runs True to Form

XXXVI

Billy Does Some Reminding

XXXVII

Old Scout and the Legend

XXXVIII

Some Light on the Subject

XXXIX

Flames

XL

A Heap of Embers

XLI

Westy Has a Part to Play

XLII

Setting Out to Do It

XLIII

Paul Mitchell

XLIV

On the Right Trail

XLV

Voices

XLVI

A Trust Well Kept

XLVII

Homeward Bound

CHAPTER I—WESTY GETS A GOOD START

Westy felt that he was in hard luck! In fact, he felt that Fate had played the meanest kind of a trick on him, just when he needed all his vision to live up to the plaudits of the multitude.

The truth of the matter was, some stray particles of dust had been blowing around and at a most inopportune moment sought seclusion in his eye, much to the annoyance of our hero.

Now, Westy Martin had every qualification needed to deserve the title of hero. At least every scout in Bridgeboro was unanimous in this instance, so, what right has a tenderfoot questioning the wisdom of the scout’s decision!

Indeed, if one were to betray any tendency toward incredulity, by so much as a slightly uplifted brow, they would descend en masse upon the unbeliever and shout with loud derision. In short, you would be the object of their amazement that your stupidity could be carried to the point of not knowing who Westy Martin was.

They would then go on to tell you in stentorian voices (Pee-wee’s being the nearest and loudest, thus forcing you to move a little out of its range) that Westy Martin was now about to embark upon the motion picture industry through the intervention of Mr. Madison C. Wilde, Field Manager of Educational Films.

“Why, sure,” gasped Pee-wee, taking the center of the stage as usual, “this Mr. Wilde has always been friendly with the Martins ever since Westy did a good turn for him out in the Yellowstone. And now, this summer, Mr. Wilde is going down through some parts of Texas and New Mexico and take some pictures of the Santa Fe Trail. When it goes on the screen the name of the picture will be, To-day and To-morrow.”

“You poor dumb-bell, it will not,” interposed Ed Carlysle. “It’s to be titled, The Old Santa Fe Trail—Past and Present.”

“Well, what’s the difference anyhow? It all sounds the same to me.”

Whereupon Ed was at once silenced with a menacing stare from Pee-wee, who continued to tell the interested onlooker of just what Westy’s duties with Educational Films would consist of. Upon that point Pee-wee did not make himself quite clear, as he didn’t know, nor had he the faintest idea. Neither did any one else.

However, that did not detract one bit from the glamor that now encircled Westy like a halo. Enough that Mr. Wilde had invited Westy upon the trip. Who would want any more prestige than that? Pee-wee wanted to know.

Lastly, Westy was none other than the boy of Rocky Mountain fame and the protégée of Uncle Jeb Rushmore of Temple Camp, the best scout in America since Buffalo Bill. Yes, sir, and he had taught Westy all there was to know about real scouting in pioneer fashion.

After Pee-wee or any others got that explanation off their respective chests and you had the audacity to confess ignorance of Uncle Jeb’s fame also, why your case would be classed as hopeless. Hopeless, that is, so far as the affairs of real he-men were concerned. A look of the most profound pity would be cast in your direction and then, as if time was too valuable to be wasted on one of second-rate intellect, you would be dismissed from their minds.

Following the line of perspective, Westy presently came into view again on the observation platform, bowing to his comrades with adolescent indifference.

By this time, even the most incredulous bystander of the lot could not help thinking, in view of all Westy’s gathering, seeing must be believing. He did seem, by all the rules of the game, a veritable god and hero as it were, standing there surrounded by such a galaxy of admirers.

Yes, it could not be denied that he looked impressive with Mr. Wilde sitting at his elbow and his family gathered around him with Billy, the cameraman, also looking on.

Ripley Langley (Rip for short), the other junior member of the expedition, was among those present and also a nephew of Mr. Wilde’s. He was lolling about on the polished railing, watching the scene with amused interest. He was that kind of a boy. Things always amused and interested him simultaneously.

When the clang of steel platforms dropping and all the other last-minute activities warned them that time was short, Mr. Wilde bid farewell to Westy’s parents and went inside, leaving him alone for the moment before the train started.

Mrs. Martin kissed her son fondly and wiped aside the stray tear. Mr. Martin, with a brusque but kindly handclasp, ran true to form and admonished him to steer clear of the Indians he should encounter. He told Westy that they could not be trusted even in these civilized times; there always being danger of reverting to the savage state. After a few other warnings, Mr. Martin took his leave, thoroughly satisfied that his duty was well done.

Thereupon, in wild acclaim Westy’s brother scouts emitted cheers loud and long, led in a big voice by little Pee-wee.

“Bring me back an Indian souvenir, Wes!” Artie Van Arlen shouted.

“Yeh, me too!” came from Ed Carlysle and Warde Hollister in unison.

Then as the cries of All Aboard were heard and the train moved out slowly, Pee-wee’s voice roared. He just couldn’t resist a parting shot.

“Say, Wes, bring me back a hunk of cactus in your hip pocket, will you?”

“Sure thing! ’By!”

CHAPTER II—RIP ISN’T CONVINCED

Westy stood where he was for a few moments, loathe to leave the spot where he had so recently been the cynosure of every eye. Truly, it was gratifying, that knowledge, and he was pleased with himself. What boy wouldn’t be? He had been publicly acclaimed as a hero, and now being identified with the movies served to distinguish him more than ever.

If the casual bystander could have seen him at that moment, I am afraid that Westy’s heroic appearance would not have been quite so manifest. At any rate, he certainly looked for all the world as though he was in the throes of deepest grief.

Try as he would, he could not prevent the moisture from emanating out of his blinking eyes. He presented a pitiable contrast to his recent triumphant state, and he knew it. His other eye had also become afflicted with the same foreign substance, now making his visionary powers difficult with either one. And he was sore at the world. Sore, because he was afraid that he wouldn’t be able to convince Rip Langley of the true cause of his affliction.

He knew what Rip would think when he caught sight of his tear-stained face; that he was crying because he had just left his father and mother behind. That’s what Rip would think.

For some reason or other, Westy had a feeling about Rip already. He felt that this boy, his junior by a year and a half, was something of a skeptic and it was his first move to set him on the right track at the start.

Presently then, Westy sauntered in the smoking room with an air of perfect nonchalance. His friends were lounging about—Rip included.

Stepping up to a large mirror over the lounge, Westy made a great pretense of examining and administering to his overflowing orbs.

“’Lo!” said Rip suddenly, but friendly.

“’Lo!” answered Westy, relieved but yet feeling Rip’s searching eyes at his back.

Mr. Wilde also looked up with the inevitable unlighted cigar in his mouth and the derby hat in its accustomed place. He smiled.

Fine, so far, Westy commented to himself secretly.

“Well, what’s the dirt?” Rip questioned, typical of himself and looking straight at Westy.

“What dirt?” He floundered a little but, gathering courage again: “Where?”

A chuckle of cynical good humor escaped from Rip.

“In your eye! Where did you think I meant?”

CHAPTER III—A DANGEROUS SILENCE

It was quite late and the usual hum and buzz of masculine voices in the smoking room were missing. The train went screeching through the dark, rainy night, indifferent to all else save the purpose of its own mission in life.

Westy and Rip were sitting opposite one another, trying to penetrate the inky blackness outside the dripping window panes. Nothing but a shroud of blackness covered the earth. They gave it up.

“Gee, I’ll be glad to walk on the ground again,” Rip said, breaking the silence.

“Here, too,” agreed Westy. “Morning can’t come quick enough to suit me.”

Mr. Wilde, occupying the seat with them, laid down the book he had been reading and grinned genially.

“Getting kind of restless, eh, kids?”

“I’ll say we are!” said Rip, spokesman for the two. “Do we hoof it very much, Unk, after we leave this ring-tailed roarer in the morning?”

“Somewhat. I dare say you’ll both have enough walking by the time we’re ready to come back. We are to start out from a place called Wakarusa. Outfit will be all ready for us to get away at once. No waiting, thank goodness.”

“Outfit?” queried Rip. “What’s this going to be, Unk; another covered wagon affair?”

“Not so’s you’ll ever notice it. Catch you modern kids traveling in a covered wagon. With all that either of you have learned about scouting I’d like to see what you’d do with the few necessities that the old pioneers had to do with in the days on the Old Trail.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Westy protested. “Uncle Jeb gave me a lot of dope that I could use in a tight pinch. We could do a lot if we had to, eh, Rip?”

“Betcha life,” he replied airily. “We could show some of these modern pikers a thing or two.”

It is to be seen that when it came to getting on the defensive side of scouting, Westy and Rip pledged a momentary truce and became kindred spirits, to Mr. Wilde’s enjoyment. He was having the time of his life kidding them.

“All right, scouts, I hope you will get the chance to show me then some day. But I am afraid you’re going to be disappointed on this trip if you’ve been looking forward to anything more exciting than shooting the scenery. I gave my solemn promise to both your parents that I’d keep the watchful eye all over. When we get back home you and Westy can give me a few exhibitions of your skill and prowess in the back-to-nature bunk in Martin’s back yard.”

This was adding insult to injury of course, but neither of them could make a come-back. Mr. Wilde could see by their expressions that the parental promise hadn’t made a very big hit with them at all.

Billy, who had been peacefully dozing throughout the discussion, came to with a yawn.

“’S no use sitting up listening to the rain all night. What d’you say?” He addressed them all.

“I guess we better,” answered Mr. Wilde, and motioning to the boys as he walked toward the open doorway. “Better turn in, boys. We get out pretty early.”

“Gosh, I don’t feel a bit like it, do you, Wes?”

“Naw, I’m too excited to think about it even. They say all those old pioneers like Kit Carson and Uncle Dick Wooton hardly ever slept at all. They had to keep awake and watch for the Indians.”

“Watcha talking about? They didn’t watch for the Indians at all,” he contradicted in a superior tone of voice.

“What did they do then, huh?”

“Went out and got ’em red-handed. They had to, because they were redskins, get me?”

“Do I get you? I’m way ahead of you.”

“You score all right. You know what?”

“What?”

“I’d like to be a fireman on this road when I get older.”

“Not me. I’d rather be the engineer. Why’d you like to be the fireman, Rip?”

“They got better chances of seeing what’s going on while they’re riding and the engineer has to keep his mind and eyes straight ahead.”

“Gee, that’s right.” Westy was beginning to recognize the superior intelligence of his new friend and felt more kindliness toward him.

A few minutes after the porter entered, his arms occupied by various sizes and shapes of various colored shoes. Westy rose and Rip followed suit.

It lacked another minute before midnight would open her portals to welcome the infant day, and still Westy lay wide-eyed in his berth, staring into the darkness. Rip’s heavy breathing above him and the occasional light creak of the springs, betrayed the fact that Rip’s sleep was by no means dreamless.

Wes listened intently as the wheels glided on in flight. Sometimes it gave him the sensation that they weren’t in motion at all, for the roadbed was so smooth that the Limited annihilated the miles like a winged serpent.

They went over a crossing, for he could hear the bell as they passed tinkling its warning of danger to the unwary. Then all lapsed into silence again save the steady drowsy hum of the engine.

Yes, all was silent in the Pullman, too. Silent, except for the loud nasal chorus of those who would proclaim to the whole world their slumbering state. The porter, his cares laid aside for the time, was also contributing his bit in a minor key and at intervals he became very entertaining and shifted down to something that sounded like a bass note, but producing a weird echo like that of a rattlesnake dying. Westy was sure he preferred the minor key; it was much more comforting to hear.

He thought after a while that an hour or more must have passed. His eyes burned for the want of sleep and his throat was awful dry. Poking his head through the curtain he ascertained whether there was any one about. Not a soul anywhere at either end. Good thing they had the end section; he wouldn’t have to slip anything on. Padding out to the water cooler, he quenched his thirst hurriedly and got back in his berth again without encountering any one, and tried his luck at sleeping for the hundredth time.

Suddenly he felt an impact that fairly shook him in his berth. The emergency brake most likely, and in the next moment he knew he reasoned about right as the whole car seemed to throb and tremble before coming to a dead stop.

“Gee,” he whispered softly to himself, lying with eyes wide and ears straining for some sound, “every one else but me must be unconscious if that didn’t wake them.”

Evidently no one had heard anything, nor were they aware of the stationary attitude of the train. The heavy breathing and loud snores continued uninterrupted as before.