Honor! A scout’s honor. What is that? Shining Sun was a scout, a real scout. What would he do? He would escape!
Westy listened but heard no sound from below. He hoped they were in the little cave, but he doubted that; it was too small and stuffy. A place to shoot from and hold pursuers at bay, that was all it was.
Silently, with an arm around an upright branch, he raised one foot and unlaced a shoe, pausing once or twice to listen.
No sound from below or from afar. Only the myriad voices of the night in the Rocky Mountains, an owl hooting in the distance, the sound of branches crackling in the freshening breeze, the complaining call of some unknown creature. . . .
He hung the shoe on a limb, releasing his hold on it easily, then listened. No sound. Then he unlaced the other shoe and hung it on the branch. Strange place for a Bridgeboro, New Jersey, boy to hang his shoes. But Shining Sun wore no shoes, perish the thought! and neither would Westy. He removed his scout jacket with some difficulty and hung it on a limb, then he removed the contents of its pockets.
Westy Martin, scout of the first class, First Bridgeboro Troop, B. S. A., Bridgeboro, New Jersey, had won eleven merit badges. Nine of these were sewed on the sleeve of the khaki jacket in which he had traveled. This had been his preference, since he was a modest boy, and was disinclined to have them constantly displayed on the sleeve of his scout shirt which he usually wore uncovered. But two of the medals had been sewed on the sleeve of his shirt at some time when the jacket was not handy. These were the pathfinder’s badge and the stalker’s badge. So it happened that he carried these two treasured badges with him, when he left his jacket hanging in the tree and started to descend upon his hazardous adventure.
He had received these two honors with a thrill of pride. But throughout this memorable day they had seemed to him like silly gewgaws, claptrap of the Boy Scouts, signifying nothing. They were obscured by the haunting spirit of Shining Sun.
For another moment he listened, his nerves tense, his heart thumping. Then he began ever so cautiously to let himself down through the darkness. A long, plaintive moan was faintly audible far in the mountain fastnesses. . . .
CHAPTER XVII
SOUNDS!
Half-way down he thought he heard voices, but decided it was only his imagination taunting him. There was no sound below. He was fearful, yet relieved, when he reached the lowest branch; now there would be no branches squeaking, no crackling twigs, sounding like earthquakes in the tense stillness.