Westy Martin in the Yellowstone

by Percy Keese Fitzhugh

He paused a moment, his heart almost choking him. Suppose the men were not asleep. He was within easy pistol shot now, he could readily be discovered, a dark object clinging to the dark, branchless trunk. A sound. A voice? No, it was only his own haunting fear that spoke. In a few moments he would know the worst—or rather, perhaps, know nothing. With a kind of reckless abandon he let himself down, carefully, silently, inch by inch. He knew that any second he might hear a startled and aroused figure below him and fall limp, lifeless, to the ground.

He did not make a sound as he descended the trunk. And each uneventful moment gave him fresh courage. He was near enough to the ground now to hear the voices of the outlaws clearly, but he heard nothing. Nor could he see below anything but the dark mound of the rock outlined in the deeper darkness. His besetting fear now was that his companions might shout. It seemed incredible that they did not make some sound.

Westy’s good sense became his ally now. His success so far gave him poise. He bethought him that bad men of the West, albeit they do big things, have also the habit of talking big. However it might have been with the taciturn pioneers of old, the bad men of the West (if the movies know anything about it) are incorrigible boasters.

This comforting thought did not mitigate Westy’s fear of Bloodhound Pete. But it afforded him the solacing reflection that after all, in plain fact, no man can sleep with one eye open. This robber, and murderer if need be, was either asleep or not asleep. And if he was asleep then Westy knew he had a chance; perhaps a forlorn chance, but a chance. He took a measure of comfort from this application of his common sense.

And as he descended without interruption he began, all in that brief time, hopefully to consider the dubious prospect of escape from these ruffians. Would they sleep long? He could readily believe that Bloodhound Pete was invincible on the trail. Would immediate escape avail the boys anything?

With each measure of success comes a fresh measure of hope and courage. No news is good news. As long as nothing happens all is well. Westy put one cautious, hesitating foot upon the solid ground. He was face to face with his great adventure.

Thus he paused like the chameleon, one foot poised in air, the other upon the ground, motionless in the freak attitude of first alighting. He seemed fearful of placing his whole weight and both feet on the ground.

Then he stood beside the tree, a small, dark figure, his clothing torn, his legs and bare arms bleeding from scratches. He was hatless and barefooted. The tree, with a fine sense of scout picturesqueness, had caught his shirt and ripped it open in front, pulling off the buttons and exposing his brown, young chest. His trousers were all but in tatters. His hair was disheveled and it did not ill-become him.

He looked suitable to be in the Rockies. No one would have known him for a “parlor scout,” playing the little outdoor game. . . .

Again he listened. There was no sound but the wailing far off. He was in the shadow of the tree, the trunk between him and the little cave, and he dreaded to move. Well, there was nothing left to do but take a chance and steal away.