Westy Martin in the Yellowstone

by Percy Keese Fitzhugh

“Those aren’t clouds,” said Westy. “They’re—— I bet it’s a train.”

He listened, but could hear nothing. But a little farther along, in line where the little dabs of white had appeared and disappeared, there straggled up a faint, half-tangible area of flaky whiteness which was gone instantly it was discernible.

“It’s a train all right,” Westy said, delighted. “I bet—I know it is.”

Beyond the point where he had been looking, the rugged landscape rolled away, magnificent, majestic, endless. Here and there among the crowded mountains some mighty peak pierced the sky. No touch of human contamination was there, no gray streak imaginable as a road, no steeple, no green area of farm-land, with thin lines scarce discernible as fences. So it might have been a hundred thousand years ago. If man were there with all his claptrap he was swallowed up in the distance and vastness and all unseen by the scratched and tattered boy who stood barefooted in his wild refuge and gazed and gazed.

It was only scenery that he saw, and it would have been about the same had he glanced in another direction. Only the little, gray, dissolving specks had drawn his gaze there, and he looked long and wonderingly on the stupendous glory that was spread before him. He knew not what it was, in particular, that he was looking at.

Thus, Westy Martin, award boy, saw the Yellowstone National Park for the first time. Saw it as a scout should see it, divested by the kindly distance of every vestige of human handiwork or presence that it has. Saw it in all its awesome grandeur, and saw not its boundaries or its artificial comforts, only its primeval magnificence extending mile upon mile and not distinguishable from the vast, mountainous country in which it lies.

Westy did not know that the area he was gazing at was within the boundaries of Yellowstone Park. His interest was centered in the little flickers of smoke that he had seen. If these indicated the railroad it would not be difficult to reach it, and from there on the way would be easy and perhaps short. For the hundredth time since he had become its custodian, he felt in his pocket to make sure the wallet was safe.

Then for a few moments he thought, standing there alone. He had always liked, at times, to be alone; he was that kind of a boy. But now he could not bring himself to end this romantic, musing loneliness. Well, fate had been kind to him (he gave all the credit to fate) and he had done something, something worth while. To be sure, there was nothing so very primitive about it, he mused. Shining Sun doubtless could have made Nature yield him up a hundred various delectables out of which to make a feast. Poor Westy knew nothing about herbs and edible roots nor other commissary stores which the forest holds for those who know her secrets.

Again, he felt his pocket to make sure the wallet was safe. “I—I bet Shining Sun never even saw a wallet,” he said. “I bet he doesn’t even know how valuable money is.” Poor Westy, he could not hope to be a scout, free of all the prosaic contaminations of civilization, like Shining Sun. But at least no one could say now that he and his friends were just parlor scouts playing games in a backyard. . . .

He lingered just a moment more, gazing upon the vast, rugged panorama as if it were his, something he had won. Then he looked, not ruefully but with a thrill of pride, on his scratches and tattered raiment. Well, at least he could look Shining Sun in the face, and Mr. Madison C. Wilde, too, if he should ever encounter that jarring personage again.