“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 this sophisticated youngster in chilled disillusionment. Shining Sun had indeed been shining while he, the parlor woodsman, the back-yard scout, had been getting away from the most notorious bandit west of the Mississippi. If Westy had beheld Bloodhound Pete in a dress suit and stove-pipe hat he could hardly have received a greater shock. That the Indian boy had real skill and woods lore did not save him in the eyes of this sturdy little hero of the Silver Fox Patrol, who had found money the only false note in his memorable adventure.
“Come on away,” Warde whispered, “he’s talking business. Shh! Don’t you know he’s the Cheyenne Valentino?”
“He ought to be stabbed to the heart with my safety-pin,” said Ed. “If I ever meet him in a lonely spot on Broadway some dark night, I’ll lasso him with worsted from my sweater. Come on, let’s get away from here. I’m sorry for you, West, you old tramp; I’m for the Boy Scouts of America. I’d rather live on fish and wear honest rags.”