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.