The three boys laughed for it did seem funny to think of Illinois being far east of them. They felt a bit chagrined too at the realization that, after all, their view of the rugged wonders they were approaching was to be enjoyed from the rather prosaic vantage point of a sightseeing auto. What would Buffalo Bill or Kit Carson have said to that?
The traveling man looked out of the window and said, “We’ll hit Emigrant pretty soon if it’s still there. The cyclones out here blow the villages around so half the time the engineer don’t know where to look for them. I remember Barker’s Corners used to be right behind a big tree in Montana and it got blown away and they found it two years afterward in Arizona.”
CHAPTER XXXV
THE STRANGER
Emigrant. The last stop on the long, long journey from New York. The last stop till the thundering train would reach the Gardiner entrance of the Yellowstone National Park. They were within thirty miles of that wonderland.
Westy was glad that there was one more station to be reached before his dream should be a reality. His nerves were so much on edge that the one, poor, little station of Emigrant would act as a sort of valve to relieve him of the tension that he felt. He was glad that they weren’t going to reach their destination quite yet—he was too excited. Yes, he was glad there was just one more station. Then, then——
As for the traveling man, he seemed to be about as excited and anticipatory as if he were strolling across the street to buy another cigar.
The train thundered along through the rugged Montana country, its screeching whistle now and again echoing from the towering mountains. On, on, on it rushed with a kind of disdainful preoccupation, going straight about its business, circling the frowning heights, crossing torrents, unhindered, invincible. Did anybody live or even venture in those wild mountains, Westy wondered. Were there trails there? Could it be that grizzly bears heard in their fastnesses the shriek of that steel monster that was rushing straight to its end?
Only this roaring, swerving, thundering, rushing train stood between Westy Martin and those uninhabited wilds. No smudge signal would save him there. No approved device for helping the lost pilgrim in distress would serve him in that endless, rugged wilderness. The leather seat of the smoking car seemed good to him.
“Who’s going to look after you kids?” their traveling acquaintance asked.
The boys, particularly Warde, did not like to hear it put that way but he answered, “The auto is going to meet us at Gardiner; there’s a scout official who’s going to be there and they’ll call our names out. They’re going to take us to the hotel at Mammoth Hot Springs. After that we go on a kind of a tour. It’s all planned out for us.”