“We don’t get a chance,” said Westy.
“Now you take a kid born out in the wilds—like this kid I’ve got waiting for me—Stove Polish or whatever his name is; he’s an Indian.”
“Who?” said Westy.
“What?” said Warde.
“Stove Polish?” gasped Ed.
“Shining Sun his name is,” said Mr. Wilde. “Sounds like some kind of stove polish so I call him Stove Polish——”
“Where is he?” Westy asked, all excitement.
“He’s waiting out at the Mammoth Hotel at Hot Springs with Mr. Creston; you’ll see him. He’s going up in the mountains with Clip and me. Now that kid is what you’d call a scout, the little rascal. He had to be a scout or starve. He didn’t read his little book and raise up his hand and say he was going to be a scout. He just got to be a scout because he had to.
“When you’re in the Rocky Mountains a couple of hundred miles from the nearest town and the nearest town consists of one house, why, it’s a case of you or the Rocky Mountains—which wins. See? If you stay lost you starve. If you don’t know the signs you’re out of luck. If you don’t know what herbs to eat you don’t get any dinner. If you can’t tell where to look for a cave by the looks of the land, why then, you stay out in the rain and snow. See? If you haven’t got a gun the only way you can catch a bird is to fool him. So he knows how to fool them. You fellows are scouts because you want to have a lot of fun. But Stove Polish is a scout because he wants to live; he has to be one, or he did have to up to a year or two ago. He knows how to run without making a sound because if he made a sound it would be all up with him.”
“You said it,” enthused Warde.