The Project Gutenberg eBook, Westy Martin, by Percy Keese Fitzhugh, Illustrated by Richard A. Holberg This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: Westy Martin Author: Percy Keese Fitzhugh Release Date: January 6, 2020 [eBook #61118] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 ***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WESTY MARTIN*** E-text prepared by Roger Frank and Sue Clark WESTY MARTIN HE MANAGED TO GET HOLD OF A BRANCH OF A SCRUB OAK. WESTY MARTIN BY PERCY KEESE FITZHUGH Author of THE TOM SLADE BOOKS THE ROY BLAKELEY BOOKS THE PEE-WEE HARRIS BOOKS ILLUSTRATED PUBLISHED WITH THE APPROVAL OF THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK Made in the United States of America Copyright, 1924, by GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC. THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE ROTARY CLUB OF AMERICA WHOSE MEMBERS HAVE SHOWN THEIR VITAL INTEREST IN THE FUTURE CITIZENSHIP OF OUR COUNTRY BY THEIR SPLENDID WORK AMONG THE BOYS OF AMERICA CONTENTS I A Shot II A Promise III The Parting IV The Sufferer V A Plain Duty VI First Aid—Last Aid VII Little Drops of Water VIII Barrett’s IX On the Trail X Luke Meadows XI Westy Martin, Scout XII Guilty XIII The Penalty XIV For Better or Worse XV Return of the Prodigal XVI Aunt Mira and Ira XVII The Homecoming XVIII A Ray of Sunshine XIX Pee-Wee on the Job XX Some Noise XXI One Good Turn XXII Warde and Westy XXIII Ira Goes A-Hunting XXIV Clews XXV A Bargain XXVI The Marked Article XXVII Enter the Contemptible Scoundrel XXVIII Proofs XXIX The Rally XXX Open to the Public XXXI Shootin’ Up the Meetin’ XXXII The Boy Edwin Carlisle XXXIII Mrs. Temple’s Lucky Number XXXIV Westward Ho XXXV The Stranger XXXVI An Important Paper XXXVII Parlor Scouts XXXVIII Something “Real” WESTY MARTIN CHAPTER I A SHOT A quick, sharp report rent the air. Followed several seconds of deathlike silence. Then the lesser sound of a twig falling in the still forest. Again silence. A silence, tense, portentous. Then the sound of foliage being disturbed and of some one running. Westy Martin paused, every nerve on edge. It was odd that a boy who carried his own rifle slung over his shoulder should experience a kind of panic fear after the first shocking sound of a gunshot. He had many times heard the report of his own gun, but never where it could do harm. Never in the solemn depths of the forest. He did not reach for his gun now to be ready for danger; strangely enough he feared to touch it. Instead, he stood stark still and looked about. Whatever had happened must have been very near to him. Without moving, for indeed he could not for the moment move a step, he saw a large leaf with a hole through the middle of it. And this hung not ten feet distant. He shuddered at the realization that the whizzing bullet which had made that little hole might as easily have blotted out his young life. He paused, listening, his heart in his throat. Some one had run away. Had the fugitive seen him? And what had the fugitive done that he should flee at the sight or sound of a human presence? Suddenly it occurred to Westy that a second shot might lay him low. What if the fugitive, a murderer, had sought concealment at a distance and should try to conceal the one murder with another? Westy called and his voice sounded strange to him in the silent forest. “Don’t shoot!” That would warn the unseen gunman unless, indeed, it was his purpose to shoot—to kill. There was no sound, no answering voice, no patter of distant footfalls; nothing but the cheery song of a cricket near at hand. Westy advanced a few steps in the dim, solemn woods, looking to right and left.... CHAPTER II A PROMISE Westy Martin was a scout of the first class. He was a member of the First Bridgeboro Troop of Bridgeboro, New Jersey. Notwithstanding that he was a serious boy, he belonged to the Silver Fox Patrol, presided over by Roy Blakeley. According to Pee-wee Harris of the Raven Patrol, Westy was the only Silver Fox who was not crazy. Yet in one way he was crazy; he was crazy to go out west. He had even saved up a hundred dollars toward a projected trip to the Yellowstone National Park. He did not know exactly when or how he would be able to make this trip alone, but one “saves up” for all sorts of things unplanned. To date, Westy had only the one hundred dollars and the dream of going. When he had saved another hundred, he would begin to develop plans. “I’ll tell you what you do,” Westy’s father had said to him. “You go up to Uncle Dick’s and spend the summer and help around. You know what Uncle Dick told you; any summer he’d be glad to have you help around the farm and be glad to pay you so much a week. There’s your chance, my boy. At Temple Camp you can’t earn any money. “My suggestion is that you pass up Temple Camp this summer and go up on the farm. By next summer maybe you’ll have enough to go west, and I’ll help you out,” he added significantly. “I may even go with you myself and take a look at those geezers or geysers or whatever they call them. I’d kind of half like to get a squint at a grizzly myself.” “Oh, boy!” said Westy. “I wish I were,” said his father. “Well, I guess I’ll do that,” said Westy hesitatingly. He liked Temple Camp and the troop, and the independent enterprise proposed by his father was not to be considered without certain lingering regrets. “It will be sort of like camping—in a way,” he said wistfully. “I can take my cooking set and my rifle——” “I don’t think I’d take the rifle if I were you,” said Mr. Martin, in the chummy way he had when talking with Westy. “Jiminies, I’d hate to leave it home,” said Westy, a little surprised and disappointed. “Well, you’ll be working up there and won’t have much time to use it,” said Mr. Martin. Westy sensed that this was not his father’s true reason for objecting to the rifle. The son recalled that his father had been no more than lukewarm when the purchase of the rifle had first been proposed. Mr. Martin did not like rifles. He had observed, as several million other people had observed, that it is always the gun which is not loaded that kills people. The purchase of the coveted rifle had not closed the matter. The rifle had done no harm, that was the trouble; it had not even killed Mr. Martin’s haunting fears. Westy was straightforward enough to take his father’s true meaning and to ignore the one which had been given. It left his father a little chagrined but just the same he liked this straightforwardness in Westy. “Oh, there’d be time enough to use it up there,” Westy said. “And if there wasn’t any time, why, then I couldn’t use it, that’s all. There wouldn’t be any harm taking it. I promised you I’d never shoot at anything but targets and I never have.” “I know you haven’t, but up there, why, there are lots of——” “There’s just one thing up there that I’m thinking about,” said Westy plainly, “and that’s the side of the big barn where I can put a target. That’s the only thing I want to shoot at, believe me. And I’ve got two eyes in my head to see if anybody is around who might get hit. That big, red barn is like—why, it’s just like a building in the middle of the Sahara Desert. I don’t see why you’re still worrying.” “How do you know what’s back of the target?” Mr. Martin asked. “How do you know who’s inside the barn?” “If I just tell you I’ll be careful, I should think that would be enough,” said Westy. “Well, it is,” said Mr. Martin heartily. “And I’ll promise you again so you can be sure.” “I don’t want any more promises about your not shooting at anything but targets, my boy,” said Mr. Martin. “You gave me your promise a month ago and that’s enough. But I want you to promise me again that you’ll be careful. Understand?” “I tell you what I’ll do, Dad,” said he. “First I’ll see that there’s nobody in the barn. Then I’ll lock the barn doors. Then I’ll get a big sheet of iron that I saw up there and I’ll hang it on the side of the barn. Then I’ll paste the target against that, see? No bullet could get through that iron and it’s about, oh, five times larger than the target.” “Suppose your shot should go wild and hit those old punky boards beyond the edge of the iron sheet?” Mr. Martin asked. “Good night, you’re a scream!” laughed Westy. Mr. Martin, as usual, was caught by his son’s honest, wholesome good-humor. “I suppose you think I might shoot in the wrong direction and hit one of those grizzlies out in Yellowstone Park,” Westy laughed. “Safety first is your middle name all right.” “Well, you go up to Uncle Dick’s and don’t point your gun out west,” said Mr. Martin, “and maybe we can talk your mother into letting us go to Yellowstone next year.” “And will you make me a promise?” asked Westy. “Well, what is it?” “That you won’t worry?” CHAPTER III THE PARTING The farm on which Westy spent one of the pleasantest summers of his life was about seventy miles from his New Jersey home and the grizzlies in Yellowstone Park were safe. But he thought of that wonderland of the Rockies in his working hours, and especially when he roamed the woods following the trails of little animals or stalking and photographing birds. The only shooting he did on these trips was with his trusty camera. Sometimes in the cool of the late afternoon, he would try his skill at hitting the bull’s eye and after each of these murderous forays against the innocent pasteboard, he would wrap his precious rifle up in its oily cloth and stand it in the corner of his room. No drop of blood was shed by the sturdy scout who had given his promise to be careful and who knew how to be careful. The only place where he ever went gunning was in a huge book which reposed on the marble-topped center table in the sitting room of his uncle’s farmhouse. This book, which abounded in stirring pictures, described the exploits of famous hunters in Africa. The book had been purchased from a loquacious agent and was intended to be ornamental as well as entertaining. It being one of the very few books available on the farm, Westy made it a sort of constant companion, sitting before it each night under the smelly hanging lamp and spending hours in the African jungle with man-eating lions and tigers. We are not to take note of Westy’s pleasant summer at this farm, for it is with the altogether extraordinary event which terminated his holiday that our story begins. His uncle had given him eight dollars a week, which with what he had brought from home made a total of something over a hundred dollars which he had when he was ready to start home. This he intended to add to his Yellowstone Park fund when he reached Bridgeboro. He felt very rich and a little nervous with a hundred dollars or more in his possession. But it was not for that reason that he carried his rifle on the day he started for home. He carried it because it was his most treasured possession, excepting his hundred dollars. He told his aunt and uncle, and he told himself, that he carried it because it could not easily be put in his trunk except by jamming it in cornerwise. But the main reason he carried it was because he loved it and he just wanted to have it with him. He might have caught a train on the branch line at Dawson’s which was the nearest station to his uncle’s farm. He would then have to change to the main line at Chandler. He decided to send his trunk from Dawson’s and to hike through the woods to Chandler some three or four miles distant. His aunt and uncle and Ira, the farm hand, stood on the old-fashioned porch to bid him good-by. And in that moment of parting, Aunt Mira was struck with a thought which may perhaps appeal to you who have read of Westy and have a certain slight acquaintance with him. It was the thought of how she had enjoyed his helpful visit and how she would miss him now that he was going. Pee-wee Harris, with all his startling originality, would have wearied her perhaps. Two weeks of Roy Blakeley’s continuous nonsense would have been enough for this quiet old lady. There was nothing in particular about Westy; he was just a wholesome, well-balanced boy. She had not wearied of him. The scouts of his troop never wearied of him—and never made a hero of him. He was just Westy. But there was a gaping void at Temple Camp that summer because he was not there. And there was going to be a gaping void in this quiet household on the farm after he had gone away. That was always the way it was with Westy, he never witnessed his own triumphs because his triumphs occurred in his absence. He was sadly missed, but how could he see this? He looked natty enough in his negligee khaki attire with his rifle slung over his shoulder. “We’re jes going to miss you a right good lot,” said his aunt with affectionate vehemence, “and don’t forget you’re going to come up and see us in the winter.” “I want to,” said Westy. Ira, the farm hand, was seated on the carriage step smoking an atrocious pipe which he removed from his mouth long enough to bid Westy good-by in his humorous drawling way. The two had been great friends. “I reckon you’d like to get a bead on a nice, big, hissin’ wildcat with that gol blamed toy, wouldn’ yer now, huh?” “You go ’long with you,” said Aunt Mira, “he wouldn’ nothing of the kind.” Westy smiled good-naturedly. “Wouldn’ yer now, huh?” persisted Ira. “I seed ’im readin’ ’baout them hunters in Africa droppin’ lions an’ tigers an’ what all. I bet ye’d like to get one—good—plunk at a wildcat now, wouldn’ yer? Kerplunk, jes like that, hey? Then ye’d feel like a reg’lar Teddy Roosevelt, huh?” Ira accompanied this intentionally tempting banter with a demonstration of aiming and firing. Westy laughed. “I wouldn’t mind being like Roosevelt,” he said. “Yer couldn’ drop an elephant at six yards,” laughed Ira. “Well, I guess I won’t meet any elephants in the woods between here and Chandler,” Westy said. “Don’t you put no sech ideas in his head,” said Aunt Mira, as she embraced her nephew affectionately. Then he was gone. “I don’t see why you want ter be always pesterin’ the poor boy,” complained Aunt Mira, as Ira lowered his lanky legs to the ground preparatory to standing on them. He had been a sort of evil genius all summer, beguiling Westy with enticing pictures of all sorts of perilous exploits out of his own abounding experiences on land and sea. “You’d like to’ve had him runnin’ away to sea with your yarns of whalin’ and shipwrecks,” Aunt Mira continued. “And it’s jes a parcel of lies, Ira Hasbrook, and you know it as well as I do. Like enough he’ll shoot at a woodchuck or a skunk and kill one of Atwood’s cows. They’re always gettin’ into the woods.” “No, he won’t neither,” said her husband. “I say like enough he might,” persisted Aunt Mira. “Weren’t he crazy ’baout that book?” “I didn’ write the book,” drawled Ira. “No, but you told him how to skin a bear.” “That’s better’n bein’ a book agent and skinnin’ a farmer,” drawled Ira. “It’s ’baout the only thing you didn’t tell him you was,” Aunt Mira retorted. Acknowledging which, Ira puffed at his pipe leisurely and contemplated Aunt Mira with a whimsical air. “I meant jes what I said, Ira Hasbrook,” said she. “The kid’s all right,” said Ira. “He couldn’ hit nuthin further’n ten feet. But he’s all right jes the same. We’re goin’ ter miss him, huh, Auntie?” But they did not miss him for long, for they were destined to see him again before the day was over. CHAPTER IV THE SUFFERER In truth, if this were a narrative of Ira Hasbrook’s adventures, it might be thought lively reading of the dime novel variety. He had not, as he had confided to Westy, limited his killing exploits to swatting flies. He was one of those universal characters who have a way of drifting finally to farms. And he had not abridged his tales of sprightly adventure in imparting them to Westy. He had been to sea on a New Bedford whaler. He had shot big game in the Rockies. He had lived on a ranch. His star performance had been a liberal participation in the kidnapping of a despotic king in a small South Sea island. Naturally, so lively an adventurer had nothing but contempt for a pasteboard target. And though he did not wilfully undertake to alienate Westy from his code of conduct, he had so continually represented to him the thrilling glories of the chase, that Aunt Mira had very naturally suffered some haunting apprehensions that her nephew might depart impulsively on some piratical cruise or Indian killing enterprise. These vague fears had simmered down at the last to the ludicrous dread that her departing nephew (whom she had come to know and love) might, under the inspiration of the satanic Ira, celebrate his departure from the country by laying low some innocent cow in attempting to “drop” an undesirable woodchuck. She had come to have a very horror of the word drop which occurred so frequently in Ira’s tales of adventure.... But Aunt Mira’s fears were needless. Westy had been Ira’s companion without being his disciple. In his quiet way he had understood Ira thoroughly, the same as in his quiet way he understood Roy Blakeley and Pee-wee Harris thoroughly. The cows, even the woodchucks, were safe. The shot which turned the tide of Westy Martin’s life was not out of his own precious rifle. He had not taken many steps after hearing the shot when he came upon the effect of it. A small deer lay a few feet off the trail. The beautiful creature was quite motionless and though it lay prone on its side with the head flat upon the ground, its gracefulness was apparent, even striking. It lay in a sort of bower of low hanging foliage and had a certain harmony with the forest which even its stricken state and somewhat unnatural attitude could not destroy. As Westy first glimpsed this silent, uncomplaining victim, a feeling (which could hardly be called a thought) came to him. It was just this, that the cruelty which had wrought this piteous spectacle was doubly cruel for that the creature had been laid low in its own home. The friendly, enveloping foliage revealed this helpless denizen of the woods as a sorrowing mother might show her dead child to a sympathizing friend. Such thoughts did not take form in the mind of the tremulous boy but he had some such feeling. He was thoughtful enough, even at the moment, to wonder how he could have taken such delight in stories of wholesale killings. One sight of the actual thing aroused his anger and pity. He approached a little nearer, this scout with a rifle over his shoulder, and beheld something which startled, almost unnerved him. He could see only one of the eyes, for the deer lay on its side, but this eye was soft and seemed not unfriendly; it was not a startled eye. The beautiful animal was not dead. He did not know how much it might be suffering, but at all events its suffering was not over, and there was a kind of resignation in the soft look of that single eye; just a kind of silent acceptance of its plight which went to the boy’s heart. Who had done this thing, against the good law of the state, and in disregard of every humane obligation? Who had fled leaving this beautiful inhabitant of the quiet woods in agony? The leaves stirred gently above it in the soothing breeze. A gay little bird chirped a melody in the overhanging branches as if to beguile it in its suffering. And the soft, gentle eye seemed full of an infinite patience as it looked at Westy. He was face to face with one of the sporting exploits of that horrible toy, the rifle. For just a moment it seemed as if the stricken deer were looking at his own rifle as if in quiet curiosity. Then he noticed a tiny wound and a little trickle of blood on the creature’s side. It made a striking contrast, the crimson and the dull gray.... CHAPTER V A PLAIN DUTY ...And the great hunter crouching behind the rock brought his trusty rifle to bear upon the distant stag. The keen- eyed marksman looked like a statue as he knelt, waiting. Westy recalled these words in the mammoth volume on the sitting room table at the farm. He had admired, even been thrilled at the heroic picture of the great hunter whose exploits in the Maine woods were so flatteringly recorded. It had not at the time occurred to him that the noble stag might have looked like a statue too. Well, here was the actual result of such flaunted heroism, and Westy did not like it. It was quite a different sort of picture. Then, suddenly, it occurred to him that he was to blame for this pitiful spectacle. He who shoots does not always kill. But he who shoots intends to kill. If the fugitive had failed of his purpose it was because he had been frightened at the sound of some one near at hand. The shooting season was not on, it had been a stolen, lawless shot. A feeling of anger, even of hate, was aroused in Westy’s mind, against the ruthless violator of the law who had been forced to save himself by flight before his lawless deed was completed. He had probably thought the footfalls those of a game warden. To shoot game out of season was bad enough as it seemed to the scout. To shoot living things seemed now bereft of all glory to the sensitive boy. But to shoot and not kill and then run away seemed horrible. This poor deer might suffer for hours. Westy had seen a little demonstration of the kind of thing he had been reading and hearing about. Through the medium of the alluring printed page, he had been present at buffalo hunts, he had seen kindly, intelligent elephants laid low, and here he was seething with rage that the blood of this harmless, beauteous creature had been shed, and shed to no purpose. But Westy was more than a sensitive boy, he was a scout. And a scout has ever a sense of responsibility. It was futile to consider what some stranger had done while this poor creature lay suffering. All that he had read and heard about hunting big game and all such stuff was forgotten in the consciousness of a present duty. He, Westy Martin, must put this deer out of its suffering; he must kill it. The owner of the precious rifle, all shiny and oily, shuddered. He, scout of the first class, must finish the work which some criminal wretch had begun. He was too essentially honest to take refuge in his promise not to shoot at anything but a target. He had a momentary thought of that, and then was ashamed of it. Phrases familiar to him ran through his head. Serious boy that he was, he had always been a reader of the Handbook. A scout is helpful. A scout is friendly to all.... A scout is kind. He is a friend to animals. He will not kill nor hurt.... Yet he was not friendly to all. He was enraged at the absent destroyer, who had made it necessary for him to do something he could not bear to do. He wished that Ira were there to do it instead. He who had admired the great hunter crouching behind a rock, wished now that the mighty hunter might be present to attend to this miserable business. He had never dreamed of such an emergency, of such a duty. He wished that one or other of the sprightly youngsters in the advertisements, who were so ready with their firearms, might shoot for once in this humane cause. Poor Westy, he was just a boy after all.... CHAPTER VI FIRST AID—LAST AID He never in all his life felt so nervous, and so much like a criminal, as when he reached with trembling hand for the innocent rifle with which he was to shed more crimson blood and destroy a life. He looked guiltily at the deer whose eye seemed to hold him in a kind of gentle stare. It seemed as if the creature trusted him, yet wondered what he was going to do. There was a kind of pathos in the thought that came to him that the suffering deer did not recognize the rifle as the sort of thing which had laid him low. The creature’s innocence, as one might say, went to the boy’s heart. He backed away from the stricken form, three yards—five yards. He felt brutal, abominable. The cautious little bird had withdrawn to a tree somewhat farther off where it still sang blithely. Westy paused, listening to the bird. Then he stole toward the tree trying to deceive himself that he wanted to see what kind of a bird it was, when in plain fact all he was doing was killing time. The bird, disgusted with the whole affair as one might have fancied, made a great flutter and flew away to a more wholesome atmosphere. The bird was not a scout, it had no duties.... Westy advanced a few paces, his rifle shaking in his hand. It was simple enough what he had to do, yet there he was absurdly calculating distances. Oh, if it had only been the white target there before him with its black circles one inside another, the only hunting ground or jungle Westy knew. Strange, how different he felt now. He could not bear that soft eye contemplating him so he walked around to the other side of the deer where the eye could not see him. Then he felt sneaky, like one stealing up behind his victim. And through all his immature trepidation hate was in his heart; hate for the brutal wretch who had fled thinking only of his own safety, and leaving this ungrateful task for him to do. Suddenly it occurred to Westy that he might run to Chandler and tell the authorities what he had found. That would be his good turn for the day. Ira had always “guyed” him about good turns. That would seem like running away from an unpleasant duty. To whom did he owe the good turn? Was it not to this stricken, suffering creature? So Westy Martin, scout of the first class, did his good turn to this dumb creature in its dim forest home. The dumb creature did not know that Westy Martin was doing it a good turn. It seemed a queer sort of good turn. He could never write it down in his neat little scout record as a good turn. He would never, never think of it in that way. If the deer could only understand.... The way to do a thing is to do it. And it is not the part of a scout to dilly-dally. When a scout knows his duty he is not afraid. But if the deer could only know, could only understand.... Westy approached the creature with bolstered resolution. He lifted his gun, his arms shaking. Where should it be? In the head? Of course. He held the muzzle within six inches of the head. A jerky little squirrel crept part way down a tree, turned suddenly and scurried up again. It was very quiet about. Only the sound of a busy woodpecker tapping away somewhere. Westy paused for a moment, counting the taps.... Then there was another sound; quick, sharp, which did not belong in the woods. And the woodpecker stopped his tapping. Westy saw the deer’s forefoot twitch spasmodically. And a little stream of blood was trailing down its forehead. Westy Martin had done his daily good turn....