Читать книгу Wigwag Weigand - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 8

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Under Delmar’s instruction, Wig learned to be a sharpshooter. He had a steady aim and missed the mark but a few times. It was a fine showing for an afternoon’s lesson and before dark he knew many of the secret tricks of marksmanship.

“You were born to the rifle, kiddo,” Delmar told him just before they said goodnight. “You’re O.K. and as far as worrying about your Eagle Scout badge—don’t! A scout that has your aim is worth more than a badge. Don’t forget that.”

It was pleasant to hear that from an expert’s lips and Wig knew that Delmar was that. He liked repeating those words of praise over and over again. In the seclusion of his shelter he cherished every syllable that the older scout had uttered. Yet somehow he could not make up his mind that being able to aim was worth more than the coveted Eagle Scout badge.

He sat down and untied his shoe laces abstractedly. It had been a joyous afternoon in any case. In point of fact, he had never before been taken in—talked to as Delmar had talked to him. He had treated him as one grown up fellow treats another. And at the first time! That thrill comes to a boy once in a lifetime.

An orchestra of bullfrogs tuned up from somewhere beyond Delmar’s shack. Their noisy, guttural notes filled the forest, but Wig hardly heard them. He sat with one shoe off and the other perched ludicrously upon the tips of his toes lost in meditation over his new found friend.

They had talked of cities and places after supper but not once had Delmar mentioned himself. It made Wig wonder in a dreamy sort of way, although he knew from the vivid pictures that his friend had drawn in their talk that he had seen them—perhaps lived in them.

Small voices inside Wig’s energetic young brain asked and answered many questions. He told himself that it was enough that Delmar said he was Delmar. And the proof of the pudding was his Eagle Scout badge.

He felt that Delmar was truthful. One couldn’t help feeling it notwithstanding the young man’s reticence. If he was keeping a purposeful silence about his presence in the mountains and at the shack, that was as it should be. One just accepted him and believed in him.

And Wig too was under this spell. As he crawled into his shelter a pang of genuine regret passed through him at the thought of having to leave Delmar in the morning. There was an even chance that he would never see him again.

He turned on his hands and knees and crawled outside again. “G’night, Delmar, old scout!” he called in lusty tones.

A passing breeze faintly rustled the screen of ferns between the oaks and the brook gave an answering tinkle. After that from inside the shack, Delmar’s rollicking voice answered, “Goodnight, Wigwag, young scout! Goodnight!”

A sense of peace pervaded Wig after that and the warmth of his blanket and the crooning hum of mountain life lulled him to sleep. But from the shack, hidden by the trees, a faint yellow light glimmered out through the broken windowpane and open doorway. Delmar was sprawled out in his bunk, anxiously scanning the headlines of a San Francisco newspaper.

A great bulk of a man stepped out of the thicket with noiseless tread and walked toward the shack. For a moment he stood back in the shadows, watching Delmar within. Then he brought out a small rifle from under his coat.