Читать книгу Westy Martin on the Santa Fe Trail - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 10

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Mile after mile they covered and still the snow-clad peaks of the Raton Range seemed as elusive as the will-o’-the-wisp.

The next morning, however, the outlines of the base became more perceptible as they drew nearer. At first sight it had a dark, grim look in the early morning light, a noticeable contrast to the green pastoral beauty of the foothills.

They were going to take some pictures of the summit and Mr. Wilde looked critically up at the crest that loomed before them now like a lighthouse in the heavens. He mentioned that they were going to foot it after they struck the base and they wouldn’t be riding again for at least a couple of weeks.

That statement was very gratifying to the boys. They experienced a thrill in the freedom they would have roaming about at will for the first time since they started. In short, they sat up and took notice immediately.

To Westy the mountains and the smell of pine and the camp-fire at night were alluring. There never was bacon that tasted like the bacon fried over hot coals and no kitchen range ever boiled or percolated coffee as redolent as the coffee that was boiled in the Great Outdoors.

“Gee, it’s a pip of a day!” Westy was full of enthusiastic anticipation.

“Yeh, could be much worse!” Rip said gloomily.

“Aw, quit the crépe-hanging, Rip! We’ll get a kick out of something if it’s only one of the mules.”

That afternoon they ascended the range and little by little the dark stretch of the base beneath them disappeared and the light seemed brighter with each forward step. Billy suggested that they look out for a good camping spot as they were reaching just about the right location to start out from each day and return to at night without having to move their stuff on all the time.

They were going along the main trail all the time and Westy mentioned that they would have to find a spot near a brook. Where else would they get their water? There was a little narrow path that ran between the thickly grown trees to their left. While Mr. Wilde and Billy were arguing about the best place to stop, the true scout did a little scouting on his own and followed the path for a while. He wasn’t walking more than five minutes when he came out to a place that had once been a clearing, but was now moss-grown and weedy. But joy of joys, there was an old dilapidated cabin with most of the windows broken, but seemingly a good substantial roof and a chimney that revealed the presence of an open fireplace within.

As he opened the creaking door whose hinges were thick in the rust of disuse, Westy realized that no human feet had crossed its threshold for many years past. A table of home-made manufacture stood in the center of the cabin and there were berths built on each side of the fireplace; four in all. Just made to order, Westy thought as he glanced through the broken window near the back. A brook was running merrily back of it about the distance of a long city block away. He hurried back to tell the news of his lucky find.

“I suppose you would never have come across that place if you weren’t a scout,” Mr. Wilde kidded him.

“A scout is observant!” Westy reminded him.