Читать книгу Westy Martin in the Land of the Purple Sage - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 5

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The creek of which Tom had spoken ran from the camp lake and down into the Hudson at Catskill, a distance of about fifteen miles. But it was not navigable by a motor boat all of the way. For the first mile or two from the lake it was a mere brook; then it broadened into quite a sizable stream, and from this point down to the lordly Hudson a motor boat could be used by anyone who knew the channel.

But Camp Creek, as they called it, was by no means the quiet stream which it seemed. It had fits of temper and at such times would run utterly amuck. After heavy rains it would overflow its banks, and at points where there were abrupt turns it would go careering out of its wonted bed pursuing a gay, rebellious course through the low country.

That was the cause of the trouble down at Squatter Sam’s marsh, for at Second Bend, as they called it, the swollen stream jumped its confines and instead of making the turn went straight ahead, flooding an area of farm country and turning Sam’s harmless little marsh into a swampy lake.

Now, since Captain Winton and his men were making an inspection of the Hudson, several of the farmers had asked him to come up and look the creek over and say what might be done to prevent these occasional inundations. One of them had told him that the scout camp kept a boat on the creek and his call at Administration Shack had been simply to ascertain whether someone might chug him up and down the creek so that he might look it over.

The camp was very proud of this fine launch, the gift of Mary Temple, daughter of the founder. It was moored downstream a mile or more from camp, for that was as near as they could run it to the camp property.

It was the camp custom to appoint a boy each week to be responsible for the safe keeping of the launch, which was used mostly for fishing down on the Hudson. The caretaker’s duty consisted simply of hiking or paddling down to it each day, bailing it out if necessary, and seeing that it was fast to its mooring. A tramp had once bunked in it, and this sort of thing had started the good precautionary custom of daily inspection.

It was Westy’s week and naturally, as Tom had said, he would be the one to chug this interesting stranger up and down the creek. He fervently hoped that the vociferous rabble of Temple Camp would not intrude upon the privacy of this scientific cruise.

Westy was a serious boy, interested in big and serious projects. He had been to Yellowstone Park on an honor trip and became interested in the government’s fine work of reclamation, game and forest conservation. Also he had been active in a scout campaign for the aid of the Mississippi flood victims. So in a superficial way he knew something of these big undertakings. He felt that now good fortune was more than making amends to him for his recent perilous mishap.

With this in mind he went into the office to lay claim to the privilege of piloting the interesting stranger up and down the creek. “I’m looking after the launch this week,” he said, “so I suppose I can be the one to take that army engineer around—unless some grown up person is going to do it. I’ve run the launch a lot and once I fixed it. I’d like to be the one because there’s some questions I want to ask him.”

“I don’t know anything to prevent,” said Councillor Wainwright cheerily. “I suppose Tom Slade’s too busy.”

“If you leave it to Tom, I’ll be the one,” said Westy. “Some day I want to go out west and join in that kind of work, forest conservation and all that. I guess he knows all about those things, hey?”

“I think he’s a reclamation expert,” said the councillor; “irrigation and all that. He’s a very interesting man.”

“I’m afraid all the scouts will want to go tomorrow,” said poor Westy.

“Oh, no, he’s strictly business,” laughed the councillor. “He’s not conducting any Cook’s Tours. I dare say he’ll have a couple of his own young fellows along. But you can run the launch if you want to; I guess you’ll be able to do that. Why do the boys all call you Grandpa, Westy?”

“I guess it’s because—maybe—I’m kind of interested in grown-up things. I like to go round with men. I read a lot about forest conservation.”

“Yes? Well then you ought to find the captain interesting. He’s putting up a big dam somewhere out in Arizona.”

“Gee, I’m glad I can be the one,” enthused Westy.

“N—no. I hadn’t thought about it but as long as you’re watching out for the boat this week I suppose you’re what we might call the logical choice. I’m glad you spoke of it, Westy. Suppose you get out of here good and early in the morning before any of the scouts are about. Good idea? Here, I’ll give you a card to the captain and I’ll try to get him on the ’phone tonight so he’ll know you’re coming. You’ll find him at the Half Moon House. He’s a bear for discipline, so don’t keep him waiting.”

Westy was too elated to speak, he just stood there beaming all over as he took the card on which the councillor had written:

Captain Winton:

This will introduce to you, Westy Martin, one of our scouts, who will be at your service for the day. He is thoroughly familiar with running our launch.

Temple Camp is very glad to be of service to you in your work.

E. C. Wainwright, Councillor.

As Westy went down to camp fire he walked on air. He did not join his troop in its customary spot around the mounting blaze because he was afraid something might be said about the captain and he would have to resort to subterfuge, a thing obnoxious to his frank, honest nature. He was particularly afraid of the terrible Pee-wee Harris who he felt sure would be quite ready to take the whole Reclamation Service under his wing.

Consequently, he sprawled at the feet of old Uncle Jeb Rushmore, instructor in woods lore and pathfinding and gazed abstractedly into the fire, only half hearing the camp fire groups. He saw himself discovering and plugging up a tiny but growing leak in a great dam out west (for that is what heroes are supposed to do) and in his wakeful dreaming he caught a band of robbers out in Montana who were setting fire to a forest reserve. Also he saw himself riding on a wild mustang down the shores of the Mississippi to tell the people that a levee was crumbling!

Poor Westy, he was always thinking of such big things that he never got much pleasure from little things. Others could get a day’s enjoyment “kidding” Pee-wee Harris or going on some nonsensical hike. But Westy was one of those boys who saw big and dreamed of participation in great achievements. And how he counted on this momentary, insignificant affiliation with a man who was busy altering the face of nature! How adventurous to follow him on his country-wide missions! Poor Westy, all he was going to do was pilot this miracle worker up and down the creek in the Temple Camp launch. But if he had been about to start to Arizona with him he could hardly have been more joyously elated.

He was up and out at exactly twenty minutes past four in the morning. He intended to hike down the creek to where the launch was moored and give it a thorough sprucing up in honor of his distinguished passenger. Then he would just sit in it till time to start off down the Hudson. He thought he might as well do this, since he had not been able to sleep.

The camp seemed quiet in the gray, early morn; it looked different. How strange the cooking shack looked with its big board shutters closed tight! How deserted the diving board, pointing out into the lake like a long, ghastly finger! The rowboats crowded together at the float, blown one against another by the night breeze, seemed to seek warmth and company of each other like a huddled flock of sheep. And the clanking of their chains and oarlocks in the still and breaking light was strangely audible.

He followed the trail around the lake until he reached the outlet on the other side. Here the creek was just a tiny rivulet but after that it gradually widened and its winding course brought him to the point where motor boating became possible.

Around the next bend was the Scout tied up under an overhanging willow. He could spend about an hour there brushing off the cushions, sponging out the bilge, and tidying up the boat generally. He had it figured out that he could be at the Hudson Boating Club by eight o’clock and that would be about the right time. To make sure that his card of introduction was safe in his pocket he felt of it carefully. This he had done two or three times on his way down the creek. Never since the day he had been awarded his trip to the Yellowstone had he been so expectant, so happy.

He approached the bend, running, just from sheer exuberance. It was one of those sharp, freakish, treacherous bends where the creek overflowed after heavy rains. But now it flowed obediently in its channel.

There was the big spreading willow tree, reflected in the water which now shimmered in the early sunlight. But the launch was nowhere to be seen.