So it happened that Westy Martin, who had called himself and his companions back-yard scouts, was now afforded the opportunity to do something really big in the line of scouting. Little he dreamed how very big that something would be.

We need not pause to accompany our three heroes on these tours of the Park. They saw the sights in true tourist fashion. They saw Old Faithful geyser, they went down into the Devil’s Kitchen, they gazed at the petrified forests—and thought of Pelican Cone. Where was Pelican Cone? Somewhere away off the main traveled roads, no doubt. They asked fellow tourists about it, but none had ever heard of it. And the more remote and inaccessible and unknown it seemed to be, the more they longed to penetrate its distant and intricate fastnesses.

At last, at the appointed time, Westy waited in the big office of the Mammoth Hotel near the Gardiner entrance of the Park. A little group of envious boys, belonging to tourist parties, stood about curiously and enviously.

“Aren’t the other two fellows going?” one asked.

“Sure, they’re getting ready,” said Westy.

“Gee whiz, I’d like to be going up there,” said another. “I bet it’s wild, hey?”

“I guess it is. I’ve never been up there,” said Westy.

The envious little audience stood about gazing at Westy while he waited for his two companions and for Mr. Wilde and Billy the camera man. Westy, bag and baggage, had appeared in the office a half hour before the appointed time; he was not going to take any chances of missing his new friends! He had awakened at daylight and lay counting the minutes. At six o’clock he had arisen, eaten breakfast alone, then wandered about, waiting.

When finally he took his stand in the big office of the hotel he found himself quite as much a celebrity as that fallen hero Shining Sun had ever been.

At last his four comrades on the big adventure appeared together, having partaken of a hasty breakfast.

Mr. Wilde had rooted out the two sleepers whose rest had not been disturbed by thoughts of the big trip.

“A hopeless pair,” said Mr. Wilde cheerily. “Are you all ready?”

“Where’s your scout suit?” Westy asked Ed Carlyle.

“He was too sleepy to see what he was putting on,” said Mr. Wilde in his brisk way. “It’s not the clothes that make the scout—how ’bout that, Ed? Westy, my boy, you’re all for show.”

“No, but I don’t see why he didn’t wear his khaki suit as long as he’s got one,” said Westy. “You’ve got a khaki suit on, I see.”

“Meet Billy, the camera man,” said Mr. Wilde. “Billy, now you see the whole outfit, Westy, Ed, and Warde. They’ve got last names, but we’re not going to bother carrying them when mountain hiking. You don’t want any more weight and paraphernalia than necessary. Ed is such a fine scout he doesn’t require any significant equipment—like you. You fellows with all your scout trappings belong in the Shining Sun class. That right, Ed?”

It was impossible to debate such a matter with Mr. Wilde. There was a certain finality to everything he said. And his buoyant air of banter quite silenced poor Westy. But the boy did wonder, he could not help wondering, why Ed Carlyle, in this great scout adventure of their young lives, should have failed to don his regular scouting apparel.

“Trouble with you,” said Mr. Wilde, patting Westy on the shoulder, “you’re all for fuss and feathers. You want to tell the world you’re a scout instead of proving it. You and Warde are all dolled up like Christmas trees—parlor scouts. Am I right, Billy? Now, are you all ready or do you want to go upstairs and brush your hair? All right then, let’s go. We seem to be creating quite a disturbance here. If we don’t beat it we’ll have Old Faithful Geyser, the Petrified Forests, and the Devil’s Kitchenette tearing their hair with jealousy.”

An automobile was waiting outside the hotel to take the party as far as Yellowstone Falls beyond which point there was no regular road to their remote and lonely destination. It was a ride of about twenty-five miles down around Norris Geyser Basin and eastward to the vicinity of the Grand Canyon. The award boys had seen this in all its colorful glory only two days before, and had descended into its depths. Eastward from this point was a tract of wild Rocky Mountain country where no tourists ever went and rising out of this rugged region some twelve or fifteen miles distant was Pelican Cone rearing its head nine thousand five hundred feet above the surrounding country.

There was a trail to the mountain, a trail which could have told many thrilling tales if it could have spoken to the passerby. Along its winding way famous scouts of old had passed in their quest of grizzlies, and the solemn depths of the neighboring forests had once resounded with the appalling war-cry of the Indians.

It was with a thrill of high anticipation that Westy Martin, taking a last look at the frontier of tourist travel (wild enough indeed), turned his gaze toward the forbidding and unpeopled region which they were about to enter. As he did so the familiar honk of the automobiles which had brought them to the stepping-off place could be heard as the car sped northward along the road toward Tower Falls.