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Title: Injun and Whitey to the Rescue


Author: William S. Hart



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The Golden West Boys

INJUN AND WHITEY TO THE RESCUE

by

WILLIAM S. HART

Author of Injun and Whitey and Injun and Whitey Strike Out for
Themselves, etc.

Illustrated by Harold Cue







[Illustration: THEY COULDN'T SHOOT HIM--HE WAS GOING TOO FAST (_page 272_)]




Grosset & Dunlap Publishers New York
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1922, by William S. Hart
All Rights Reserved
Printed In The U.S.A.





PREFACE


_In the Boys' Golden West Series I have done my best to present to its
readers the West that I knew as a boy._

_Frontier days were made up of many different kinds of humans. There
were men who were muddy-bellied coyotes, so low that they hugged the
ground like a snake. There were girls whose cheeks were so toughened by
shame as to be hardly knowable from squaws. There were stoic Indians
with red-raw, liquor-dilated eyes, peaceable and just when sober,
boastful and intolerant when drunk. And then there were those White Men,
those moulders, those makers of the great, big open-hearted West, that
had not yet been denatured by nesters and wire fences, men to whom a
Colt gun was the court of last appeal and who did not carry a warrant in
their pockets until it was worn out, men who faced staggering odds and
danger single-handed and alone, men who created and worked out and made
an Ideal Civilization,--a country where doors were left unlocked at
night and the windows of the mind were always open,--men who were
always kind to the weak and unprotected, even if they did have hoofs and
horns, men like William B. (Bat) Masterson and Wyatt Earp. They and
their kind made the frontier, that Great West which we can now look back
upon as the most romantic era of our American History._

_I love it; I love all that was ever connected with it; and to all those
who are in sympathy with my crude efforts to set forth what little I
know, to each and every boy who feels a choke in his throat when he
reads the closing lines of "In Memory," I say, I have a choke in my
throat too, and I am silently clutching your hand, for that red boy has
crossed the Big Divide and gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds and the
white boy is saying Farewell._

The Author




CONTENTS

      I. An Arrival 1

     II. A Surprise 13

    III. Mystery 26

     IV. Solution 39

      V. Bunk-House Talk 51

     VI. Boots 66

    VII. Education and Other Things 77

   VIII. Injun Talks 87

     IX. Fish-Hooks and Hooky 115

      X. A Hard Job 129

     XI. The T Up and Down 139

    XII. Felix the Faithless 150

   XIII. A Fool's Errand 160

    XIV. The Stampede 170

     XV. The Cattle-Sheep War 185

    XVI. "Medicine" 206

   XVII. "The Pride of the West" 218

  XVIII. Wonders 229

    XIX. Threshing-Time 235

     XX. The Story of the Custer Fight 247

    XXI. Unrest 263

   XXII. The New Order 271

  XXIII. Pioneer Days 290

   XXIV. "In Memory" 299



ILLUSTRATIONS


  They couldn't shoot him--he was going
  too fast _Frontispiece_

  In Front of Them Stood Sitting Bull 16

  Advancing into the Road with both Front
  Paws Extended 120

  The Man's Figure disappeared through
  the Opening, the Bucket falling from
  his Hands 202



INJUN AND WHITEY TO THE RESCUE




CHAPTER I

AN ARRIVAL


There was no doubt that affairs were rather dull on the Bar O Ranch; at
least they seemed so to "Whitey," otherwise Alan Sherwood. Since he and
his pal, "Injun," had had the adventures incidental to the finding of
the gold in the mountains, there had been nothing doing. So life seemed
tame to Whitey, to whom so many exciting things had happened since he
had come West that he now had a taste for excitement.

It was Saturday, so there were no lessons, and it was a relief to be
free from the teachings of John Big Moose, the educated Dakota, who
acted as tutor for Injun and Whitey. Not that John was impatient with
his pupils. He was too patient, if anything, his own boyhood not being
so far behind him that he had forgotten that outdoors, in the Golden
West, is apt to prove more interesting to fifteen-year-old youth than
printed books--especially when one half the class is of Indian blood.

As Whitey stood near the bunk house and thought of these things, his eye
was attracted by a speck moving toward him across the prairie. He
watched it with the interest one might have in a ship at sea; as one
watches in a place in which few moving things are seen. The speck was
small, and was coming toward Whitey slowly.

From around the corner of the bunk house Injun approached. It will be
remembered by those who have read of Injun that he was very fond of pink
pajamas. As garments, pink pajamas seemed to Injun to be the real thing.
It had been hard to convince him that they were not proper for everyday
wear, but when he was half convinced of this fact, he had done the next
best thing, and taken to a very pink shirt. This, tucked in a large pair
of men's trousers, below which were beaded moccasins, was Injun's
costume, which he wore with quiet dignity.

"What do you s'pose that is?" asked Whitey, pointing at the speck.

"Dog," Injun answered briefly.

"A dog!" cried Whitey, who, though he had never ceased to wonder at
Injun's keenness of sight, was inclined to question it now. "What can a
dog be doing out there?"

"Dunno," Injun replied. "Him dog." Injun's education had not as yet sunk
in deep enough to affect his speech.

Whitey again turned his eyes toward the object, which certainly was
moving slowly, as though tired, and, as the boys watched, sure enough,
began to resolve itself into the shape of a dog. Here at last was
something happening to break the dullness of the day. A strange dog
twenty-five miles from any place in which a dog would naturally be.

Furthermore, when the animal was near enough to be seen distinctly, he
furnished another surprise. He was entirely unlike any of the dogs of
that neighborhood--the hounds, collies, or terriers. He was white,
short, chunky. His head was very large for his size, his jaw undershot,
his mouth enormous, and his lower lip drooped carelessly over a couple
of fangs on each side. Under small ears his eyes popped almost out of
his head, and his snub nose could scarcely be said to be a nose at all.
From a wide chest his body narrowed until it joined a short, twisted
tail, and his front legs were bowed, as though he had been in the habit
of riding a horse all his life.

Injun gazed at this strange being with something as near surprise as he
ever allowed himself. "Him look like frog," he declared.

"Why, it's a bulldog, an English bulldog!" exclaimed Whitey, who had
seen many of this breed in the East.

"More like bullfrog," Injun maintained solemnly. "What him do--eat
bulls?"

The brute's appearance surely was forbidding enough, and if Injun had
been subject to fear, which he wasn't, he would have felt it now. He did
not know, as many better informed people do not, that beneath this
breed's fierce appearance lies the deepest of dog love for a
master--and that's a pretty deep love--and that no other "friend of man"
holds gentler, kinder feeling for the human race than this queerly
shaped animal. And this in spite of the fact that he owes the very
queerness of his appearance to man, who has had him bred in that shape,
through countless generations, to the end that the poor, faithful beast
may do brutal deeds in the bull ring and the dog pit.

Whitey did not know all this--that the wide jaws were designed for a
grip on the enemy, the snub nose to permit breathing while that grip was
held, the widespread legs to secure a firm ground hold; in short, that
he was looking at an animal built for conflict, which had the courage of
a lion where his enemies were concerned, and the love of a wild thing
for its young where its human friends were concerned.

But Whitey knew the latter part of it--that bulldogs were friendly, and
usually misunderstood, and he proceeded to let Injun in on his
knowledge. "You needn't be afraid of him," he said.

"No 'fraid, but no go too close," replied the cautious Injun.

Now that this dog was in reach of humans he sat down, opened his
cave-like mouth, allowing a few inches of tongue to loll out, panted,
and looked amiably at the boys. He certainly was tired.

"He's not only tired, he's thirsty," said Whitey, and ran to the stable
for water.

And while he was gone the bulldog and Injun looked at each other--Injun
with his bronze skin, his long, straight hair, his calm face, and his
steady, dark eyes. This descendant of thousands of fighting men regarded
that descendant of thousands of fighting dogs. And what they thought of
each other the dog couldn't tell, and Injun didn't, but ever after they
were friends.

Presently Whitey returned from the stable with a pan of water, and with
Bill Jordan, foreman of the Bar O, Charlie Bassett, Buck Higgins, and
Shorty Palmer, all the cowpunchers who happened to be on the place. They
all knew bulldogs, and they regarded the newcomer with awe and respect.

Whitey put the water before the dog, who, after favoring him with a
grateful glance and a quiver of his stub tail, went to it.

"He's sure awful dry," Bill said. "Ought t' take him up to Moose Lake.
Looks like that pan o' water won't even moisten him."

"Where d'ye reck'n he come from?" asked Shorty.

"Dunno."

"Mebbe he was follerin' a wagon, an' got lost," Buck Higgins suggested
hopefully.

"Wagon nothin'!" snorted Bill. "Nobody in these parts'd have a dog like
that, an' if they did, what would he be doin' follerin' a wagon? He
ain't built to run, he's built to fight."

Where the dog had come from was something of a mystery. Neighbors were
not near by, in those days, in Montana, the nearest being fourteen miles
off, and the railway twenty-two, and nothing there but a water tank.
There was some discussion regarding the matter which ended in a
deadlock. It was certain that none of the ranchmen in the vicinity owned
such a dog, and even so, or if a visitor owned him, how would he get to
the Bar O? Walk, with "them legs"?

While the discussion went on, the subject of it gulped down large chunks
of beef which Whitey had begged from the cook, and after that he went
with the men and boys to the ranch house, where, with an apologetic
leer, and a wiggle of his tail, he stretched himself on the veranda, and
fell into a deep sleep. He was very grateful, but he was also very
tired.

In a lonely ranch house matters are of concern which would create little
comment in a city. This dog's coming was in the nature of an event at
the Bar O. Bill, the foreman, and all the punchers were ready to neglect
work for a considerable time and talk about it. Even Injun occasionally
looked interested. But all the talk could not solve the problem of the
animal's presence.

The only one who knew lay sleeping on the veranda and couldn't tell. It
isn't likely that he dreamed, but if he did it might have been of being
tied to the handle of a trunk in an overland limited baggage car; of the
train's stopping for water at a lonely tank; of the earthy, wholesome
country smell that came through the door, left open for coolness.

There had been a stirring in the grass near the track. A glimpse of an
animal that looked something like a fox and something like a wolf, and
wasn't either one, a wild animal that was sneaking around the train for
the odd bits of food that were sometimes left in its wake. As the
pungent scent of this beast reached the bulldog's snub nose, the leash
that held him to the trunk became a thing of little worth. With a
violent lurch he broke it, leaped from the door, landed sprawling
alongside the track, and was off in pursuit of the strange animal.

Now, any one who knows how a bulldog is built and how a coyote is built
can imagine how much chance the first has to catch the second. The dog
followed by sight, not by scent. With his head held as high as his short
neck would allow he dashed on. The coyote didn't bother very much. After
getting a good start he doubled on his tracks for a little way, turned
aside, and sat down. And if he wasn't too mean to laugh, he may at
least have smiled as his enemy rushed forward toward nowhere.

Then that bulldog ran and ran until he couldn't run any more. Then he
walked till he couldn't walk any farther. Then he slept all night, while
other coyotes howled dismally near by. And in the morning he started off
again, thinking he was going toward the train and his sorrowful master,
really going in the opposite direction. But there was one thing that man
hadn't taught him to do in all the years, and that was to quit, so he
kept on. And at last, as any one will who keeps going long enough, he
had to arrive somewhere and he reached the Bar O Ranch.

So you and I and the dog know how he got there, but Bill Jordan, the
punchers, and the boys didn't, and presently they gave up trying to
figure it out.

"'Tain't likely his owner'll show up, so he's ours," said Bill Jordan.

"He's Whitey's," Buck Higgins maintained. "He saw him first."

This law was older than any ranch house, or any cowpuncher, so it held
good, and Whitey became the proud owner of the dog. The matter of his
name came next in importance. Of course he had one, and he was awakened,
and asked to respond to as many dog names as the party could think of.
These were many, running from Towser to Nero, but they brought no
response from the sleepy animal.

"Must be somep'n unusual," Buck Higgins decided, and he ventured on
"Alphonse" and "Julius Caesar," but they didn't fit.

"Well, we jest nachally got t' give him a name," said Shorty Palmer.

Again the list was gone over, but nothing seemed quite right. "Oughta be
somep'n' 'propriate," said Bill Jordan. "How 'bout Moses? He was lost in
th' wilderness."

"Wilderness nothin'!" objected Buck. "In the bullrushes. Them ain't
prairie grass."

"Besides," said Whitey, "he ought to have a fighting name. Napoleon!"

"'Tain't English."

"Wellington."

"Too long."

As he seemed to have no choice in naming his own dog, Whitey turned in
despair to Injun, who had stood solemnly by. "How about you?" Whitey
asked. "Haven't you a name to suggest?"

The dog knew that he was the subject of the talk, and possibly felt that
he ought to keep awake, for he sat on the veranda and blinked at the
humans. Injun gazed at him stolidly.

"Huh!" he grunted. "Sittin' Bull."

"Great!" cried all the others.

This matter settled, the men went away. Sitting Bull stretched himself
out on the veranda and again fell asleep, and Whitey told Injun that the
dog's coming probably was a good omen. That there ought to be something
doing on the ranch now.




CHAPTER II

A SURPRISE


It was early morning, and the Bar O Ranch slept, heedless of the keen
late-autumn air that had in it just a faint, brisk hint of the fall
frosts to come. Whitey came out of the ranch house and moved toward the
stable. Sitting Bull trudged after him.

The dog was entirely rested, having slept the better part of two days
and nights. He seemed to know that Whitey was his new owner. Dogs have
an instinct for that sort of thing. And though Bull was civil and
friendly enough with every one else on the ranch, he took to Whitey by
selection.

At six o'clock each night Bull sat near the ranch-house front door as
though waiting for some one. He waited a long time. Bill Jordan, who
prided himself on what he knew about dogs, and men, said that Bull's
former owner probably was a city man, and was in the habit of coming
home at six; that the dog was waiting for him to appear. Be that as it
may, in the days to come Bull gave up this custom. No one knew what he
felt about the loss of his old master. He became a Montana dog. The city
was to know him no more.

Now he waddled along after Whitey, who was making for a straw stack,
near the stable. Among the field mice, gophers, rabbits, and such that
thought this stack was a pretty nice place to hang around, were two hens
that were of the same opinion. At least they made their nests in the
stack and laid their eggs there. And they were the only hens that the
Bar O boasted, for hens were scarce in Montana in those days--as Buck
said, "almost as scarce as hen's teeth, an' every one knows there ain't
no such thing."

It was Whitey's particular business to gather the eggs of those hens,
which they saw fit to lay early in the morning. So Whitey came to the
stack early, to be ahead of any weasels or ferrets, who had an uncommon
fondness for eggs. This morning as he moved around the stack he didn't
find any eggs, but he saw something black and pointed sticking out of
the straw. Whitey took hold of the object and pulled, and the thing
lengthened out in his hands.

And right there a sort of shivery feeling attacked Whitey's spine and
moved up until it reached his hair, which straightway began to stand on
end, for the object was a boot and in it was a man's leg. The boot came,
followed by the leg, followed by a man. From what might be called the
twin straw beds, another man emerged. Both sat upright in the straw and
rubbed their eyes. Whitey didn't wait to see if any more were coming, or
even to think of where he was going. He fled.

Instinct took him toward the ranch house, and good fortune brought Bill
Jordan out of the door at the same moment.

"Bill!" yelled Whitey, "there's two men in the straw stack!"

Bill did not appear unduly excited. "They ain't eatin' the straw, are
they?" he inquired.

"No, but they look awfully tough, and they nearly gave me
heart-disease," Whitey panted.

"If tough-lookin' folks could give me heart-disease, I'd of bin dead
long ago," Bill responded. "Let's go an' size 'em up."

Bill strolled to the stack with Whitey. The two men, now thoroughly
awake, were still sitting upright in the straw. In front of them stood
Sitting Bull. His lower jaw was sticking out farther than usual, and he
was watching the men and awaiting events.

[Illustration: IN FRONT OF THEM STOOD SITTING BULL]

"Hey! Call off yer dog, will ye?" requested one of the men.

"He ain't mine," Bill answered calmly, indicating Whitey. "He's his."

"Well, get him to call him off," said the man. "Every time we move he
makes a noise like sudden death."

Whitey summoned Bull, who came to him obediently enough, and the men
rose to their feet, and stretched themselves and brushed off some of the
straw that clung to their not over-neat attire. They were not as
bad-looking as they might have been, neither were they as good-looking.
One was tall and slim and wore a dark beard. The other was almost as
tall, but, being very fat, did not look his height. He was
clean-shaven, or would have been had it not been for about three days'
stubbly growth. Their clothes were well-worn, and they wore no collars,
but their boots were good.

"What you fellers doin' here?" demanded Bill. "Ain't the bunk house good
enough for you?"

"We got in late, an' ev'body was in bed," said the taller of the two.
"We're walkin' through for th' thrashin'."

"Well, yer late for that too," said Bill.

The threshing in the early days of Montana was an affair in which many
people of all sorts took part, as will be seen later. Bill questioned
the men, and their story was brought out. It seemed that they had come
from Billings, in search of work at threshing. The taller, thin one was
named Hank, but was usually called "String Beans," on account of his
scissors-like appearance. He had formerly been a cowpuncher. The other
had been a waiter, until he got too fat, then he had become a cook.
Originally named Albert, after he had waited in a restaurant for a
while he had been dubbed "Ham And," which, you may know, is a short way
of ordering ham and eggs. And this name in time was reduced to "Ham."

Bill Jordan did not seem to take the men seriously. Their names may have
had something to do with his attitude, and the early West was not
over-suspicious, anyway. It had been said that "out here we take every
man to be honest, until he is proven to be a thief, and in the East they
take every man to be a thief, until he is proven to be honest." You can
believe that or not, as you happen to live in the West or in the East.
Besides, Bill could make use of the talents of String Beans and Ham. He
needed "hands" to work on the ranch.

When Whitey found that his supposed tragedy was turning into a comedy,
he felt rather bad about it, especially as Bill was inclined to guy him.

"Lucky you didn't shoot up them two fellers what's named after food,"
Bill said, when the strangers had retired to the bunk house. "Or knock
'em out with some of them upper-cuts you're so handy in passin'
'round." For a boy, Whitey was an expert boxer.

"What was I to think, finding them that way?" Whitey retorted. "And they
don't look very good to me yet."

"Clothin' is only skin deep," said Bill.

Whitey felt called on to justify his alarm. "It's not only their
clothes," he said, "but their looks. You noticed that Bull didn't like
them, and you know dogs have true instinct about judging people."

"Let me tell you somethin' about dogs," began Bill, who usually was
willing to tell Whitey, or anybody else, something about anything. "Dogs
is supposed to be democratic, but they ain't. They don't like shabby
men. I'm purty fond of dogs, but they got one fault--they're snobs. They
don't like shabby men," Bill repeated for emphasis.

As Whitey thought of this he remembered that the dogs he had known had
this failing, if it was a failing. He also tried to think of some reason
for it, so he could prove that Bill was wrong, but he couldn't. That is,
he couldn't think of anything until Bill had gone away and it was too
late. Then it occurred to him that it was only the dogs that belonged to
the well-dressed that disliked the poorly dressed. That a shabby man's
dog loved him just as well as though he wore purple and fine linen,
whatever that was. Whitey looked around for Bill to confound him with
this truth, but Bill had disappeared--a way he had of doing the moment
he got the better of an argument.

If the two men were aching to work, they had not long to suffer; Bill
Jordan soon found occupation for them. Slim, the negro cook, had been
taken with a "misery" in his side, and Ham was installed in his place.
And to do Ham justice he was not such a bad cook. The ranch hands
allowed that he couldn't have been worse than Slim, anyway. String Beans
did not make so much of a hit as a cowpuncher. Bill watched some of his
efforts, and said that though he was a bad puncher he was a good liar
for saying he'd ever seen a cow before. So String Beans was sent to the
mine to work.

This quartz mine, up in the mountains, was the one near which Injun and
Whitey had had so many exciting adventures. Now they owned an interest
in it, as has been told, though Mr. Sherwood and a tribe of Dakota
Indians were the principal shareholders. During the summer the mine had
been undergoing development, and the first shipment of ore was soon to
be made.

With String Beans working at the mine, and Ham improving the men's
digestion as a cook, it began to look as though Whitey's idea that they
were desperate characters was ill-founded. In fact, the thought had
almost passed from his mind, and was quite forgotten on a certain
Saturday. On that day Injun and Whitey were free from the teachings of
John Big Moose, and were out on the plains for antelope. They didn't get
an antelope, didn't even see one. All they got were appetites; though
Whitey's appetite came without calling, as it were, and always excited
the admiration of Bill Jordan. After dinner that evening Whitey went to
the bunk house. Some of the cowpunchers were in from the range, and
Whitey loved to hear the yarns they would spin.

So he lay in a bunk and listened to a number of stories, and wondered
if they were all true--and it is a singular fact that some of them were.
But Whitey's day's hunt had been long, and his dinner had been big, and
his eyes began to droop.

Buck Higgins was in the midst of a tale about being thrown from his
cayuse and breaking his right arm. There was a wild stallion in this
story, which every puncher in seven states or so had tried to capture.
Now, Buck, with his right arm broken, naturally had to throw his rope
with his left, and his manner of doing that took some description. It
was during this that in Whitey's mind he, in a mysterious way, changed
to Buck, or rather Buck changed to Whitey, and the stallion changed to
an antelope, and pretty soon things began to get rather vague generally.

When Whitey awoke, the bunk house was almost dark. How long he had been
lying asleep he did not know. The light came from a candle, and
presently Whitey heard voices. Three men were seated near by, and Whitey
was about to get out of the bunk, when he recognized the voice of
String Beans, and something held him back. It was evident that the men
did not know that he was there.

Whitey felt something warm stir against him, and, startled, put out his
hand and encountered a hairy surface. It was Sitting Bull, who had
crawled into the bunk after Whitey had fallen asleep, and crowded in
between the boy and the wall. At the sound of String Beans' voice Whitey
felt the hair along Bull's neck rise. He remembered the dog's dislike
for the two men, and put his hand over Bull's mouth to keep him from
growling. Whitey was glad he did not snore. He might now have a chance
to learn whether the two were on the level or not.

For the moment Whitey had some qualms about listening, but he soon
dismissed them. If these men were open and aboveboard, why were they
whispering in the dimly lighted bunk house? Whitey had never been able
to overcome the first distrust he had felt for String Beans and Ham. He
also had a feeling that he ought to justify that distrust, that in a way
it was up to him. So he continued to eavesdrop.

String's tones were low, and did not come to Whitey distinctly. This
was unfortunate in one way, but fortunate in another, for had the men
been nearer they probably would have seen the boy. Soon another voice
broke in, and Whitey knew it as that of "Whiff" Gates, a puncher who was
a constant smoker. Then came another voice, that of Ham And.

Whiff Gates did not bear a good reputation, and it was only because of
the scarcity of help that Bill Jordan kept him on. As Whitey reflected
on this, and the "birds of a feather flock together" idea, he kept very
still. His patience was soon rewarded, for as the men grew more earnest
in their talk, their tones became louder, though Whitey could not hear
as distinctly as he would have liked.

However, he gathered that String had returned from the mine on account
of an injury to his foot, caused by a piece of rock falling on it. That
there had been some excitement at the mine, owing to a "bug hole" being
discovered. Whitey learned afterwards this was a sort of pocket caused
by the dripping of water, and containing a small but very rich quantity
of ore. Whitey also heard something about a certain date, on which the
three were to be at a certain place, but here, to his disgust, the
voices were again lowered, as if in caution.

On the whole, though this secret meeting seemed suspicious, the boy did
not learn enough to form a basis for action. Presently the men went
away, and after waiting until he considered it safe, Whitey left the
bunk house, followed by the faithful Bull. Whitey decided not to tell
Bill Jordan what he had heard. Bill probably would only poke fun at him
and hand him one of those arguments he couldn't answer.

But the next day he took Injun into his confidence. Injun had no use for
String and Ham, and furthermore was a person who could keep a secret.
And here was something for the boys to keep to themselves--a
mystery,--something to be solved. They would lie low and await events.
It made them feel quite important.




CHAPTER III

MYSTERY


Awaiting events did not seem a very thrilling occupation. Of course,
there was always John Big Moose's tutoring to fill in the gaps, but that
was less thrilling than just waiting, if possible. The teaching took
place in the big living-room of the ranch house, a room with a great
stone fireplace, the stone for which had been carted down from the
mountains; with walls decorated with Indian trophies--tomahawks, bows
and arrows, stone pipes and hatchets, knives--and with beadwork,
snowshoes, and many other interesting things. All these were enough to
take a fellow's mind off his lessons, and besides there was the floor,
with its bear and moose and panther skins, each with its history.

And outside, viewed through the big windows, was the rolling prairie,
with the touch of early fall on it, sometimes revealed in a light
curtain of haze, at which a fellow could gaze and imagine he saw the
squaws of the savage tribes gathering the maize for the coming winter's
store, while the braves rode off to hunt the buffalo.

Yes, it was rather distracting, but John Big Moose was very patient
about the lessons, though he had been eager for knowledge himself. He
had worked his way through a Western college, spurred on by the hope of
bettering his people, the Dakotas, and he _had_ bettered them. And when
Mr. Sherwood, Whitey's father, had gone East, with the understanding
that John was to tutor Whitey and Injun, John had resolved to do his
best.

But this other Injun, Whitey's pal, was not what you might call eager
for knowledge. Reading and writing were all right, and might be put to
some practical use, but arithmetic seemed rather useless, and when it
came to the "higher branches," geometry and trigonometry, they loomed up
to Injun like a bugbear of the future. In his heart Injun pined for his
truly loved field of study--the great outdoors.

But presently there came a slight break in the dull routine of words and
figures--a half-holiday. The first shipment of ore was to be made from
the mine. John Big Moose represented his tribe's interest in this mine,
and he was to go and inspect operations. The ore was to come down from
the mountain in sacks, loaded on horse and muleback, and to be delivered
to the railroad at the Junction, a small settlement about twenty miles
south of the ranch.

The boys thought that as they were stock-holders in the mine, they ought
to go along and attend to this matter, too, but John couldn't see it
that way. He compromised on a half-holiday for them; study in the
morning, freedom in the afternoon. So that morning they stuck to their
lessons. With John there to oversee them they might neglect their
studies. With him away, and the boys placed on their honor, the thing
wasn't to be thought of.

And here it might be repeated that Injun had a very strong sense of
honor. He had faults, as most of us have, but breaking promises, or what
he considered as promises, was not among them.

So that afternoon, as Injun and Whitey could not be with the shipment of
ore, they did the next best thing. They rode off into the foothills.
And on a grassy hill that commanded a widespread view of the plains,
they looked far off over the prairie. And winding across it, clear off
near the horizon, they saw tiny specks which represented mules and
horses, laden with the sacks of precious ore, and its escort of
cowpunchers.

That evening it was lonely at the ranch, Bill Jordan and the other men
being at the Junction. String Beans nursed his sore foot, and Ham
prepared dinner, which Injun had with Whitey in the ranch house. Time
passed and still the men did not return. Evidently they were celebrating
the shipment of the mine's first output, or waiting to see it put safely
aboard the train at the Junction. So Whitey invited Injun to spend the
night, and he accepted willingly, as it gave him a chance to wear the
pink pajamas that he loved.

Yawning time had come and passed. Whitey was sleeping soundly and
dreamlessly, when he was aroused by a grip on his arm. It was Injun in
his pink pajamas.

"Some one come," he said.

"Mebbe it's Bill and the others," Whitey ventured.

"Not Bill--only one man," Injun replied.

The coming of a man didn't seem important to Whitey, but he knew Injun
must have had something on his mind, or he wouldn't have waked him, and
he waited for his friend to speak more of the words of which he was so
sparing. The next speech was not long.

"Look," said Injun, and he went to the window.

Whitey went and looked. There was a faint light in the bunk house, and
another down by the horse corral. As the boys watched, a man came out of
the bunk house, and even in the dim light Whitey recognized him. He was
String Beans.

"Why," whispered Whitey, "I thought he was lame. He doesn't even limp."

"Him get well," Injun replied.

The light at the corral moved toward and joined that at the bunk house,
and the two revealed a man leading three horses.

"It's Whiff!" gasped Whitey. "I thought he was with the men at the
Junction."

"Him get back," Injun grunted, with meaning.

Absorbed in the scene being enacted before them, the boys watched in
silence.

Bill Jordan had said that Injun slept with his mind open; that most
Injuns did; that if they hadn't done that all these years there wouldn't
be no Injuns--and no doubt Bill was right. But any way you thought about
it, it was remarkable that the slight sound outside--the thudding of a
horse's hoofs on soft ground, or the letting down of the bars of the
corral--should have wakened Injun. It probably was not the sound so much
as the sense of something unusual, something threatening. Furthermore,
Injun had a different way of figuring things from Whitey. Also he had
been awake longer, so his mind had a better start, not being bewildered
by sleep.

"They're up to something," said Whitey.

"Um," grunted Injun.

The two men went into the bunk house and soon came out with another man
who was fat. It undoubtedly was Ham. Each man carried a saddle, which
he put on a horse. Then they mounted and rode away.

A cloud moved away, like a curtain, and a full moon shed its light over
the scene and into the window. The hour must have been late, for the
moon was low. Whitey turned and looked at Injun, who was stolidly
watching the riders disappear.

"Can you beat that?" Whitey demanded. "String Beans walked as well as
any one. I'll bet he wasn't hurt at the mine at all. That he was just
pretending."

"Uh," muttered Injun.

"Mebbe they've stolen something," continued Whitey.

"No, no come into the house, me hear 'em," said Injun. "In bunk house
nothin' to steal."

Suddenly Whitey thought of the negro cook, the only other man on the
place, and demanded, "Where's Slim?"

"Dunno," said Injun, and followed Whitey, who shoved his feet into a
pair of slippers and ran hastily from the room.

The bunk house was dark, the men having put out their lanterns before
they rode away. Whitey groped for matches and, finding one, lighted a
lamp. Slim was nowhere to be seen. Whitey looked at Injun in wonder and
alarm. Injun looked at Whitey with no expression of any kind.

"Mebbe they've killed Slim!" cried Whitey.

"Mebbe," Injun agreed.

Sitting Bull had silently followed the boys, and while they were
investigating with their eyes, he was doing the same with his nose. His
search had led him to a bunk, and with his fore paws on its edge, he was
gazing into it, his head on one side and a very puzzled expression on
his face. Bull rarely barked, except to express great joy, and he never
was afraid. His nose had told him what was in that bunk; the curious
movements of the object were what puzzled him. Attracted by the dog's
interest, Injun and Whitey went to him.

The bedding in the bunk heaved and rolled from side to side. Whitey
reached over rather fearfully and pulled down the upper blankets, and
Slim was brought to view. Not only was Slim bound and gagged, but a coat
was tied around his head, to keep him from hearing. In fact, about the
only thing to show that the man was Slim was his black hands.

Injun and Whitey hastily removed the head covering and the gag, and
Whitey eagerly asked what had happened. Slim was half choked and very
indignant.

"I dunno what happened to nobody, 'ceptin' to me," he gurgled. "Gimme a
drink o' watah. I'se burnin' up."

While Whitey held a cup of water to Slim's lips, Injun struggled with
his bonds, and with great difficulty succeeded in releasing him. Whitey
asked a hundred questions meanwhile, none of which Slim answered. He
seemed entirely absorbed in his own troubles, and when he was free, he
carefully felt himself all over.

"Dis is fine foh mah misery, fine!" he said bitterly.

As far as Whitey had ever been able to learn, a "misery" was a sort of
rheumatism.

"How is your misery?" he asked, despairing of getting him to talk about
anything but himself.

"Tehibul, tehibul," groaned Slim; "an' dey tie me wid a rawhide rope,
too, dat jest eat into mah flesh." And Slim looked venomously down at
the lariat that lay at his feet.

"Who tied you?" Whitey inquired.

"I dunno. Wen I wakes up dis yeah rag is bein' jammed into mah mouf, an'
dis yeah coat bein' wrapped round mah haid, an' dat dere rope bein'
twisted round mah body, till it cuts mah ahms an' legs somethin'
scand'lus. I dunno who dey wuz, but dey suttinly wuz thorough," Slim
admitted.

"Then you didn't hear anything?" Whitey demanded.

"Heah? I couldn't 'a' heard a elephant cough," Slim declared.

"Well, Whiff and String Beans and Ham just rode away," said Whitey.

"Dey did?" said Slim. Then an awful thought came to him, and he jumped
to his feet. "Wheah's mah watch?" he cried. He hastily fumbled under the
bedclothes, and brought to light an enormous, old-fashioned silver
watch. Then he heaved a sigh of relief. "An' dat Ham gone, too! Now,
how'm I goin' t' cook, wid dat misery wuss'n evah?"

It was very plain to Whitey that all Slim could think about the affair
was the way it concerned him personally. Also, there was no doubt in the
boy's mind that the absent men were bent on mischief. Bill and the other
cowboys were surely making a night of it at the Junction, in celebration
of the gold shipment. Whatever was to be done in the matter Whitey and
Injun would have to do. By this time Slim was busily rubbing some horse
liniment on his arms and legs.

"Injun and I will see what's to be done. You might as well go to sleep,"
Whitey said to him.

"Sleep! Ah couldn't sleep in Mistah Vanderbilt's bed."

"Well, stay awake, then," said Whitey, as he left the bunk house,
followed by Injun.

In spite of Injun's belief that the men had not been in the ranch house,
the boys took a look around, but nothing had been disturbed. Then, as
they dressed, they talked things over. Whitey was not sorry that Bill
Jordan was away. While not one to think ill of people, Whitey always had
believed that String and Ham were queer, and the affairs of the night
seemed to point to the truth of this. If Whitey could learn what sort of
mischief the men were up to, it would be a feather in his cap, and it
would give him great satisfaction to say "I told you so" to Bill, who
always was so sure of himself. And if he and Injun could prevent the
others from committing that same mischief, the boys would be something
like heroes.

As Whitey and Injun talked the matter over, Whitey reviewed what took
place the night he overheard the whispered conversation in the bunk
house.

"They talked about the mine," he said to Injun, "and about meeting on a
certain date. What day of the month is it?" he asked.

By a miracle Injun happened to know the date, for John Big Moose had
told him the day in September on which the ore was to be shipped, so
Injun answered briefly, "Him thirty."

"That was the date!" cried Whitey. "They said the thirtieth of
September." Other scraps of the men's whispered talk began to come to
Whitey's mind, and to have meaning. "They were to meet on that date, and
they did. That's what String Beans was loafing around here for,
pretending to be lame. And they rode south. Don't you see?"

"Don't see nothin'," Injun answered.

"Why," Whitey declared, jumping to his feet, "they've gone toward the
railroad; toward the water tank, where all the trains stop. I believe
they're going to hold up the gold shipment. Come on, Injun, let's get
busy."




CHAPTER IV

SOLUTION


The moon was well down toward the western edge of the prairie when the
boys rode away from the bunk house. They rode toward the south, in
pursuit of the bandits, as they now called Whiff, String, and Ham.
Whitey and Injun had settled on this course shortly after Whitey had
decided that the men were intent on train robbery. There were several
reasons for their choice.

For one thing, it was too late to go and warn Bill and the other
punchers at the Junction. And even if it were not, if they did that they
would have to share with the ranch men the glory of the pursuit and
possible capture of the bandits. It may have been rash of the boys, but
after their former adventures they felt capable of taking care of three
bandits by themselves--especially if they came on them unawares, which
they intended to do. Had Bill been there, it isn't likely that he would
have approved of their act, but with him away the boys could find
plenty of reasons for doing what they wanted to do.

Slim, the cook, had taken no interest in the affair. He was wrapped up
in attending to his misery, and the boys left him in a bunk, soaked with
liniment--which by rights was intended for a horse--and trying to sleep
and forget his troubles.

As the horses galloped over the rolling plains into the darkness of the
south, the boys were thrilled by a glow of excitement. Each had his
rifle hanging in a gun-boat from his saddle. The mystery of the night;
the fresh, keen stirring of the September air; the spirit of adventure;
the easy, swinging motion of the horses--all these made the night's
hours worth living for.

For a while, by the moon's light, Injun had easily been able to follow
the tracks of the horses of the three men, and as they continued toward
the south, Whitey felt sure that he had guessed correctly, so the horses
were urged to a swifter pace. Little urging was necessary, however, as
Whitey's "Monty" pony and Injun's pinto were fresh and seemed as eager
for the chase as their masters.

Whitey's plan for thwarting the bandits was simple. Before reaching the
Junction, the boys were to branch off toward the east and intercept the
train. They could stand on the track and swing a lantern, which Injun
carried for the purpose. When the train came to a standstill, they could
get aboard, and warn the train crew. It would be easy to recruit an
armed force from among the passengers, for in those days, in the West,
there were few men who went unarmed. And when the bandits attempted
their hold-up, they would meet with a warm reception.

The train left the Junction at six, and should reach the water tank
about three-quarters of an hour later, though it often was late. As the
boys had started from the ranch house at two, Whitey figured that they
would have time enough, though none to waste.

The hours could not be counted, but perhaps three had passed, and
through the scented, velvety darkness there came a touch of gray in the
east, which changed to pink, then to opal, as the coming sun tinged the
low-lying clouds. The animal and bird life began to stir, preparing to
greet the beauty of the dawn, or rather, to start on their affairs of
the day, for it is likely that the denizens of the prairie had as little
thought for the glory of the sunrise as had Injun and Whitey, whose
minds were firmly fixed on train robbers.

When the light was full, the boys drew up, and looked off toward the
southwest. Whitey had been depending on Injun's never-failing sense of
direction to carry them aright. This ability to point toward any point
of the compass, in the dark, was one of Injun's gifts--though he didn't
know what a compass was. And sure enough, away off there against the
gray of the clouds was a line of high, tiny crosses, telegraph poles,
near which stretched the tracks of the road.

When he saw them, Whitey could not resist a whoop of joy. "If we ride
straight for them, how far do you think we'll be from the water tank?"
he asked.

"Mebbe one mile, mebbe two," replied Injun, who seldom committed himself
to an exact answer.

"That's all right, come on!" cried Whitey, and they galloped straight
for the railroad.

When they reached the tracks, they dismounted and tied their ponies to
neighboring telegraph poles, fearing the effect the noise of the train
would have on the spirited animals. Then the boys went to the roadbed to
await the coming of the train. The line stretched straight toward the
west, until the rails seemed to join in the distance. But toward the
east was a curve as the road approached a gully, at the bottom of which
was a creek. It was from this creek that the water was drawn for the
tank.

The sunrise had seemed to promise a fair day, but the promise failed,
for a mist was forming over the plains. The train was not in sight, and
Whitey kneeled, and placed an ear to the track, knowing that he could
detect the vibration caused by the train before it appeared.

He rose and nodded his head. "I hear it," he said. For once Whitey had
it on Injun. He knew about railroads and Injun didn't.

"Light the lantern," said Whitey. Then he began to laugh.

Injun gazed at the lantern, then at Whitey. He could see no cause for
laughter.

"I was wise when I suggested that lantern," said Whitey. "I never
thought that it would be daylight, and its light wouldn't show."

Injun almost smiled.

"What we ought to have is a red flag," Whitey continued. "That's the
proper thing to signal a train with in daytime."

Injun grunted, and Whitey considered the matter. "I have it! Your
shirt!" he cried. "It's pink, close enough to red. We'll wave that."

Injun grunted again and looked doubtful. "Me get 'im back?" he asked.
Injun didn't care any less for that shirt than he did for his pinto or
his rifle--and he cared more for it than for his interest in the gold
mine.

"Sure, you'll get it back," said Whitey, and without a word Injun took
off the shirt and handed it to Whitey.

The boys gazed anxiously toward the west. Whitey thought of the three
armed men, who now probably had handkerchiefs tied over their faces, and
were lying in wait in the gully. Then of the oncoming train, with its
unsuspecting passengers, and in the express car the bags of ore that
were said to assay forty thousand dollars a ton. It wouldn't take much
of _that_ to make it worth while for the bandits to hold up the
shipment.

Although the mist was getting thicker, it seemed singular that the train
did not appear. The inaction of waiting was beginning to get on Whitey's
nerves--and would have affected Injun's if he'd had any. At that, they
had not been waiting very long, though they did not know it.

"It must be getting near. I'll listen again," said Whitey.

Whitey again placed his ear to the track, then looked up blankly. "It's
stopped," he said, "Mebbe there's been an accident."

Injun knew a good deal about plains and woods, and animals and birds,
but was rather in awe of trains. He gazed at Whitey's face, which wore
the same blank look as his own, and ventured no opinion. Two sharp,
faint sounds came from the east--something between the crack of whips
and the popping of corks. They were followed by three more.

Injun knew about these. "Him shoot," he said.

The startled expression on Whitey's face gradually gave way to one of
understanding and disgust. "They came from the water tank," he said.
"Don't you see? We're late, and what I heard was the train going the
other way. Then it stopped, and they're holding it up." And Whitey sat
down on one of the rails, thoroughly disgusted.

For a while nothing was said. The disappointment was too great for
words. The boys' chance for heroism had melted in the fog, which the
mist had now become. Injun slowly put on his shirt. It was nothing but a
garment now, no heroic rescue signal.

"I'll bet that clock at the ranch was wrong. It always is. I might have
known it," Whitey said dejectedly. The thought of the loss of the gold
was forgotten in his disappointment at failure. "I hope no one was
hurt--I mean none of the trainmen or passengers," he added. "But I
guess not. Those bandits had the drop on them, and they couldn't have
put up much of a fight. How do you suppose we heard those shots? We must
be at least a mile from the tank.

"Him fog," Injun answered. "Hear plain." And it is true that fog has a
way of conveying sound.

An idea brought Whitey to his feet with a leap. "What fools we are to be
sitting here!" he cried. "We'll follow those robbers. The people on the
train won't do that. They've no horses."

Here, indeed, was a brilliant thought. The boys could track the bandits
to their hiding-place, and possibly recover the ore. At least, they
could return and report where the men had gone. There was a chance to
distinguish themselves yet. In a moment they were mounted and dashing
down along the track, toward the water tank.

Presently a shrill whistle was followed by the faint rumbling of the
train as it resumed its way. "See?" yelled Whitey. "The train's just
starting. We won't be very late, and the men's tracks will be plain.
Gee! I hope it doesn't rain."

A few minutes' ride brought the boys to the deserted water tank. They
dismounted to pick up the trail of the robbers. Near the tank, where the
express car must have stood, were the traces of many feet. There were
others leading from the cars in the rear. Noting these, Whitey said:
"Mebbe they held up the passengers, too. It's likely that they would."

But, singularly enough, most of these tracks led on toward the high
bridge which spanned the gully. The boys followed them curiously, and
when they reached the bridge Injun stopped.

"Huh! Go back again, too," he muttered. And sure enough in the maze of
footprints many seemed to lead back toward the water tank.

"Why do you s'pose they went to the bridge? Prob'ly to see if it was
safe; that the robbers hadn't damaged it," Whitey said.

"Mebbe," said Injun, who was figuring things out in his own way and
seldom spoke until he had them figured.

From the scramble of footprints near the tank, Injun picked out those
of three pairs that diverged from the mass. Injun traced these back
toward the gully. Two of the tracks were made by ordinary boots, the
other by high-heeled cowboy boots. Whitey left this part of the chase
entirely to Injun, and followed, leading the ponies.


Presently Monty gave voice to a shrill neigh, and to Whitey's surprise
it was answered from the gully. "Look out!" Whitey called softly to
Injun. "They haven't gone. There's one of their horses."

But to Whitey's further surprise Injun paid no heed, but kept calmly on
his way, and there was nothing for Whitey to do but to follow. The
gully, or little canyon, was about fifty feet deep, and the creek that
ran through it about that many feet wide. At the lowest part, near the
stream, Injun paused.

"Where are their horses?" Whitey whispered.

"No tied here," Injun answered, which was plainer to see than his reason
for knowing that they were not.

Whitey was now greatly puzzled and, he had to confess to himself, not a
little alarmed. But as the next impatient question was on his lips he
stopped short. A cool breeze had sprung up, and was wafting aside the
cloud-like fog. A rift in the fog disclosed a portion of the trestle
bridge. And, hanging from it, with noosed lariats around their necks,
were three limp, ghastly figures.

In horror, Whitey clutched Injun's arm, and gasped, "The bandits!"

Injun looked stolidly at the horrible sight, as for thousands of years
his people had looked on death. "Uh," he said and pointed toward the
water tank. "Walk marks go that way. No come back."




CHAPTER V

BUNK-HOUSE TALK


About noon that day two sad boys rode into the Bar O Ranch, leading
three tired-looking broncos, who had been put through some severe paces
since early morning. One of the boys and all the horses were hungry, but
the other boy had little desire for food. Whitey had been up against
some rough adventures in the West. This was his first taste of the
tragedy that was frequent, and often necessary in regulating the affairs
of those days.

And while Whitey was far from being a coward, as you know, the sight he
had witnessed had left him a bit shaken. He and Injun unsaddled the
ponies and horses, put them in the corral, and made their way to the
ranch house. Bill Jordan and John Big Moose were in the living-room.
Bill was getting the big Indian to help him with his accounts, which
always were a puzzle to him. And this morning, after his night of
merriment at the Junction, Bill was less inclined toward figures than
usual.

"Well, well," said John Big Moose, as the boys entered the room. "You
two seem to have extended your holiday to the next morning."

"You look kinda shaky, Whitey," said Bill "You been makin' a night of
it, too?"

Without further questioning Whitey sat down and told the story of the
adventure, from the boys' awakening to their finding the bodies of the
three men hanging from the railroad bridge.

"So you were right about String an' Ham's bein' crooks," Bill said, when
the boy had finished.

"Yes, but even so, it seems terrible for them to die that way," Whitey
replied.

"The express folks is tired o' havin' their cars robbed, an' if you'd
known what I found out at the Junction, you might o' saved yourself some
trouble," said Bill. "They was a shipment of a hundred thousand dollars
in gold in that there car, an' they was six fellers went along to
pertect it. Not detectives, or nothin', just fellers that was hired, an'
was dyin' for excitement. I reck'n some o' the passengers was as tired
o' bein' held up as those fellers was pinin' for excitement, an' when
String an' Ham an' Whiff made their poor little play, they musta thought
they'd struck a hornet's nest."

"But to hang them," Whitey protested. "Why didn't they shoot them, if
they had to kill them?"

"Well, ye see hangin' makes it look worse for the next fellers what
thinks o' holdin' up a train," said Bill. "They'd stole three o' our
hosses, anyway, an' that's a hangin' offense."

But Whitey was not inclined to argue about the justice or injustice of
the lynching. He went away with Injun, and tried to eat. And he tried,
too, to forget the horror of the scene at the bridge. But all his life
long he never quite succeeded in doing that.

       *       *       *       *       *

And that night, in the bunk house, the talk was all about the tragedy of
the morning. Bill Jordan and four of the cowboys were there, to say
nothing of Slim, the cook. Slim had another grievance, for, now that Ham
had gone, he was again forced to cook for the men, misery or no misery.

Whitey loved to sit in the long, half-lighted room, and listen to the
talk and yarns of the cowboys, for, "boys" they were called, whether
they were eighteen or fifty, and in many ways boys they seemed to have
remained.

They had threshed over the lynching. Whitey had answered a thousand
questions about his experiences, had been praised and blamed with equal
frankness, and now he was glad to see that the subject was to be
dropped. For it had reminded Buck Higgins of lariats and their merits,
especially for hanging men.

"For all-round use give me a braided linen," said Buck.

He was speaking of a rope that is made as its name suggests, and is very
strong. If you have ever been in the West, you probably have seen a
mounted cowboy carrying one of these thin but strong ropes coiled at the
horn of his saddle, or dragging on the ground behind him to take the
kinks out of it.

"Rawhide's purty good," suggested Shorty Palmer.

"Yes, but braided linen for me," Buck declared. "It's got any other
kind o' rope beat a mile for strength."

"Ever get stretched with one?" Jim Walker asked, with interest.

"Nope," Buck replied, "but I seen other fellers that did."

"G'wan, spill your yarn about it," said Shorty. "We don't care whether
it's true or not."

Buck was inclined to be offended. "Say, you all never heard me tell
nothin' but th' truth," he snorted.

"Sure, we didn't," said Jim. "Leastways, your yarns is told about places
so far away that we has t' take 'em as true, not knowin' any one to call
on for t' verify 'em."

"Well, if they're made up, you c'n make up just as good ones
yourselves," said Buck, and he lapsed into silence.

"Your tale interests me strangely," said Bill. "Get to it. You started
fine."

"He didn't start at all," Jim said.

"That's what Bill means," explained Shorty.

"Aw, let him tell th' story," said Charlie Bassett. "You fellers that
ain't liars yourselves is all jealous."

Whitey would have thought that the tale was to go untold had he not
known that every story of Buck's met with this sort of reception, and
that nothing short of an earthquake could keep him from talking.

"Well, just to show you fellers you can't queer me, I _will_ tell about
this here lynchin'," Buck declared, after a pause.

"'Twas back in Wyomin', 'bout five years ago," Buck began, "an' I was
workin' for the Lazy I. An' rustlers was good an' plenty. An' every one
knows that there ain't on easier brand to cover up than a lazy I. It was
got up by old man Innes, what owned th' ranch, an' lived in Boston, an'
was so honest an' unsuspectin' that he'd 'a' trusted Slim, here, with a
lead nickel."

Fortunately Slim was asleep, and did not hear this reflection on his
character, so Buck continued:

"Well, our stock had been disappearin' in bunches, an' purty soon them
bunches begins t' seem more like herds, an' somethin' had t' be did,
an' Squeak Gordon, th' manager, wa'n't no man for th' job."

"Squeak!" interrupted Jim. "That's a fine name for a white man."

"'Count of his voice," Buck explained briefly, and went on. "So it was
up t' Lem Fisher, th' foreman, an' him an' 'bout seven punchers,
includin' me, got th' job. 'Course, we had some idea of where them
steers was goin', an' what brands was goin' over ours, but we was
wantin' somethin' pos'tive before we c'd get busy.

"I started talkin' 'bout braided linen ropes, not 'bout cattle thieves,
so they's no use tellin' you of all th' figurin', an' trailin', an' hard
ridin' we did. You know old Mr. Shakespeare sez that levity's th' soul
o' wit."

"Brevity," corrected Whitey.

"What's the difference?" demanded Shorty. "Buck don't know what either
o' them words means."

"Neither do you," retorted Buck.

"Anyway, they ain't got nothin' t' do with braided linen ropes. G'wan,"
commanded Bill.

"Well," resumed Buck, "one noon, in th' foothills, we come on what we
was after, an' we did some stalkin' t' do it. We ketched three guys
red-handed. They was artistic-like re-brandin' some of our calves so's
Lazy I'd read Circle W. 'Course, they wa'n't but one thing t' do with
them fellers, an' we perceeds to do it. But unfortunate enough they
wa'n't a tree within miles of that there spot. It'd seem as though
nature hadn't figured on no rus'lers conductin' bizness there, an'
gettin' caught.

"We felt purty bad about that, an' knowin' those fellers as we did made
us feel worse. They sure didn't deserve shootin'. Then Lem Fisher, who
always was handy with his memory, happens t' think of a canyon 'bout
three mile away, with a bridge over it. Sort o' like that place at the
water tank, where them boys was strung up this mornin', only deeper, an'
th' stream under it swifter an' rockier.

"Well, we conducts our three friends to this here canyon. They draw lots
t' see who goes first, an' a feller named Red Mike wins--- or loses,
rather--as he gets number one. The noose of one of these common manilas
is attached to Mike's neck, th' other end is fastened to th' bridge,
an' he's dropped over.

"An' would you b'lieve it? When Mike comes to the end of that there rope
with a jerk, th' rope breaks, an' Mike goes cavortin' down that swift
stream, at th' rate of 'bout thirty miles an hour, bumpin' against th'
rocks an' everythin'. An' he sure must 'a' disliked that, for he hated
water.

"The next feller on th' programmy was called 'Sure Thing' Jones. You c'n
imagine why he was called that. He wouldn't even risk bein' honest.
Well, Sure Thing watches perceedin's with a good deal of interest, an'
he sees Mike disappear 'round a bend of them rapids, his arms an' legs
wavin' somewhat wild.

"Then Sure Thing goes up to Lem, an' he sez, 'Lem, have you got a
braided linen rope in the outfit?'

"'Sure,' says Lem. 'Why?'

"'It's my turn next, an' I wish you'd use it on me,' says Sure Thing.
'Ye see what happened t' Mike, an' I don't want t' take no chances. You
know I can't swim.'"

"Just the same," said Bill Jordan, determined to have the last word,
"with all your advertisin' for braided linen ropes, I'll take old maguey
for mine, swimmin' or no swimmin'."

In the midst of the laugh which had followed Buck's grim tale, Sitting
Bull, who had been lying near Whitey, rose to a sitting posture, his
cave-like mouth open wide and raised at the corners, his eyes twinkling.

"See Bull!" Bill Jordan cried delightedly. "He's laughin' at Buck's
story yet. He's sure got a sense o' humor, that dog. He's just about
human."

Bull's expression raised another laugh. All the men liked him, but Bill
was his especial admirer, and loved to dwell on Bull's wonderful
intelligence and tell stories about it.

"Me for bed," said Jim Walker. "After that jamboree las' night I feel's
though I c'd sleep a month."

"Wait a minute till I tell you 'bout me havin' Bull down t' th' Junction
las' week, an' him chasin' th' fox," Bill said.

"Tell nothin'," Jim answered. "Me for th' hay."

"Aw, g'wan," protested Bill. "'Twon't take a minute, an' you got all
'ternity t' sleep in, as the poet says."

"An' I c'n use it," Jim yawned; "but cut loose, an' make it short."

"Well," Bill began, "las' week Thursday I was goin' down t' th' Junction
for feed, an' I takes Bull along. You know how he likes t' ride in a
wagon? 'S almost human. Why, that there animal--"

"Here, cut out them side comments," commanded Jim. "We know how smart
that dog is, without your tellin' us any further. Get down t' bed rock!"

"Well," Bill continued, "when we gets t' th' store, an' Al Strong's
nigger's loadin' th' feed in th' wagon, I allows t' take Bull for a
little stroll 'round, so's he c'n stretch his legs. So I ties a halter
t' his collar an' starts out. I isn't exactly leadin' Bull, he's sort o'
leadin' me, for you all know how strong he is. But we sure needs th'
halter t' make Bull keep th' peace. He's had more fights at that there
Junction! Say, he's the fightenist dog"--a warning look from Jim kept
Bill to the thread of his story.

"We passes th' homes of all Bull's live enemies, an' th' graves of his
dead ones, an' gets to a rock, where we c'n sit an' study natur' a bit,
before we turns back. An' thinkin' it's safe t' do so, I lets go o'
Bull's halter. An' while I'm studyin' an' takin' a nip from a flask I
happens t' have in my jeans, I forgets Bull for a minit, an' when I
looks up, he's plumb absent.

"I ain't worried none, till I happens t' think we was only 'bout a
quarter mile from that Englishman, Barclay's, place, what has that pack
o' wolf-hounds that he hunts with. Fox-huntin' he calls it, though what
he mostly chases is coyotes. Ain't it funny how when an Englishman comes
t' this country he brings his habits with him, or twists ours aroun' t'
fit his'n?"

"Say," demanded Jim. "Is this a yarn 'bout a bulldog or a lecture on
them foreign habits? 'Cause if it's that last, I--"

"Well, anyway," Bill interrupted hastily, "I looks down th' road, an'
Bull's beatin' it hot foot for that Barclay's place, an' I c'n see what
happens if he meets up with them hounds. So I follers, swift's I can,
spillin' some language to Bull--prayers, an' warnin's an' such. But
before I gets there, I sees that pack o' hounds swarm over th' fence
into th' road, an' purty soon, there is Bull, right in their midst, as
th' feller says.

"For th' rest of th' way I does nothin' but pray, an' see visions of th'
biggest dog fight that ever hit Montana, but I keeps movin' rapid, an'
when I gets on th' spot, there's Bull, right in th' middle of th' pack.
Now all th' tails is waggin', an' that looks purty good, till I comes t'
think that Bull always wags his tail before he goes into battle, 'cause
he loves to fight so. An' all them hounds is sniffin' 'round, right
pert, an' Bull is purty cocky, an' when I gets close enough, I hears
Bull say:

"'Hello, d'ye want t' fight?'

"'Fight, no,' says one of th' hounds. 'We're goin' to chase a fox. D'ye
want t' go?'

"'Sure,' says Bull.

"An' with that th' whole pack o' 'em leaps over a fence, an' beats it
off toward th' hills.

"Well, Bull don't even hesitate. He leaps at that there rail fence an'
lands against it with his head, plunk--an' caroms back into th' road. He
leaps again, an' comes back th' same way, but at th' third jump he goes
through a wider place in th' rails, an' lands on th' other side o' the
fence, on that there same head. Then he scrambles to his feet, an'
starts off after them hounds.

"Now, you all know that a bulldog ain't built for speed, he's built for
war. In th' first place, his fore legs is so far apart they's almost
strangers, an' his hind legs is too short, an' th' rest of him's too
heavy for all of 'em. But Bull keeps goin', industr'ous. An' he goes so
fast that 'bout every thirty yards he stumbles, an' falls on his face,
an' his head plows up large chunks of Montana soil.

"By this time them wolf-fox-hounds has flown into them hills, they
touchin' th' ground 'bout every hunderd feet. An' Bull ain't one to let
no hounds see him quit, an' he plows along, till at last he gets t' them
hills an' is lost t' sight but t' mem'ry dear. Well, I goes back t' that
rock, an' sits down, sad-like, thinkin' mebbe I never will see Bull
again.

"An' p'r'aps it's an hour goes by, when I hears somethin' that sounds
like a engine puffin' strong on a upgrade, an' up over one of them
hummocks comes Bull, draggin' himself along like he has flatirons tied
t' his feet. An' he's all decorated with real estate, an' burrs, an'
everythin' loose what would stick to him. An' when he gets to where I
sits, he flops down flat on his back. He sure is exhausted; even his
paws is limp. But one of his eyes seems t' hold a spark o' life, an' he
fixes that on me. An' he asks, weak-like:

"'Say, Bill, what in tarnation is a fox?'"

The company looked at Bill fixedly; not reproachfully, but fixedly. Then
slowly the men began to take off their clothes, with the idea of turning
in. And Bill Jordan and Whitey started for the ranch house, for the same
purpose.




CHAPTER VI

BOOTS


The green of the prairie had given way to brown, and the brown to white,
which rolled off to the sky-line and the hills in dazzling billows, in
the cold light of the sun. For winter had the Bar O in its grip. And
though winter was no gentle thing in Montana, there was a tingle in the
cold, sharp air that made a boy want to whoop and to get on his
snowshoes and go after rabbits, which wise old Nature had also turned
white, so that they could blend in with the color of the landscape and
the better avoid their enemies. Not that Injun ever whooped; he never
did. His people always had reserved that form of expression for warlike
purposes.

There were many things the boys could do in winter, but these were
forgotten for a time by Whitey, for a great event was about to take
place. His father was to return to the ranch from New York, stopping
over at St. Paul, on his way, to buy supplies. And as the snow was not
too deep for sleighing, Whitey drove down to the Junction, with Bill
Jordan, to meet Mr. Sherwood. And outside Whitey was all wrapped up in a
buffalo coat, and inside he was so warm with excitement that the coat
seemed hardly necessary.

Now, of course, Whitey was awfully glad to see his father, and to hear
the news about his mother and sisters, and about Tom Johnson, and George
and Bobby Smith, and others of his boy friends. But after he had heard
all this there was another thing that naturally came to his mind. Mr.
Sherwood would not come back to the ranch without bringing Whitey some
sort of present, and his father was singularly silent about what this
was. In fact, he had not said anything about it at all. And it was after
supper, and Mr. Sherwood was unpacking his trunk, when he rather
carelessly said, "Oh, here's something I brought for you," and gave
Whitey a parcel.

Whitey thanked his father, and undid the parcel, and he dropped the
things that were in it, and his eyes popped out, and for a moment he
could hardly breathe, he was so excited, for they were Boots!

And when Whitey recovered a bit he rushed over and actually hugged his
father.

Perhaps you would like to know why a pair of boots would cause all this
feeling in Whitey. For one thing, it was because he never had owned any.
In New York all the boys wore shoes, and when Whitey had come to the
ranch he had worn them, too, until the soles of his feet had become hard
enough, like Injun's, for him to go barefoot, which he delighted in
doing.

But in the late fall, and the spring, when it was colder, he again
followed Injun's lead, and wore moccasins. Buckskin moccasins, with
little bead decorations. In the cold of winter, when the snow was deep,
and when the big thaws came, Whitey wore heavy, moccasin-like
muck-lucks, made of buckskin, which laced high, nearly to his knees, and
over the tops of which hung the tops of heavy, woolen socks.

These comprised Injun and Whitey's footwear for the seasons. But there
was one thing that Whitey envied the cowboys on the ranch their boots.
For you must know that there are two things on which a puncher spends
his money extravagantly--his boots and his saddle. Unless he happens to
be a Mexican--then he spends it on his hat, too.

So the dream of Whitey's life, the pinnacle of his ambition, the idea of
the tip-top of ecstatic happiness that lived in his brain
was--Boots. And now he had them. And they were beauties; with
tops of soft leather with fancy stitching, inlaid with white enameled
leather, and high heels, that a fellow could dig into the ground when he
was roping a horse. In short, they were regular boots, that any one
might be proud of. And they had been made to order for Whitey!

It would be useless to attempt a description of how Whitey felt about
those boots. Shakespeare would have to come back to life to do that, and
I doubt if he could have done it. I _know_ that Bacon could not.
Whitey's first impulse was to put the boots on, and go out and show them
to all the men in the bunk house. His next impulse was to save the
surprise till morning, when the decorations on the boots would show
better.

But he put them on. And after his father had finished unpacking, Whitey
sat in the living-room with him, and it is to be feared that he listened
rather absent-mindedly to his father's talk. He would stretch out his
legs and admire the boots. Then he would twist his feet about so that he
could get a good view of the high heels. Then he would double up his
knees, and fairly hug the boots. And if Mr. Sherwood noticed all this he
gave no sign. Probably he remembered the day he had his first pair of
boots. And that night, though Whitey did not sleep in the boots, he took
them to bed with him.

In the morning Whitey restrained his impatience until breakfast-time,
then strolled down to the bunk house, wearing the boots. Several of the
men were there, just finishing the meal, and rolling their
after-breakfast cigarettes. Whitey sat down, sort of offhand and
careless-like, and to his pained surprise, no one noticed the boots.
Then he crossed his legs and leaned back, with his hands clasped behind
his head--and Buck Higgins noticed them.

And Whitey certainly was gratified, for they attracted a great deal of
admiration and praise, and there was much discussion about them, and
feeling of the leather, and estimating how much they cost. After a while
Injun arrived. Now, Injun did not care about boots, though he might have
liked a pair had they been made of pink leather. But even Injun was
moved to admiration by these boots.

Then Whitey strutted around the ranch buildings and corrals for a while,
and the milch cows, and the horses and the pigs--all the stock, in
fact--had a good look at the boots. And Sitting Bull admired them so
much that he wanted to lick them, but of course that wouldn't do.

Bill Jordan had an errand at the Junction and he drove Whitey and Injun
over with him. Al Strong's store was also the postoffice, and every man,
woman, and child that happened to be there at mail-time had a fine view
of Whitey's boots. That night, when Whitey went to bed, he was quite
tired from exhibiting them.

The next day Whitey figured that about every human being and animal in
the neighborhood had seen his boots. Then he happened to think of the
Indians fishing on the river. I say _on_ the river, for it was frozen
over, with its first solid covering of ice. Now, the Indians never fish
in the summer-time. Few white people know about it, but the Indians
don't like to fish. They only eat fish when they can't hunt much. When
the Indian goes into camp for the winter, he has his provisions all
stacked to carry him through, but to be sure that these provisions will
hold out, he will eat just a little fish.

And this is the Indian's mode of fishing. He puts up a tepee right out
on the ice, and puts a blanket inside the tepee. Then he cuts a hole in
the ice, and lies down on the blanket and industriously watches the
hole. You know that fish are very inquisitive, and when Mr. Inquiring
Fish comes along to see about that hole, Mr. Indian spears him just back
of the head, pulls him out, and has fried fish for supper.

When Whitey beat it down to the river, to show his boots to a new
audience, he was followed by Injun and Sitting Bull. Trouble was
following, too,--Harrowing Trouble,--but Whitey didn't know it. On the
frozen river were about a dozen tepees, standing up something like big
stacks of cornstalks on a field of frosted glass. So there probably were
about a dozen Indians, lying on their stomachs, watching as many holes
in the ice.

There was not one of those Indians that Whitey thought should miss
seeing those boots. In the first tepee his reception was very
gratifying. Little Eagle was the owner's name, and _he_ didn't care much
about boots, but the decorations on these pleased his taste for the
gaudy, and his eyes sparkled as he grunted his praise.

So it went around the little fishing village, until Whitey entered about
the eighth tepee, and that was where Trouble was right next to him.
Inside the tent it was dark. And Whitey didn't fall into the hole in the
ice--he walked into it. His life was not in danger, because he didn't
mind a little cold water, and the Indian lying there on his stomach,
with his eyes accustomed to the darkness, could see, and he quickly
grabbed Whitey by the shoulders and yanked him out--but, oh! the boots!

They were crinkled and soaked and water-logged and shrunken. And it took
six Indians to get them off, two pulling on each boot, and two to hold
Whitey. And when they were off, Whitey borrowed a pair of moccasins, and
raced to the ranch house, with Injun and Sitting Bull.

Now, in the living-room of the Bar O ranch house in winter--and in every
other ranch house in that part of the country--was a big stove that held
a stick of cordwood three feet long. In fact, it held four or five such
sticks of cordwood, which, you can imagine, made a good fire. And
straight to this fire went Whitey. He was wet, and he was ashamed. And
he put the boots under the stove to dry, without anybody's seeing him.
And he didn't say anything to his father about it, because he was
ashamed. And he went to bed without saying anything about it.

In the morning Whitey was up with the sun, and went to get his boots.
And, oh, ye gods! Why didn't the heavens fall? What once was a pair of
proud boots, looked like two little, brown wrinkled apples! It was a
tragedy in six acts. It was worse than that, for one can find words for
a tragedy. But why dwell on it?

And while Whitey was getting the worst of the first, horrible shock, his
father came into the living-room, and not knowing why, Whitey ran, and
his father, not knowing why, I suspect, ran after him. Whitey was fleet
of foot, and much smaller than his father, so he could make the stairs
better. And he ran up and down and around, now slamming this door, and
now slamming that one.

And Whitey's father began to get angry. But Whitey had become a frontier
boy, and accustomed to standing his ground in the face of a superior
enemy--at least, when he couldn't run any farther. When he was finally
run down, he backed into a corner, lifted his fists to the proper angle,
and, in this boyish fighting attitude, said to his big, strong,
wonderful dad, "Don't you hit me!"

If it hadn't been for his father's strong sense of humor, Whitey
probably would have been in for a sound trimming. As it was, his father
paused and looked at him sternly; then his piercing blue eyes began to
soften, and signs of his sense of humor began to appear about his mouth.
And he turned on his heel, and walked away, leaving Whitey to his grief.




CHAPTER VII

EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS


Winter dragged coldly by, saddened by the lessons of John Big Moose, and
brightened by an occasional hunting trip the boys took to the mountains.
Sitting Bull did not seem to justify Whitey's first idea of him; that he
was a magnet for excitement. Apparently Bull was satisfied to lie by the
big living-room stove and sleep, except when the boys were going for
game. Then he was eager to go.

"That there dog is like some folks," declared Bill Jordan. "He's
powerful smart, but he's got a lot o' false idees 'bout himself. He
ain't built for huntin' no more'n he is for runnin'. Why don't you take
him along onc't, an' show him his mistake?"

So one day when the snow was light, and snowshoes were not needed, Injun
and Whitey took Bull to the hills with them, and he was mad with
delight. But all he did was to rush excitedly about and frighten the
game, except once, when Whitey had a good but hard shot at a rabbit.
Then Bull got between Whitey's legs and tripped him up, so that Whitey
missed the shot.

The boys came back without any game, and apparently without convincing
Bull that he was no hunter, for the next time they started he was just
as eager to go as before.

"You thought he'd be cured of wanting to hunt, but he isn't," Whitey
said reproachfully to Bill Jordan. "I don't think he's so smart, after
all."

"Smart!" exclaimed Bill. "Why, he's just nachally too clever t' give up.
He'd keep on tryin' till he did b'come a great hunter."

This was the usual satisfaction Whitey got out of Bill's arguments, but
Bull went hunting no more.

One of the boys' other diversions had to do with a Chinaman named Wong
Lee. Wong had succeeded the colored man, Slim, as cook at the Bar O.
Slim had thought the Montana winter too severe for his miseries, and had
gone South for good, and as Wong was a much better cook, no one felt
sorry. Wong was placid, industrious, and very amiable, but beneath all
this he must have had nerves, as I suppose Chinamen have, in common with
other people.

He slept in a shack near the bunk house, and carried his industry so far
that at night he would do all the washing that was to be done at the
ranch house, for which he was paid extra. And here was the boys' chance.
Injun was like most other boys when it came to mischief, and Whitey
taught him the ancient game of tick-tack. In case you don't know it,
I'll tell you how it's done.

To make a tick-tack get a long string, the longer the better; meaning
the longer the safer. Then get a small fish-hook, and tie it to the end
of your string, and tie a little stone about eight inches below your
fish-hook. Select a dark night and the window of the person whose nerves
you wish to disturb. Then sneak up, and fasten the fish-hook to one of
the cross pieces of the window. Then go to the end of your line, and
hide behind a wagon or a post. Pull your string, and "tick-tack" goes
the stone on the window.

Wong Lee took it all in good part. He had been a boy once, himself,
away off in China. And though Wong Lee never had played tick-tack, he
probably had played other, Chinese boy games that Injun and Whitey would
have been glad to know about, and Wong Lee was of such a disposition
that he probably would have told them all about it, had he and the boys
come to an understanding in the matter.

Instead of that, when that irritating little sound got on his Chinese
nerves, Wong Lee would chase out in answer to the tick-tack, with his
pigtail standing straight out in the wind, and pursue the boys from
cover to cover. But he was game, and though he must have known who his
tormentors were, he never reported them to Mr. Sherwood or to Bill
Jordan.

And so, with one thing and another, the winter finally merged into
spring, the soft rains melting away the snow, and giving the brown earth
its chance to turn to tender green. And the swollen river was dotted
with cakes of ice, among which the wild ducks dropped on their way South
where, it was to be hoped, Slim had recovered from his miseries. And, as
everybody knows, spring is a time that stirs boys and young men to
unrest.

Perhaps you have noticed that when a fellow is just swelling up with a
desire to do something big in the world, some trifling little thing
comes along and knocks his ambition to splinters. When he is burning to
kill a bear, he has to go on an errand for his mother--or something like
that. Well, here was Whitey, with this spring feeling inciting him to
great deeds, instead of making him lazy, as it does some people, and he
went to the bunk house, followed by Sitting Bull. And there was Bill
Jordan, with a letter in his hand, and something on his mind that he was
dying to tell, but would rather die than not take his time about
telling.

So Bill proceeded to peddle out his news, a bit at a time. "John Big
Moose's goin' t' New York," was the first thing Bill said.

"Hooray!" Whitey cried.

"That's a fine way t' take th' news that you're goin' t' lose your dear
teacher," Bill said reproachfully.

"Oh, of course I'm sorry that John is going away, but just think,
there'll be no more lessons," Whitey answered.

"O' course," Bill said, and he looked at the boy in a very peculiar way.

But Whitey was too excited to notice the look. "What's John going for?"
he asked.

"Your father's sent for him," answered Bill. Mr. Sherwood's business had
again taken him to the big city. "An' now that this here gold mine's
turnin' out so well," Bill continued, "an' John has some money, your
father don't think it's fair t' keep him here teachin' a couple o' kids,
when there's a big openin' for John right there in New York. An' it
seems your father's got John some job as a chemist, though goin' into a
drug store don't seem no big openin' t' me," Bill added thoughtfully.

"John isn't going to be a drug clerk," Whitey said, disgusted at Bill's
ignorance. Whitey knew something of the big Indian's ambitions, having
heard him discuss them with Mr. Sherwood. "Father probably has heard of
an opening in some college, where John can become an instructor in
chemistry."

Bill didn't know what that meant, either, but, not wishing to display
his ignorance further, he said hastily, "Oh, that's diff'runt."

"When's John going?" demanded Whitey.

"Right off. Gonna drive him t' th' Junction to-day."

"Then no more lessons!" cried Whitey. "We'll be off for a hunting trip.
I hear Moose Lake is just loaded with wild geese. Where's Injun? I must
run and tell him."

"Wait a minit," cautioned Bill. "There's somethin' more. But first I
must tell you how s'prised an' pained you make me by showin' this here
dislike for learnin'."

"Surprised nothing," retorted Whitey. "Did you like it when you were a
kid?"

"Nope," Bill confessed promptly. "But I'm dern sorry I didn't, now. You
ain't got no idea what a handicap a feller's under what ain't got no
eddication."

Whitey thought that what Bill had just said had given him a pretty good
idea of the handicap, but he was wise enough to say nothing. Bill sat
down and began to roll a cigarette.

"O' course, they's a lot of things in life that you can't learn outa
books," Bill said. "But th' feller with th' book-learnin' generally has
th' upper hand. There's one thing books never rightly teached no boy,
an' that's lookin' ahead. I've often wondered why they didn't pay more
'tention t' that, but mostly a boy has t' learn it for himself. If he
happens t' be born in the wilderness he just nach'lly has t' learn it,
or I reckon he'd die."

Whitey fidgeted about, knowing that Bill was on one of his favorite
topics, and wouldn't stop and tell the rest of his news until he was run
down.

"Take Injun, f'r instance," Bill went on. "He's got a way o' figurin'
out things that's wonderful, an' once in a while that way o' figurin'
has saved his life. They's a highbrow word for that stuff, an' it's
'observation.' You just stick to that observation thing, kid, an' you'll
find it a heap o' use t' you in this country."

Whitey knew of Injun's wonderful powers of observation which he had
often shown on the trail, but could not help thinking that some of his
red friend's cleverness was due to the lore inherited from his Indian
ancestors, with their knowledge of the wild and of the habits of its
beasts and birds. But Bill droned on while Whitey squirmed with
impatience, and presently a welcome interruption came in the person of
Shorty Palmer, who dashed into the room.

"Say, Bill," Shorty cried, "you got th' new time-table?"

"Sure," said Bill. "Last time I was to the Junction."

"Well, didn't you notice that th' Eastern Express leaves two hours
earlier now?"

"No."

"It does, an' you'll have t' burn up th' prairie t' make it, an' Buck's
got th' team all hitched, an' John Big Moose's just throwin' things into
his trunk, an' you'd best get a move on."

"Jumpin' garter snakes!" cried Bill. "I never--"

"Oh," Whitey interrupted, "this observation thing is great stuff. And
you just stick to it, and--"

"Shucks, I ain't got no time t' argue with kids," said Bill, and
started for the door.

"Hold on," called Whitey. "What was that other news you were going to
tell me?"

"Nothin'," said Bill, "'cept your father writes that now John Big Moose
is goin', you an' Injun'll have t' go t' school at th' Forks," and he
hurried from the bunk house, followed by Shorty.

Whitey sank down on a stool in despair. Gone were the dreams of
adventure, of wild geese and bears just wakening from their winter's
sleep. School! And with those few kids at the Forks!

"What's the use of anything?" Whitey muttered dejectedly.

And Bull, who at times was very sympathetic, looked up at him as much as
to say, "Nothing."




CHAPTER VIII

INJUN TALKS


That night, in the bunk house, Bill Jordan was holding forth to a select
few--Jim Walker, Charlie Bassett, Buck Higgins, and Shorty Palmer; all
old friends and true, who could dispute and quarrel with one another
without the serious results that would have attended such action on the
part of strangers.

"Talkin' 'bout Injuns," said Bill, "all I don't know 'bout 'em you c'd
write on a hummin'-bird's finger-nail."

"Hummin'-birds don't have no finger-nails," corrected Shorty Palmer.

"Sure they don't," allowed Bill. "But you c'd write it on one if they
did."

"They has claws," persisted Shorty. "B'sides, no hummin'-bird ain't
goin' t' stay still long enough for you to write on his claw."

"I know that, too," said Bill. "That thing I was sayin' is what's called
a figger o' speech. Same as 'independent as a hog on ice,' or 'dead as
a door nail.' Ev'body knows them things ain't independent or dead. It's
just a fancy way o' expressin' yourself. Can't you give a feller credit
for no 'magination?"

"Oh, you got 'magination all right," Shorty agreed. "You ain't in no
ways hampered by facts. But, anyway, we wasn't talkin' 'bout Injuns."

"No, but we was goin' to," retorted Bill, "for I was about t' d'rect th'
conversation in them channels when you makes them ign'rant
interruptions."

"Oh, go on an' talk, Bill," Jim Walker broke in. "Don't pertend that
Shorty, nor th' whole United States Army, c'd stop you if you wanted t'
chin."

Thus urged Bill began his discourse. "What started my mind workin' on
this here Injun question was somethin' that come up to-day," he said.
"John Big Moose bein' gone, you know, Mr. Sherwood writes me that Injun
an' Whitey is t' go to school over to th' Forks. So on my way back from
drivin' John t' th' Junction I stops at that there temple o' knowledge,
as th' feller says, t' prepare th' mind o' Jennie Adams, what teaches
there, for th' comin' of this bunch of new scholards.

"Y' all know Jennie, old Hog Adams's daughter. Th' one with th' wart on
her chin, that was engaged for matrimoney to Sid Gilman till one day
they was ridin' t'gether, an' Sid's cayuse slips into a gopher hole, an'
Sid falls off an' sprains his ankle, an' lets loose such a string o'
cuss words that Jennie--"

"Say, Bill," protested Buck Higgins, "'f you couldn't shoot no
straighter'n you c'n talk you'd be a mighty poor risk for a insurance
comp'ny. Nev' mind this here Jennie's history from th' time of th'
flood. Get down t' th' present day."

"Well," Bill continued reluctantly, "I tells Jennie 'bout Injun an'
Whitey's bein' 'bout t' be added to her string o' pupils, an' what d'ye
s'pose she responds? That there ain't nothin' doin' with Injun. That
Whitey, bein' a paleface, is entitled t' absorb all th' knowledge he c'n
hold, but that Injun, bein' copper-colored, has got t' get along with
other brunettes of his kind, back in some school east of here,
'specially designated by a patern'l gov'ment."

"Did she say all them words?" demanded Charlie Bassett.

"Just like that," Bill replied. "'S though she knew 'em by heart. Must
'a' bin some circular, or somep'n' she'd learned aforehand."

"Well, what d'ye think o' that?" Jim Walker exploded. "Think o' that
John Big Moose, an' all he knows, an' him bein' allowed t' learn folks
in some Eastern high school, an' that there Jennie Adams, what don't
know enough t' tell time by a kitchen clock, not bein' puhmitted t'
learn Injun nothin'. It ain't right."

Bill Jordan leaned back, well satisfied with the effect he had produced.
"'Course it ain't right," he said. "Th' reason for it is that th'
cemetery o' learnin' where John's goin' t' teach is a private
institootion, an' this here shack o' Jennie's is controlled by th'
gov'ment. I ain't no anarkiss, but--"

"What's an anarkiss?" interrupted Buck.

"A feller what's ag'in' th' gov'ment," explained Bill. "You can't make
me b'lieve that our Injun ain't as good as th' scholards at Jennie's
emporium. Take that potato-faced brother Jim of hers, f'r instance,
that's a coyote in 'pearance an' a rattlesnake at heart. Why, Injun's
a--a--prince of timber buck too compared t' him."

Bill did not know what a Prince of Timbuctoo was, and neither did the
other punchers, but it sounded impressive, and served to vent his
feelings against a law which affected his friend Injun--for as such
Bill, and all the men in the bunk house, regarded the boy.

There may have been reasons why the Indian children were kept from
association with whites. But in the minds of these men of the plains,
who knew both the bad and the good in the red men, and the bad and the
good in the white men of that day and that country, the reasons were not
founded on justice. Furthermore, they were conceived by lawmakers far
away. So the cowboys vented their feelings against what seemed to them
rank injustice.

"But t' get back t' what I know 'bout Injuns," said Bill, after the
discussion had gone on for some time. "What d'ye s'pose our Injun
thinks 'bout this here rule as says he ain't as good as that pie-faced
Jim Adams? He knows 'tain't right, same as we do, an' he thinks to
himself, 'Here's another thing I got t' put up with, an' if I rare up
an' make a row 'bout it, I'll get th' wuss of it, as my people always
has. So what'll I do? I'll lay low, an' say nothin', an' I won't give
them white brothers no chance t' see that they've hurt my feelin's. I'll
hide my hurt with my pride--one o' th' only things my white brothers has
left me.'"

There was silence for a moment in the bunk house. Then Jim Walker spoke.
"Well, Injun may think that," he said. "But whatever he thinks you won't
never really know. He's that savin' o' speech, like all Injuns."

"They're savin' enough o' speech here, 'mongst us folks," Bill Jordan
said. "But with their own people they're great speech-makers."

"G'wan," objected Buck Higgins. "Who ever heard of a Injun talkin'
much."

"Yes, siree," Bill declared. "They're great talkers 'mongst folks they
knows and trusts. Why, at their pow-wows they're reg'lar orators.
Ev'body knows that what's had a lot t' do with 'em, same as me. John Big
Moose was easy with white folks, an' look the way he could spill
langwidge. 'Most as good as we all."

The others silently agreed to this, thinking what a great advantage it
would be to John Big Moose in the Eastern college to talk as well as
they did.

"Our Injun boy could talk as well as John Big Moose, if he was usin' his
own speech, an' wanted to," continued Bill. "He's rather jerky now
'count of his not knowin' our langwidge very well, for one thing, an'
from bein' in th' habit of concealin' his thoughts from white men--like
all other Injuns--for another thing."

Now you, who read this, must know by this time how well Bill Jordan
liked to tell things and to prove them--if he could; and if he couldn't
make the other fellow believe they were true, to think up something the
other fellow couldn't answer; and if he couldn't do that, to go away
before the other could think of an answer. We all have known boys or men
of this sort, and, being human, we don't like to have them assuming
that they know more than we do. That is, we don't like it all the time.
And this sort of feeling was stirring in that bunk house, at that
moment. And finally Charlie Bassett spoke.

"Bill," he said, "you're allus tellin' us somethin' 'bout somethin' what
we don't know nothin' 'bout, with th' idee of gettin' us t' think you're
a pretty wise feller. Now, all this you've bin tellin' us 'bout Injuns
_sounds_ reason'ble, but if you want us to really b'lieve it, you've got
t' show us. Ain't that so, fellers?"

The others, thus appealed to, nodded solemnly.

"How'm I goin' t' prove it?" asked Bill, thus driven into a corner.

"By gettin' Injun t' talk," Charlie answered. "An' furthermore I'll
betcha a can of peaches or a apple pie for each one of this gang, all
'round, that you can't prove it."

Canned peaches are regarded as a great luxury in the West, or were at
that time, to say nothing of apple pies, and Bill considered the matter.
Moreover, his reputation was at stake, and that was a bigger thing to
him than peaches or apple pie either. After careful thought he spoke.

"I'll have t' go you," he said, "but there's two conditions to this here
contest."

"Give 'em a name," said Charlie.

"Th' first is, that Injun's gotta be among friends."

"We're all his friends," Charlie said. "Won't we do?"

"Yes, just us an' Whitey, if he's along," Bill agreed. "The next
condition is, that I don't agree t' make Injun talk direct on no
subject. F'r instance, if I asks him what he thinks 'bout bein' barred
out o' that there school, I don't promise he'll tell me right out. He
may spring some tale or yarn that shows what he thinks; mebbe he will,
but I don't claim t' get no exact expression of his feelin's in th'
matter."

"Them conditions goes," Charlie agreed, "don't they, fellers?"

The "fellers" agreed that they did, and it now only remained to await
the coming of Injun. He was Whitey's guest at the ranch house that
night, the night of the last day of Whitey's freedom from school. As it
was early, no doubt the boys would soon appear at the bunk house, to
listen to the sort of Arabian Nights' entertainment that was afforded by
the tales of the cowpunchers.

There was a momentary lull in the talk of the men, a lull in keeping
with the outer night, which was still and very dark. Presently a faint
light flickered across the southern windows of the bunk house, followed
by a low rumble in the northeast.

"Storm in th' mountains," volunteered Jim.

Another moment of silence was followed by a brighter glare, as the sky
in the south caught the reflection of the northern lightning. The former
rumble was succeeded by a more distinct series of crashes, as though the
storm gods of Indian belief were warming up to their work.

"Reck'n she's comin' this way," said Bill Jordan.

There was the sighing of a gentle breeze through the cottonwoods, then a
glare that shamed the oil lamps, and, so fast that it almost might be
said to trip on the light, a crash that caused the men to turn and
regard one another, almost in awe.

"Them mountain storms sure comes downhill fast," said Shorty.

As though announced by the breeze a roar of wind tore through the trees,
and shook the bunk house windows. The darkness was split by vivid,
bluish-green flashes to which the thunder responded in an almost
constant cannonading. The door opened, and Injun and Whitey forced their
way in, then threw their weight upon it in the effort to close it
against the force of the wind. Bill went to their aid.

"Funny how th' wind allus swings 'round with them storms," said Bill,
when the door was closed. "Seems t' back up an' get underneath 'em, then
push 'em from behind."

"We've missed the rain, anyway," gasped Whitey, sinking down on a bunk.

"Not by much," said Bill, as the swish of a downpouring torrent sounded
on the walls and roof and hissed through the bending branches of the
cottonwoods.

Gradually the thunder drew grumblingly away. The wind ceased to clamor,
and for a time the rain, relieved of the gale's force, fell straight in
a steady tattoo on the roof. Then it passed, and a slighter coolness of
the air, noticeable even in the closeness of the bunk house, was the
only token left of the storm's spurt of fury.

"Them storms is like some folks' money; comes hard and goes easy," said
Shorty Palmer.

"Comes quick an' goes quicker's more like it," corrected Bill Jordan.

"Have it your own way," grumbled Shorty. "Not that I have t' tell you
that, for you'd have it, anyway."

Now that the momentary interruption of the summer tempest had passed,
the minds of the company turned to the subject of Bill and Charlie's
wager, with the object of it, Injun, sitting on a cracker box and gazing
solemnly at nothing in particular. The other men all looked expectantly
at Bill, who fidgeted a moment in his chair, then started, in what he
intended for a light, conversational tone.

"Y' all ready for school to-morrow, Whitey?" Bill began, on his
roundabout attack.

"Yeh," Whitey replied gloomily.

"Too bad 'bout you, Injun. Kind o' disappointin', their barrin' you out.
Kind o' unfair, too."

Injun's response to this was as broad a grin as he ever showed to the
world. "Me glad," he said. "No like school."

This was rather a setback to Bill, who had expected to play on Injun's
feeling of resentment. He rolled a cigarette and planned a new line of
attack. He knew that all the punchers would be glad to see him fail to
make Injun talk, and this didn't make Bill any more easy in his mind. It
may have been pleasing to him to have worked up a reputation for knowing
more than the others, but this reputation was not without its drawbacks.
For one thing, it was hard to keep it up; for another, it filled his
friends with glee when he failed to keep it up. He puffed hard on his
cigarette, and thought harder.

Whitey broke the silence. "Tell us a story, Bill," he suggested.

"I ain't exactly got no story in mind," Bill replied. "We was talkin'
'bout folks, b'fore you an' Injun come, an' how they is apt t' be
unjust, 'specially in th' way o' makin' laws an' such, an' it kind o'
got me thinkin' serious; kind o' drove stories out o' my head."

"Why, John Big Moose was talking about that the other day," Whitey
exclaimed, "and how hard it is for one body of people to understand and
sympathize with another, and about that sayin', 'Man's inhumanity to man
makes countless thousands mourn.' Of course, you know that saying.
Bill?"

"'Course," answered Bill. "My father was allus mentionin' of it."

"Your old man was a blacksmith, wa'n't he, Bill?" Buck Higgins asked.

"Sure."

"Seems t' me 'twould 'a' bin more in the way o' sense if he'd talked
'bout man's unhumanness t' hosses," Buck said lightly.

Bill ignored this, and got back to the serious side of the subject.
"It's somethin' t' make a critter think," he declared. "Take white folks
an' Injuns, f'r instance. They ain't never rightly understood each
other, 'cause they ain't never bin rightly in tune with each other, an'
that's another way o' sayin' they ain't bin in symp'thy. An' th' only
way they could get that way would be t' tell, outspoke, what they thinks
o' each other. Now they's Injun, here. He's bin our friend for some
time, an' we bin his, but no one ain't never knowed his _real_ 'pinion
of us, an' I think it'd be some help in adjustin' matters all round if
we did."

Shielding his mouth with his hand, Shorty Palmer turned to Buck Higgins,
and spoke in a hoarse whisper, that could be heard distinctly by
everybody. "Bill's like one o' them big express trains you see at th'
Junction," Shorty hissed. "Takes him some time t' get started, but he
gets somewheres when he does."

Bill tried to look as though he hadn't heard this, and turned to Injun,
with what was supposed to be an expression of brotherly frankness on his
face. "Just among friends, Injun, d'ye think white folks as a class
stacks up perty good?"

Injun stared at Bill. "Huh," he grunted. "Mebbe some good, mebbe some
bad."

"O' course," said Bill, "they's good an' bad 'mongst 'em, but I mean t'
stack 'em up against Injuns, as a whole tribe, see?"

"Injuns same way. Mebbe some good, mebbe some bad."

This did not seem to be getting anywhere, and Bill became more personal.
"Now, Injun, honest," he said, "don't you think your people are
underdogs in these here conditions the whites have forced 'em into, an'
that they got a constant grouch against most whites?"

"My people good people. Him see straight," Injun replied, with dignity.

Bill was sorry now that he had started on this line of attack. He knew
that the Min-i-ko-wo-ju tribe, a branch of the Sioux or Dakotas, of
which Injun was a member, had been treated very fairly by Mr. Sherwood,
Whitey's father. That largely through the influence of Mr. Sherwood,
aided and abetted by John Big Moose, the educated Dakota, the
Min-i-ko-wo-jus had come in for their share of the recently discovered
gold mine. He also knew that gratitude was a strong factor in the Indian
character.

But with all his boasted knowledge of his red brothers, what Bill did
not know was what Injun was thinking of, and that was something
unconnected with his white brothers, or their justice or injustice to
his kind. It was something induced by the stillness of the night,
following the storm. Thoughts of another night, when Injun was not in a
long, narrow bunk-house room, surrounded by booted cowboy friends, but
in a tepee, dimly lighted by a central fire, around which squatted his
serious-faced, copper-hued kinsmen, smoking their long pipes, and
telling of their deeds and mishaps.

And when his mind was fixed on a subject, Injun--like other Indians--was
not to be deflected by the thoughts of others. Bill might talk and talk
of justice and injustice, or about cows or cartridges; Injun's mind
would stay put, and when he spoke, if it was two hours afterwards, it
would be of that night in the tepee.

But it was not that long before the silence that had fallen on the men
was broken. Bill was trying to think of another line of argument that
would induce Injun to speak at length. Whitey, who knew Injun better
than any one else, was looking at him, and realizing that he had
something on his mind. "Why don't you tell us a story, Injun?" Whitey
asked.

There was another long pause in the bunk house, and nothing could be
heard save the ticking of the alarm clock that was Wong's special
property, on which he relied to give him his three a.m. call to
get the punchers' breakfast ready by sunup. And then Injun spoke, he who
rarely talked, save in monosyllables.

"When owl sleep; when thunder don't beat drum; when wind don't make
noise like big whistle; when trees stand straight up and don't bend;
when everything quick is in hole; when Great Spirit he make sign and
everybody him sleep--then I hear my papa tell story about my mamma's
brother; how he get 'um fingers worn off on end. My mamma's brother him
great buck; call him 'buck' when him brave, before him made Chief.

"My mamma's brother him know white man scout, great friend my mamma's
brother. Him talk Indian talk, just like Sioux. My mamma's brother
friend him work for army; him watch when Indian go on war path. Him good
man. Him like Indian. Him know Indian no bad.

"My mamma's brother friend him say to my mamma's brother him like to
bring his friend, White Chief, to Indian war dance. Him say White Chief
he no tell what he see. My mamma's brother he say no: White Chief, with
much ribbon on clothes, have crooked tongue. My mamma's brother friend
he say White Chief he no tell; give word before Great Spirit. My mamma's
brother then he say come."

As the clipped sentences fell in soft gutturals from Injun's lips his
face remained expressionless, except for his eyes, which gazed back into
the dim, smoke-laden tepee and into the face of his father, a great
story-teller of a race of great story-tellers; a survivor of the age-old
days when the deeds and legends of all men were made history by the
voice alone. And the men, their wager forgotten, and Whitey, too, leaned
forward and saw the tepee and saw Injun's uncle talking to the scout,
whom he trusted, and who trusted the White Chief.

In what followed, Injun left some of the details to the imagination of
his hearers, or perhaps thought that they knew of them. Of how, before
the great war dance, the chiefs of the tribe assembled in conclave in
their council tent. And before these chiefs, who sat as a sort of jury,
appeared the young men of the tribe. And each young Indian told of his
brave deeds, performed since the last war dance, and according to these
deeds the chiefs decided whether the young man was worthy to become a
chief.

He needed no witnesses; his word was sufficient--for the Indian spoke
only the truth. And the descendant of a chief was held more worthy of
honor than another, for brave blood flowed in his veins. But after each
young man was deemed worthy, he must prove his bravery at the dance.
From a center pole hung a number of rawhide thongs. Through the breast
or back of each young brave two slits were cut, and a stick or skewer
was passed through them, and a thong tied to each end of the skewer.
Then the braves danced around the pole, leaning back and supporting
their weight on the skewer, and when this weight tore the skewer from
the flesh, the braves were deemed worthy to become chiefs. But should
one give up, or faint from pain, he was deemed unworthy. And the torture
suffered by all was great--but the torture borne by those through whose
backs the skewers were passed was greater.

"White Chief and scout come to Indian war dance," Injun continued. "At
dance, when braves make talk and tell how they do things what make 'em
chief, my mamma's brother he tell how him ride on prairie and see two
white men. Him ride to them quick to show him friend. White men say
Injun bad. White men shoot at my mamma's brother. My mamma's brother him
shoot at white men. Him kill white men. My mamma's brother him made
chief, after him dance with stick through breast until stick break.

"Scout, my mamma's brother friend, and White Chief they go 'way. My
mamma's brother friend him say to White Chief, 'You see now why you no
tell. Injun him good, no blame. White men they bad, want kill Injun.'

"White Chief him say, 'No, Injun bad. Me tell.'"

"Him go back and--"

The door of the bunk house opened suddenly and a cowboy stalked in, a
lean, dark man, rather short and slim, with eyes of that peculiar light,
slaty gray that have a staring effect; apparently no depth to them.
These, with heavy overhanging brows and an inclination to sneer, gave
him a forbidding appearance. His hat and slicker glistened with water.
At his entrance Injun ceased speaking abruptly.

"Gee, I got soaked in that rain," said the newcomer. "Stopped at th' Cut
on my way back from th' Junction. Th' railroad hands got paid, to-day,
an' they're raisin' cain. Wisht I'd stayed there, 'stead o' gettin'
soaked."

"I wish you had, too," Bill Jordan murmured to himself, unheard by the
other.

This puncher, Henry Dorgan, was a man who was vaguely disliked on the
ranch, with nothing in particular on which to hang the cause of the
feeling. It was characteristic of him, for one thing, that he had no
nickname. In a country where almost every one's name was familiarly
shortened into Hank, or Bill, or Jim, or was changed to Kid, or Red, or
Shorty, he remained Henry--not even Harry.

He threw off his hat and slicker, stamped to shake off the moisture that
clung to his boots, sat down, and prepared to make himself at home.

"Go ahead, Injun," said Jim Walker. "You was just at th' most
interestin' part."

Injun rose, walked to a bucket in a corner, poured himself a dipper of
water, and drank calmly. Then he returned, sat down and looked straight
ahead of him. There was a painful tension, of which Dorgan did not seem
to be aware. Buck Higgins tried to dispel it.

"Perceed, Injun," he said. "We're all a-waitin' on you."

Without embarassment, Injun continued to say nothing. Bill Jordan began
to show signs of nervousness, which finally broke into speech.

"Had anythin' t' eat, Henry?" he asked.

"Nope. Too busy drinkin' an' things, at th' Cut," replied Dorgan, who,
however, showed no signs of intoxication.

"Better go out t' th' kitchen, an' rustle yourself somep'n'," Bill
suggested.

"Wong'll get crazy if I monkey with his grub," objected Henry.

"I'll take care o' Wong. G'wan, you don't wanta be hungry," Bill said.

"I c'd do with some beans an' coffee," Dorgan allowed, and took himself
off.

After he was gone, there was another period of silence. It was so
unusual for Injun to talk at all, and the effort to start him again
having failed, it seemed now to occur to everybody that it probably
would be better to let him alone until he got in the mood again.
Presently Whitey saw Injun's eyes take on their former faraway look, as
though they were gazing into his father's tepee fire, or into the red
faces of his kinsmen.

"What did the White Chief do when he went back?" Whitey asked softly.

"Him go back and get plenty soldiers," responded Injun. "And come get my
mamma's brother, and tie him on pony, with him face looking at pony
tail. My mamma's brother him lose much blood where stick break through
chest. Him almost died when get to Fort. White Chief put him in log
calaboose. Him stay there long, long time; mebbe so twenty, thirty
moons.

"Then him dig dirt in floor with hands, and cover up when they bring him
bread and water--and he hide his hands all the time, fingers so much
bleed. Then when dark and no moon, him dig out last dirt, him come up
outside. Him run sixty mile, him come my father, him tell my father."

"My father he say to our people, 'Now, we fight, and we fight heap!'"

Injun paused for a moment, as one considering and about to utter
judgment. "White man bad. Injun he no bad," he said.

Injun's story was concluded. He rose and walked from the bunk house.

There was a moment's hush broken by Jim Walker. "Who in thunder d'ye
s'pose that White Chief was?" he demanded. "Gee! We sure butted into
some real Injun history."

"That's what I'm thinkin'," said Bill Jordan. "An' seein' as how Injun's
uncle was old Rain-in-the-Face, an' seein' as how th' old man's fingers
was all stubbed off at th' ends, an' seein' as how Lonesome Charlie
Reynolds, th' greatest scout what ever lived, was a great friend of th'
Injuns, an' spoke their langwidge, an' seein' as how he was scout for
General Terry, up at old Fort Buford, an' seein' as how that's where th'
Seventh Cavalry was quartered, an' seein' as how Captain Tom Custer was
always hated by th' Sioux, an' by old Rain-in-the-Face in partic'ler--by
golly, boys!--"

Bill paused, as he and the men were impressed by the important point to
which his line of argument was leading, then went on excitedly: "We only
have t' reason deflectively t' put our fingers on th' button what caused
th' doggonedest Injun fights this country ever knowed!"

"It begins, gee whiz! it begins--we all are all right, boys! It begins
in '75, with Injun's tribe. An' in '76, General Custer an' Captain Tom
Custer an' two hundred an' sixty-one o' their men was all wiped out. An'
them Injuns kep' right on fightin' till '81, when John Gall, th' big
Sioux Chief, surrenders at that big fight in th' snow, when it was
fifty-two below, an' them Injuns was fightin' in their skins, with no
coverin' but a blanket.

"Just think of it, boys. An' sittin' right here in this bunk house,
years an' years after, us cowpunchers get th' real cause o' th' whole
rumpus, which them Washington folks has bin figurin' out for years, an'
couldn't do it none whatever. Didn't I tell you all when a Injun talks
he says somethin'?"

There was no disputing this, and the men looked solemn as they
considered the series of great tragedies and the chain of circumstances
which had led up to them. Then, as the impression made on Bill Jordan
began to fade, and thoughts of his own importance to take its place, he
turned triumphantly to Jim Walker.

"Well, did I make Injun talk, an' do we get them peaches?" Bill
demanded.

"_You_ make him talk!" Jim returned scornfully. "All you did was t' make
him shut up. Whitey made him talk."

"G'wan," Bill retorted. "Didn't them suggestions o' mine 'bout white men
an' Injuns start him thinkin' 'bout that bad White Chief hombre? An'
didn't I get rid o' Henry Dorgan, 'cause Injun's distrustful of him, an'
wouldn't chin with him 'round?"

"'F y'ask for my opinion, I don't b'lieve none o' you made him talk,"
said Shorty Palmer. "I think he just--"

"I didn't ask for your opinion," Bill interrupted. "No feller c'n tell
me nothin' 'bout Injuns--"

But if this bunk house argument were followed to its end I should have
to write another book. Perhaps you can guess who paid for the peaches.




CHAPTER IX

FISH-HOOKS AND HOOKY


After breakfast the next morning when Injun and Whitey came out of the
ranch house, Whitey was heavy-hearted. The thought of going to that
school at the Forks was the cause of his depression. It was like some
sort of penalty one must pay for being a boy. Injun was to escort Whitey
to the school, as an act of friendship--as one might go to another's
funeral.

Sitting Bull was sleeping peaceably on the veranda. Sitting Bull had no
regard for the man who said that "early to bed and early to rise makes a
man healthy and wealthy and wise," or he never had heard of him. Sitting
Bull always slept late. There were other rules that boys must follow to
which Bull paid no attention. He did not chew his food carefully, as
every one knows that boys should. There were times when Whitey envied
Bull, and this first day of school was one of them.

But when the boys started for the corral to get their ponies, Bull
roused himself and expressed a wish to go with them. He had a mistaken
idea that he could keep up with the horses for nine miles, and it was
with some difficulty that Whitey got him to give it up.

"He don't know what he's missing," Whitey said sadly, as he and Injun
turned from the disappointed Bull and walked reluctantly to the corral.

It was a beautiful day, too. Did you ever notice that the first day of
school always is beautiful? Injun and Whitey's ponies made short work of
the nine miles of road that skirted the foothills and led to the Forks,
the spirited animals seeming to drink in the bracing morning air that
swept down from the mountains as though it were a tonic, which indeed it
was.

The Forks was a spot at which a road that led down from the mountains
joined the road to the Junction. The mountain road was little more than
a trail, seldom traveled, and almost overgrown with grass, and where it
joined the other stood the shack which was used as a schoolhouse. This
shack had been built by some early homeseeker, who had long ago
abandoned it to seek other pastures. It was old and discouraged-looking,
and patched in spots with pieces of tin and boards. As a temple of
learning it was not an inviting-looking place.

The pupils evidently had assembled in the shack, for tied in the shelter
of some maples near by were four cayuses and two weary-looking mules.
There were eight scholars, as Whitey knew, so he guessed that the mules
carried double. Injun seemed much more cheerful on this occasion than
Whitey, who dismounted and tied Monty near the other animals. Then,
before entering for the sacrifice, he tiptoed over to the shack and
peeped into the window. He tiptoed back to where Injun sat calmly on his
pinto. There was a look of horror on Whitey's face.

"Girls!" he whispered.

Bill Jordan had not told Whitey that some of Miss Adams's pupils were of
the fair sex. He had left that as a pleasant surprise. And there were
just two things in life that Whitey was mortally afraid of--one was
girls and the other was school.

Some persons regard the Indians as a cruel and heartless race. I do not
hold with this opinion, but I am bound to state what Whitey's friend
Injun did now. He grinned--actually grinned. Whitey gave him a sad,
reproachful look, and with his package of lunch under his arm, slouched
into the schoolhouse.

It is needless to follow Whitey into this seat of learning. If this were
a record of the torments and horrors he underwent during his boyhood
days, it might be well to describe this period at length. But suffice it
to say that Jennie Adams, the teacher, was a young woman who, if given a
little time to think, could tell you, without using a paper or pencil,
how much six pounds of butter would cost at twelve cents a pound. Also,
that the girl pupils, of whom there were four,--those who rode the mules
double,--had a habit of tittering, also of leaning over close to each
and making whispered remarks about Whitey.

A week of this did not add to Whitey's thirst for knowledge, which was
not very strong at best, and it was just a week from this first day
that he was again riding toward the schoolhouse, and something
happened. It was another bright morning, and Whitey had reached a spot
where the road branched up into the foothills to avoid a marsh, when he
noticed signs of excitement in his pony, Monty. These signs would have
been stronger had the wind been blowing the other way, and had Monty's
nose made him aware of the exact danger that lurked near. As it was, his
ears, which were much keener than Whitey's, caught sounds of some
disturbing presence, and Whitey had difficulty in keeping him in the
road.

At a sharp turn, Whitey and Monty were greeted by a roar that was deeper
than that of any automobile horn you ever heard, a roar that had menace
behind it, and that came from a large brown bear which had risen on its
hind legs and was advancing into the road with both front paws extended
wide, as though with the intent of embracing both Whitey and Monty.

[Illustration: ADVANCING INTO THE ROAD WITH BOTH FRONT PAWS EXTENDED]

Monty did not wait for any guiding rein to turn him. He wheeled on a
space about as big as a cigar-box, and hit the trail for home, and for
some time he and Whitey gave a fair imitation of a runaway train on a
down grade. All Whitey could do was to lie low on Monty's neck, digging
his moccasins into Monty's ribs, for fear he would change his
mind--which he didn't.

And neither Whitey nor Monty knew that that roar came from a mother
bear, and that back of the bear was a small cub, with a round, funny
little stomach, industriously combing the bushes for berries, and
regarding life as one round of pleasure. There was no need for them to
know that. Whitey had had experiences with bears, as you may remember.
If wireless had been invented, he might possibly have been willing to
use it as a means of introduction, but in no way he could think of at
the moment was he willing to meet a bear on its native heath.

That settled it. No school that day. Couldn't expect a fellow to go to
school when he had to run into bears on the trail. What was an old bear
doing near the ranch, anyhow? Didn't seem right. When Monty had toned
down his headlong trip away from that bear, or thought he was at a safe
distance, Whitey found himself near the river, and idly turned Monty
toward its banks. Might as well take a little ride. Fellow didn't learn
much at that school, anyway. And so, after the ways of boys and men,
Whitey made excuses for not doing what he didn't want to do.

With his mind somewhat at ease, Monty ambled along the shore of the
Yellowstone, with Whitey enjoying the scenery as much as his conscience
would let him, and his conscience getting weaker every minute. And
presently, at some distance, he saw a small huddled-up figure sitting on
the bank. Closer inspection proved this figure to be pink, and still
closer inspection revealed it to be Injun. Wondering what Injun was
doing in that neighborhood, Whitey approached, and was surprised to find
that Injun was fishing.

Knowing that Indians never fish except through necessity, Whitey was
puzzled. As he drew nearer, Injun turned and regarded him, betraying no
surprise at Whitey's being there; at his not being in school. Whitey
dismounted and sat near his friend.

"What are you fishing for, Injun?" he asked.

"Fish," Injun replied seriously.

"Of course," said Whitey. "I mean what do you want to catch the fish
for?"

"Gum," spoke Injun briefly.

"Gum?" demanded the bewildered Whitey. "You can't make gum out of fish."

Injun said nothing at all. Whitey thought that perhaps he had a bite,
but he hadn't. He just didn't ooze information. It had to be dragged
from him. So Whitey proceeded.

"Please explain about this fishing for gum," he said politely.

"Gum him chew," Injun replied.

"Oh, chewing-gum!" cried Whitey. A light dawned on him, for he knew that
Injun was very fond of chewing-gum. So was Whitey. "You trade the fish
for gum."

"No trade; sell 'em; get much gum."

This was the first commercial instinct that Whitey had ever known Injun
to show, and he looked at him admiringly. At that moment Injun got a
bite. He did not betray any of the excitement a white boy does on such
an occasion. He solemnly pulled in his line, and when it was almost in,
a good-sized pickerel squirmed off the hook, and flopped back into the
water. And now Injun showed no disappointment. He seriously examined the
worm on his hook, to see that it was intact, then cast the line into the
river again.

Whitey watched him in silence. Injun got another bite, and the same
operation was repeated, except that the fish that escaped was larger
than the other. Injun patiently rebaited his hook. "Biggest one him get
away," he grunted.

Whitey knew something about fishermen and the stories they tell: that it
is always the biggest fish that escaped. But in this case it seemed to
be true, for strung on a willow twig was Injun's catch, about six small
pickerel.

"How long you been fishing here?" Whitey asked.

"Since sunup."

"And that's all you've caught?" Whitey indicated the string of fish.

"Um."

"Let's see your hook," Whitey said, as another pickerel was pulled
almost to shore, and then flopped back into its native element.

When Injun displayed the hook, Whitey saw that it was one of the little
ones they had used in fastening the tick-tack to Wong's window. "Why,
this is too small for pickerel," exclaimed Whitey. "It's for perch. You
ought to have a bigger one."

"Yes, me know," said Injun.

Again Whitey was impressed by Injun's patience. There he had sat for
several hours, watching those big fish return to the Yellowstone and
safety. Whitey knew that he never could have stood it. Finally he
questioned him.

"If you knew that the big fish would fall off that hook, and that they
are just waiting to be caught, how could you stand just getting the
little ones?" Whitey said. "They're not worth much."

"Mebbe after time big fish him swallow hook, then me get him," answered
Injun, which was a pretty long speech for him, and explained many
matters.

As Whitey sat watching Injun waiting for an accommodating and greedy
pickerel to come along, a great idea was born to him--a fishing
partnership between him and Injun.

And that was why, if Whitey could have been closely watched, one would
have seen him sneaking around the ranch barn every morning, just before
it was time to start for school, and slipping things into his pockets.
And on examination these things would have been seen to be fishing-lines
and hooks of the proper size for pickerel.

And that is why, for about four days a week, Injun and Whitey sat
dangling their feet in the Yellowstone River, catching large flocks of
pickerel, which they peddled to neighboring ranchmen at two bits a
half-dozen. And that is why they were always well supplied with
chewing-gum.

Now, it is not my purpose to defend or excuse this conduct of Injun and
Whitey's, but simply to record it. If you are looking for a moral in
this story, you may find it in what followed on the heels of this
fishing partnership. In the first place, no boy without money may
display things which cost money without attracting attention, followed
by suspicion. Gum costs money, and the chewing of it is a very apparent
action.

Soon Bill Jordan was saying to Jim Walker: "Where d'you s'pose them kids
get all that gum?"

Jim was answering, "Down t' th' Junction."

"But they ain't got no money," Bill was objecting.

Then Buck Higgins was sauntering up and remarking, "Say, Sid Griggs,
over t' th' Diamond Dagger, was tellin' me, t'day, how Injun and Whitey
sells him herds o' fine pick'rul at six bits a throw."

"Why don't they bring some home? When do they ketch them pick'rul?
That's where they get th' cash!" Bill Jordan was exclaiming, in a rather
disconnected manner, thus showing that the putting of two and two
together is fatal to