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 thetragedy 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 callon 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, Iwilltell 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' soulo' 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' Junctionfor 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 hearsBull 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 almoststrangers, 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.
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. Andthough 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 theranch 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 ofthe 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. Iknowthat 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 hislegs 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 sayonthe 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. Whenthe 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, andhedidn'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, andraced 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 fleetof 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.
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 hewas 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, afterall."
"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 Whiteytaught 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 BillJordan, 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'sturnin' 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."
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'tknow 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 hisfeelings 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 Injunssoundsreason'ble, but if you want us to really b'lieve it, you've gott' 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 itagainst 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 youthat, 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 hisreal'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 byeverybody. "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, butin 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 specialproperty, 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 friendhe 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 hisbrave 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 seemto 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 wasalways 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 theyconsidered 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.
"Youmake him talk!" Jim returned scornfully. "All you did was t' make him shut up. Whitey made him talk."