The following morning, Whitey was up almost with the sun, but he found the ranch already astir. Mr. Sherwood was busy over the ranch accounts when Whitey went in to breakfast. It needed very little persuasion on the part of the shuffling, grinning Sing Wong to induce him to put away a bigger breakfast than he had ever had before in his life. Twenty-four hours in that mountain air would give an appetite to a mummy, and Whitey was far from being a mummy. Bill Jordan watched him stow away plate after plate of flap-jacks and honey in addition to bacon and eggs and milk, and finally said with an anxious shake of his head, that the ranch would have to do a bigger business than ever if Whitey intended to make a long visit.
"Mr. Jordan," said Whitey, pausing to get his breath, and accepting with some hesitation "just one more plate" of flap-jacks, "I don't believe I'lleverwant to go back!"
Bill threw up his hands in a gesture of despair, and "allowed as how, if that was the case, he'd haf' to raise Sing Wong's wages, or else see about getting him an assistant!"
Whitey laughed and assured Bill that he hadn't been very hungry that morning, but when he got down to business, he'd show him how a really hungry boycouldeat.
"It's a pity you wasn't here 'bout a year or so ago," said Bill. "We could o' made a clean-up with you!"
"How is that?" asked Whitey.
"Well," said Bill, "we had a feller here who was some strong as a table-finisher an' bone-polisher, an' we issued a challenge to eat him agin any man in the West. He et like nine starvin' Cubans, an' then some! It looked like he could spot most anybody three er four good-sized steaks an' then win pulled-up. But the' was a 'hayseed' blowed in one day an' offered to eat him fer consider'ble change. They set down to make the terms and specifications o' the eatin' contest, an' our man says, 'What'll we begin with?' An' the other feller says, 'Well, suppose we start on hams?' 'All right,' says our champion, 'how many slices?' 'Slices!' says the other guy, contemptuous like, 'slices! I didn't say nuthin' 'bout slices! I said hams!'
"Well, sir, that settled it! Our man give this feller one look an' crawfished right there! He snuk out an' got on his pinto, an' we ain't never saw him sence. Now, if yo'd a bin here——" and Bill shrugged his shoulders and made a deprecatory gesture that indicated that a real eater, like Whitey, never would have allowed "hams" to faze him.
"Mebbe we better issue another challenge?" added Bill, tentatively. "Yo' won't need much trainin'!"
"I'm not very fond of hams," said Whitey, "but if he'll start on steers I'll accommodate him!"
Bill let out a laugh that shook the rafters. "I guess you'll do!" he said as he reached for his hat, and regarded the hole in it with a grin.
"Do you suppose 'Injun' will be here to-day, Mr. Jordan?" asked Whitey.
"He's bin here more'n an hour, a'ready!" said Jordan, "I seen him an' that pinto of his when I come past the corral. I meant to tell you 'bout it, but disremembered to."
"I hope he'll wait," said Whitey.
Bill laughed: "He'll wait, all right. Patience is an Injun's middle name! Time don't mean nuthin' to them."
Whitey got his rifle and started out for the corral. He found 'Injun' just where Bill had said he was, waiting patiently, and Bill Jordan made it a point to be on hand a few moments afterward. Both of the boys were diffident, although Injun did not display it.
Whitey began the conversation: "Hello, Injun," he said, in a pleasant way. Injun raised his hand in his peculiar way of salutation, but made no other acknowledgment of the greeting, but eyed Whitey's rifle interestedly.
"Want to look at it?" asked Whitey, holding it out. "It's a dandy!"
Injun took the gun and examined it carefully, and Whitey noticed that he did not violate any of the rules of handling it and he evidently knew all about the mechanism. After he had looked it over admiringly and tried the sights, he handed it back to Whitey without comment, but there was no doubt that he would have given his right leg to own it.
Whitey, in turn, examined and admired Injun's bow and arrows, and found that, although he was undoubtedly as strong as Injun, he had considerable difficulty in pulling the bow back to its fullest extent.
There is a certain knack in this which comes only from long practice; just as there is in all branches of athletic sports or feats of skill; and experience is not alone thebestteacher, but may be said to be theonlyteacher. In this particular thing, the Indian has the added incentive of necessity—the ability to shoot an arrow far and straight means his very livelihood; and the loss of an arrow is serious—not only because he loses the animal or bird, but because it takes a long time to make a really good arrow.
A similar condition exists in many other branches of out-door craft, and the novice has great difficulty in mastering something which looks easy. The ability to ride a high-spirited horse, or to throw a lariat accurately, or to send a canoe through the water swiftly without making a ripple or any perceptible noise, or to run at high speed over the snow and through the thick woods on snow-shoes without coming to grief, cannot be learned in a day or a month. In fact, some people can never learn to do these things properly. If a boy or man hasn't a good eye and steady nerves, he can never arrive at any extraordinary proficiency.
It is impossible for two red-blooded boys to be together any length of time without engaging in some kind of a contest; and the examinations of the rifle and the bow and arrows made a very good basis for it, and Jordan acted the part of promoter.
"Let's see who is the best shot," he suggested. "Whitey—(Jordan had by this time learned what he termed Alan's "handle" or "monicker"), you use the gun an' let Injun use the bow and arrows and shoot at a mark—say 'bout twenty paces off. What d' y' say?"
"Sure," said Whitey, agreeing readily. "We'll shoot at your hat!"
"Not by no means, y' won't!" said Jordan, grinning. "I got some respect fer that old hat yet! 'T was a new one, yestiddy—till yo' made an old one out'n it!" he added, reproachfully.
Jordan took a pine board, marked a circle and bull's eye on it, and fixed it against a post of the corral about twenty paces away. He elected that Whitey shoot first, and the latter took careful aim and fired. The splinters flew from the board, but it was found to have only chipped the edge, and was not within the circle; but it was not such a bad shot, as the board was hardly more than a foot wide.
Injun fitted an arrow to the bow and drew the string back to his ear. The arrow went straight to the mark and sunk itself in the pine board in the bull's eye. Injun had not used one of his sharp-pointed hunting arrows, or it would probably have gone clear through the board. Whitey was most enthusiastic in his admiration for such skill as this, and, too, it stirred in him a determination to emulate it. But try as he would, he could not send the bullets from his rifle with anything near the accuracy that Injun shot his arrows.
Whitey tried the bow and arrows several times, but succeeded in hitting the board only once, and with nothing like the force that Injun had communicated to the shaft. He urged Injun to try the rifle—he didn't have to urge very hard, as the latter was dying to try it. And while he obtained somewhat better results from it than Whitey got from the bow, he proved that as far as getting his dinner in the woods or mountains is concerned, he might better stick to his bow. However, there was no doubt that the first competition between the boys had resulted in Injun's favor.
As Injun handed the rifle back to Whitey, he looked at Jordan, and for the first time spoke.
"Him shoot!" he said.
"Who—me?" said Jordan, "I guess I'm a leetle mite out o' practice. Tell yo' what I'll do, though, Whitey—yo' done put my lid on the bum, an' I'll shoot if you'll let me have a crack at that new hat o' your'n! Come on now, are yo' game?" said Jordan, taking his big Colt forty-five from his holster.
"Turn about is fair play," said Whitey, "so here goes!" and he fastened his hat on the board, making a fair mark.
Jordan laughed, and turning, he emptied his revolver in the direction of the hat in less time than it takes to tell it. "By Crackey!" exclaimed Jordan, in a disappointed way, "I don't believe I hit thet air old sky-piece, after all! I'm shore gettin' outer practice!"
The boys ran to the hat, and found that it was untouched. BUT—Jordan had put a ring of bullets all around it, none of them being more than half an inch from the brim!
"I guess you don't need much practice!" gasped Whitey, as he came back with the hat. "I wouldn't have thought it possible for any one to shoot like that!" he added, in undisguised admiration.
"Well," said Jordan, slowly, "mebbe if I'd bin a leetle more careful an' took more time, Imighthave hit it. I reckon, now, I've done throwed away my chance to get even with yo'!"
"You'll never get another chance atmyhat—not unless you let me put it up a mile away—and even then I'd be afraid you'd hit it!"
"I reckon the hat's some safe if thet's the case," said Bill.
"Look here, Whitey," said Bill Jordan, one afternoon, "kin yo' ride a hoss? If yo' an' this here Injun is goin' in cahoots, yo' gotta ride some!"
"I'm not what any one would call a good rider," said Whitey, "but I guess I can manage to stay on. I used to ride the horses down at Coney Island, and once or twice when we were in the country; but these horses are different. They don't wait till you get your seat before they whirl 'round and beat it!"
"Some of 'em is a mite hasty," admitted Bill, "but we got one or two nice, ol' hobby-hosses in the corral thet'll be 'bout yo'r size. Buck," he shouted to one of the cow-punchers nearby, "go bring thet ol' sorrel out'n the corral—thet is, pervidin' he's able to walk. Yo'll probably find him leanin' up agin the fence to keep from fallin' down. This here Whitey person is goin' to set on him fer a spell an' take a nap."
Buck took a halter and went into the corral, and soon returned leading the sorrel, which did not seem to be in any danger of falling down if he didn't have something to lean against. In fact, the sorrel was a pretty lively animal, and Whitey had his misgivings; but he knew that Bill Jordan would not allow him to mount a fractious or vicious horse, inexperienced as he was, and he made up his mind that he would "go through" with it. If he were to spend any length of time in the West, he knew that the sooner he learned to ride, the better off he would be, and the more he could enter into the work and play of the ranch—and, indeed, the very life of the West with which the horse is so inseparably associated. Then, too, he admired and marveled at the way Injun rode his pony, and the spirit of rivalry within him made him determine that he would not remain outclassed, for any long time, by a boy of his own age in any department of out-door life.
Bill watched Whitey narrowly, and it is probable that if he had seen any exhibition of "the white feather," he would have stopped the performance. For he knew that confidence is the main thing, and if the boy were timid, he might come to grief. But Whitey evidently did not have "cold feet."
"Buck, you keep the ol' rack-o'-bones from fallin' apart, an' I'll give the kid a hand," said Bill, offering to boost Whitey into the saddle.
"Let me try to mount myself," said Whitey. "I may be out on the prairie some time and it won't be convenient to come way back here to get you to boost me up."
"Correct," said Bill, tickled over the boy's refusal of his assistance. "It's always well to play a lone hand—ef yo' got the cards to do it!" And Whitey swung himself onto the horse in as near an imitation of the way of the ranchmen as he could.
Once he was mounted on the sorrel, after some elementary instructions from Bill as to mounting and keeping his seat by the knee-grip, Buck, who had stood at the horse's head, released his hold, and the sorrel started off at a lively clip; and if Whitey had not remembered his instructions and been prepared for just this thing, he would have been unseated. As it was, he had a narrow escape, but managed to stick on, to the great delight of Bill—and, incidentally, of himself! Every added minute on the horse gave added confidence to Whitey, and as he began to get the swing and rhythm of it, he already felt that exhilaration which comes from riding. Injun, of course, accompanied him, and the two boys rode around the big corral to which his first essay was confined.
Bill Jordan watched Whitey with considerable satisfaction; he had taken a great interest in the boy because he recognized in him many of the sterling qualities that go to make a man. He had not selected a "rocking-horse" for his first ride largely to see if Whitey would tackle what seemed to be a difficult undertaking without fear; and the manner in which the boy had "gone to it" pleased him immensely. He knew that there was really very little actual danger, for the sorrel was steady and "honest" and had no vicious traits, and there is such a thing as too much "babying."
Whitey was strong and confident, and there are worse things than a fall from a horse. Jordan knew, also, that if a rider starts on an "easy-chair" sort of a horse, he will learn many things which he must eventually un-learn. At any rate, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and the manner in which Whitey performed justified his judgment. It would not do, of course, to starteveryboy in this way; but Whitey was an unusual boy, and Bill felt that he took very few chances.
In the next few days Whitey picked up a surprising lot of horsemanship and though he had a fall or two, when he attempted to do some of the "fancy stuff" that Injun and the cow-punchers showed him, he had no broken bones, and he felt that he was competent to ride almost anywhere and keep up the pace. Confidence, after all, is the main thing, and this Whitey had in large measure. And, what counts for much also,he was willing to be shown. He did not "know it all." Any boy who starts in a new game and thinks he knows it all will certainly come to grief.
The taking over of a new property like the big Bar O ranch and getting the run of things is no small job; and Mr. Sherwood was kept too busy to pay more than casual attention to Whitey. Thus the two boys were left almost entirely to themselves, although Bill Jordan kept an eye on them, as did many of the ranch-hands with whom they were favorites.
Not only is it impossible for two red-blooded boys to be together for any length of time without engaging in some kind of competition, but usually that competition takes the form of seeing "who is the best man!" No boy likes to be out-done at any sport; and if he is, he usually tries to improve in that sport, or casts about to find something at which he is better than his victor. Whitey was compelled to acknowledge that Injun was the better shot—how long he would remain better, especially with the rifle, was a matter that was up to Whitey—but the strongest and fleetest boy in the big Eastern school was not going to acknowledge Injun's superiority in other branches of sport until he was obliged to do so.
As far as riding was concerned, there was no comparison at all; and again Whitey was compelled to admit inferiority. But he knew that his rival had by far the better horse, and had practically been brought up on his back; and Whitey felt that, given an equal opportunity, he, too, could ride as well as the next boy. If spending most of his waking hours in the saddle would accomplish this, he determined to put them in that way.
It must not be understood that Whitey was a "poor loser"—such was far from the truth. Defeat did not make him "sore" and engender hatred in him; it only made him try the harder. He was always the first to congratulate his successful rival,and to make up his mind that he would strive to equal or excel his rival's performance. In this instance, however, he realized that he was "playing Injun's own game"; and maybe, if Injun played some of Whitey's games, he would not come off any better than Whitey had at Injun's.
It was several days before the stiffness from riding began to leave Whitey's muscles and they assumed their usual elasticity; but he had stuck to his saddle during that time, and gradually the soreness began to wear away. He also had acquired confidence and a knowledge of his horse, the sorrel, which he had named Monty, and Monty had begun to know him. This is a necessity for really finished or satisfactory riding; and, on the advice of Bill Jordan, Whitey assumed entire charge of the horse, grooming and feeding and watering him, and ingratiating himself into Monty's confidence and affection in every way that he could until he had established an understanding between them.
"Ef yo' an' that sorrel gets to be pals," said Bill, "Yo' hes gone a long ways toward bein' a rider. Team-work counts for a heap in that game!"
And so, although it would be a long time before Whitey and Monty could ever hope to rival Injun and his pinto, yet, for all practical purposes, Whitey became a fair horseman, and the pair made a good combination. He even had aspirations toward riding one of the bucking bronchos that the boys broke in the corral; but Bill Jordan put a veto on this, and said that there would be "plenty of time for thet stuff when funeral expenses ain't so high!"
On most of his excursions out into the prairie, Injun accompanied him, and seldom did the two boys come back to the ranch without a race. At first Injun won regularly; but as Whitey learned to ride, he gradually shortened the distance by which he and Monty were the losers, until it became nip and tuck, and finally Whitey and Monty had won two heats in succession.
On the third day, as they came in neck and neck, the two boys rode so close together that they could touch each other; and before they knew it, were indulging in that most hazardous and difficult game, wrestling on horse-back. Injun, who was literally part of the horse, finally succeeded in unseating Whitey, and the latter hit the ground with a thump.
Whitey picked himself up, and grinning, said, "Injun, you might throw me when we're on our horses, but you couldn't do it on the ground!"
Injun slipped from his pinto, laid aside his bow and arrows and his hunting-knife, and accepted the challenge without hesitation: "Me 'rassle," he said, and began to slip around Whitey with a gliding and panther-like motion, looking for a hold. Whitey faced him alertly, and for a moment nothing else happened. Bill Jordan and several of the boys watched the contest from the fence of the corral. Suddenly, Injun darted in with the swiftness of a rattlesnake making a strike, and secured a hold on Whitey's leg, coming within an ace of upsetting him. But Whitey was not to be upset so easily; he seized Injun's arm with one hand, and putting his forearm under Injun's chin, forced his head back; and exerting his thigh-muscles, he broke Injun's hold on his leg. Quickly shifting his hold from Injun's arm, and slipping his other arm beneath Injun's, he secured what boys call "an under-hold"; and then, half turning, he threw Injun over his hip to the ground, heavily.
But Whitey came down, too, although he was on top; for Injun had locked his arms about Whitey's neck and held on with a grip like a vise. They were locked in this way for perhaps two minutes, but Whitey knew that it was only a matter of time when he could break this hold, and he was in no hurry. At the slightest relaxation of the pressure that Injun was putting on, he could get one of his hands under Injun's arms, or he could twist out. He felt, at first contact that he was stronger than Injun and a good deal heavier, and these are two big assets in wrestling, though the smaller boy was perhaps quicker. And then, too, Whitey knew many wrestling holds, while Injun depended entirely upon his natural instincts; this, also, was greatly to Whitey's advantage.
But there was one thing Whitey had not reckoned on, and that was Injun's nature—Injun was getting angry, and Whitey could feel that his opponent was trying to strangle him, and meant to do him some injury if he could.
"What are you trying to do?" asked Whitey as Injun put on more pressure. "This isn't a fight—we're not trying to kill each other!" But Injun made no reply but continued to rough it.
This put a new face on the matter, and Whitey quickly slid one hand beneath Injun's arm, and prying it up, he wrenched his head from Injun's strangle-hold in no very gentle manner. As he did this, Injun slid out from under him and got to his hands and knees in a sort of "dog-fall"; and this gave Whitey a chance to twist one of Injun's arms around his back and force it upward between the shoulder-blades in what is known as a "hammer-lock," and quickly turned Injun over on his back and pinned his shoulders down. Once Injun was "down" and manifestly helpless, Whitey jumped to his feet and held out his hand; but Injun rose slowly and did not take it.
"Look out fer that Injun," said one of the boys to Bill Jordan, "he's bad medicine! He'll do that kid some dirt, first thing y' know!" But the warning was unnecessary, for Bill was already on his way toward the two boys.
Quick as a flash Injun stooped and picked up his knife which he had thrown beside his bow and arrows, and turned to Whitey; but the latter was ready and proceeded to show Injun a game that Injun knew nothing about whatever. The Indian, in the wilds, doesn't know anything about using his fists—he fights only with a weapon. Boxing is confined, almost entirely, to the Anglo-Saxon race, and when Whitey's solid fist landed on Injun's jaw with all the force that Whitey could put into a long swing, Injun was a very much astonished young man, and he went down in a heap, his arms stretched out and his eyes blinking and his mind dazed. Whitey stepped on the wrist of the hand that held the knife, and took it out of the boy's hand and threw it far from them.
Whitey's solid fist landed on Injun's jaw.
Whitey's solid fist landed on Injun's jaw.
Whitey's solid fist landed on Injun's jaw.
Seeing this, and knowing that any real danger was over, Bill and the boys stopped.
"Might as well let 'em have it out," said Bill. "They'll have to settle who's boss, an' it may as well be now as any other time. That Whitey person ain't no slouch! Did you see the slam he handed that kid?"
Injun evidently didn't think that he was licked yet, for he made one more rush, as he struggled to his feet—and only one. For as good a boxer as Whitey, he offered too big a mark to miss; and as he came in, head down, he was met by a fair and square left-hand upper-cut on the nose; and when he straightened from this Whitey promptly knocked him down with his right.
Then he stood off, waiting for Injun to get up; but Injun was in no hurry. He looked solemnly at Bill and the boys. When he rose slowly to his feet, Whitey picked up the knife and the bow and arrows and walked up to Injun and handed them to him. Injun took them wonderingly; he couldn't understand such conduct in a victor, at all! Then Whitey held out his hand. "I'm sorry I had to hit you," he said. "But you got mad!" Injun looked at him for a long time; then he took the hand. "You boss!" he said, as he leaped upon the pinto and was gone.
Bill slapped Whitey on the back: "Son," he said, "I guess you'll do! I reckon you kin take care of yerself most any time! An' you give that Kid jes' what he deserved—a good lickin'! An' you fought fair—like a white man!"
"An' 'f I was you," said one of the boys, "I'd keep my eye on thet coyote. He'll sneak up on ye some time an' see how far he kin run thet knife o' his'n in yer back! I wouldn't trust them birds!"
"Well," said Bill, "mebbe y' better watch him fer a spell; but I don't figger him thet way. He's a game little rooster, an' gener'ly them thet's game has got somethin' to 'em. Besides, he's different from the gener'l run o' his tribe. He done said you was boss! An' I take it, thet means he's surrendered, an' 'll walk turkey from now on. We'll see."
"What's all this about?" asked Mr. Sherwood, coming up just then. "You look a little mussed up," he added, turning to Whitey.
"Your boy jes' hed a slight argyment with the injun, an' he convinced him," said Bill. "Thet's all."
"And what was it he convinced the Indian of?" asked Mr. Sherwood, smiling.
"He convinced him of the sooperiority of the White race," said Bill. "Convinced him good an' plenty—right on the nose—an' other parts!"
The accuracy of Bill Jordan's estimate of Injun was clearly demonstrated very soon afterward. Injun did not appear at the ranch the day following his "argument" with Whitey; and it must be confessed that the latter missed him sorely. The usual sports and occupations had lost a good deal of their zest, and life wasn't quite the same to Whitey. Injun, accustomed as he was to a solitary and independent life, probably felt the separation less; but that he felt it, is certain.
For on the following day, he appeared early, and made no pretense that he had come on any other errand than to offer peace. He did not bring a peace-pipe for Whitey to smoke with him, but he brought what was equivalent to it—a fine lariat which he presented to Whitey at the corral with no words and no ceremony, simply handing it to him and letting it go at that. Like the rest of his race, Injun was not demonstrative.
Whitey accepted the gift in the spirit in which it was given and thanked Injun for it; and at once proceeded to try it under the tutelage of his companion who already had acquired considerable skill in its use.
Bill Jordan had been near at hand when the reconciliation between the two boys had occurred, thinking that perhaps it was not best to trust the red boy too far; but the latter's manner soon convinced Bill that things were as they should be and that the lad was no "Injun-giver," and that there was no sinister motive behind his seeming generosity. Bill examined the lariat closely, and a smile came over his face as he asked: "Where'd you grab off this here rope, Injun?" Injun looked frankly at Bill and said, "Him Pedro leave him."
Bill laughed: "He shore did, Injun!" And then he explained to Whitey: "This here Pedro person was some complicated into more kinds of evil deviltry an' wickedness, includin' cattle rustlin', than any six men oughta be. He's a half-breed Canuck, bein' called 'Pedro', 'count o' him havin' more'n ord'nary skill at playin' a card-game by thet name. He had most pressin' reasons to go away from here right sudden, an' he neglected to take some of his belongings—which he prob'ally stole in the first place. You title is good, Injun—better'n Pedro's, anyhow!"
"Where is he now?" asked Whitey.
"Anybody who will tell me that," said Bill, "will get a vote o' thanks all wrote out on paper an' tied with a pink ribbon! I'd travel some consid'able distance afoot if I figgered I c'd meet up with thet pizen hombrey. When he left, he didn't leave no forwardin' address—the' was a lot o' things comin' to him thet he wasn't partic'lar 'bout receivin'. If he's where I hope he is, an' where he oughta be, he don't need no over-coat ner blanket! I reckon this here Injun mebbe'd like to know where he is, too!" laughed Bill. "Injun had consider'ble to do with showin' up that skunk, an' he's some sore on Injun—I'll tell yo' 'bout it sometime."
The subject of Pedro apparently was not a very pleasant one to Bill, and he changed the subject abruptly. "Lemme see what I kin do with thet rope," he said, and Whitey handed it to him, delightedly. Bill took the "rope," and proceeded to show the boys some stunts that opened Whitey's eyes, especially the fancy ones. And as he performed each one, he told the boys that "he was plumb outa practice."
"I'd like to see you when youarein practice!" said Whitey; "but I want to know, Mr. Jordan, if those stunts are really any good?"
"Well," said Bill, "o' course the main thing to do with a rope is to ketch somethin' with it, an' I didn't ketch nuthin' but mebbe a little applause; but yo' learn them things foolin' with the rope, an' the more yo' fool with anythin', the more yo' learn about it, and the more control yo' get over it. I wouldn't say thet the time spent in learnin' them things wasallthrowed away. Mebbe they ain't so useless as they seem." Bill smiled—that rare, quiet, quizzical smile of his, as he asked innocently, "Was yo' thinkin' o' puttin' in the whole mornin' an' learnin' 'em?"
Whitey laughed; he had tried the lariat and he knew how difficult it is to do anything with it at all. "Not this morning!" he said. "I'm going to wait until no one is looking. I think I'll get better acquainted with my horse before I tackle a new job!"
"One thing at a time is good dope," said Bill. "Hev yo' got so yo' kin set on that ol' hobby-horse without holdin' onto his mane?"
Whitey laughed; and for an answer, he vaulted onto Monty's back, and, followed by Injun, he galloped away.
As the boys rode away from the ranch-house across the prairie toward the mountains, they came upon numerous small streams, some of them so deep or so swift that they could not be readily forded. Here was a new experience—"swimming a horse" across a stream. Injun, of course, showed the way, and Whitey learned that, if the current is at all swift, you must enter the water above the spot where you wish to land, so that you will be carried down-stream to the proper place. And it was here that Whitey had his first real adventure; though had it not been for Injun, there is no telling but the story of Whitey would have to come to an end right here.
The boys had dismounted on the bank of one of these streams, and Whitey had tied his horse in the way Injun showed him. Injun's pony did not require tieing, for the reason that no dog ever followed his master with more fidelity than did the pony follow Injun.
As Whitey ran down the steep bank onto the rocks that bordered the stream, he saw, not more than ten feet away from him, a rattlesnake sunning himself on a flat rock. If Whitey had been a Western boy, he never would have done what he did, and that was to stoop and pick up a stone and take careful aim at the snake. In fact, he took too careful aim! Rattlesnakes are born fighters, and naturally object to being hit by rocks thrown by boys or anybody else. And at exactly the same instant that Whitey threw the stone, the rattler jumped for him—and a rattler is a considerable jumper. The rock and the snake probably passed each other in the air!
At any rate, the rock did not hit the snake, and it seemed that the snake did not hit the boy; but for the next few seconds the air was full of snake and boy—the boy doing a dance that would put to shame any professional. Whitey hopped high and far and frequently, but he couldn't get out of reach of the snake. But a rattler must coil to strike effectively; and although this one did, very quickly, he was not quite quick enough.
Injun had come to the edge of the bank and had taken in the situation at a glance, and he acted instantly. In an incredibly short time, he had fitted an arrow to his bow, and when the snake coiled, it was the last thing that Mr. Snake ever did! Injun's arrow hit him just below his ugly, flat head, and pinned him to the ground for a moment, where he writhed and twisted for a time and then lay still. Injun paid no attention to the snake, but turned anxiously to Whitey.
"Him bite you?" he asked earnestly.
"No," answered Whitey, "guess not—I didn't feel anything. He made me hop some, though," he added, going toward the dead snake as though to examine it.
But Injun was not satisfied; he stopped Whitey and made him take off his shoes and stockings and roll up his trousers and examine his legs critically for any evidences of a bite. In the calf of Whitey's leg, there was an almost imperceptible scratch; Injun examined it, and at once applied his lips to the wound and sucked the blood from it and spat it out; and this he repeated several times, while Whitey looked on, grinning and wondering what it was all about. Then Injun took Whitey's handkerchief from about his neck and tieing it above the wound—nearer to the heart—he knotted it, ran a short stick through the knot, and twisted the stick until the handkerchief was very tight. This is the first thing to be done in case of snake-bite, as it prevents, in a measure, the poison from getting into the circulation.
"Gee!" said Whitey, "my leg feels numb—I guess you got that thing too tight!"
Injun shook his head and insisted that Whitey get onto his horse and ride back. Whitey agreed, though he had begun to feel a certain drowsy numbness all over him, and Injun had to help him mount.
It was plain to Injun that Whitey never would be able to stay on his horse unassisted, and he mounted behind him and held him on, calling to his own pony to follow.
In this manner the two boys came to the ranch-house, where Whitey was taken in hand by Bill and Mr. Sherwood and the usual remedies administered, one of them being to pour whiskey into the victim.
The poison of a rattlesnake has a tendency to stop the heart, and whiskey is given to stimulate it—to make it beat faster—a primitive remedy and one that doesn't always work. And then, too, it is a question in the minds of many people as to which is the worse poison, rattlesnake juice or whiskey!
It was evident that Injun was not altogether satisfied with the treatment that his pal was getting; and he leaped upon his pinto and dashed away. After a time he returned with an old Indian Squaw, who set up her tripod of sticks and hung her kettle over a small fire and cooked some of the herbs that she had in a little bag. A couple of days later Whitey woke up and proceeded to get well—thanks to the squaw and to Injun!
And it is quite certain that he never again set out to kill a six-foot rattler with a rock! If a man hasn't a gun handy, it is just as well to give the rattler his full half of the road—or the whole of it, for that matter, if he seems to want it.
During the days of Whitey's convalescence Injun and Bill Jordan were unremitting in their attendance upon him and in their efforts to make things pleasant. Whitey had had a very narrow escape, but thanks to the squaw and to Injun, their quick and effective methods, and to his own good constitution, it was only a few days before he felt almost entirely recovered and the ill-effects had nearly disappeared. Whitey realized that it takes some time to many to become a "real Westerner," and that there are many "dont's" as well as "do's" in the program of life in the foot-hills of the Rockies.
As Bill Jordan sat by Whitey's chair on the piazza, he told the boy many things—not as a teacher instructing a pupil—but as stories that should suggest a course of conduct to be followed when certain exigencies presented themselves. One of the cardinal principles that Bill laid down was that a boy, or a man, must keep his eyes open at all times. Bill maintained, and it is probably true, that any boy of good, common sense is far safer on the ranch and its environs than he would be on Broadway or the streets of any big city; but he must keep his eyes open and learn to read the signs. Nature has signs that are just as plain and legible as the signs that mark the traffic and guide the citizen in his daily life. A careful person doesn't disregard these signs and rules of conduct in the city; and the careful plainsman or mountaineer should not disregard those that should guide and regulate him in the Great Out-doors.
"Ever hear of a Chinook wind?" asked Bill, as he and Injun and Whitey sat on the broad piazza of the ranch-house, when Whitey was able to be up. Injun said nothing, but his face showed that he knew all about the Chinook wind.
"Well," continued Bill, addressing Whitey, "it's a warm wind thet's liable to come any time durin' the winter months; but it usually comes along 'bout February er March. The snow all melts an' the sun shines an' the grass begins to sprout an' the stock commences to feed an' wander away from the home corrals. Now this here Mister Chinook Wind'd be a wonderful thing if he was on the level—which he ain't. Not by no means! He's a shore-enough villain, an' could play the villain's part in any story an' live up to it! He come mighty near finishin' me an' some others once!" And Bill stopped and rolled a cigarette, though it was plain that the two boys were all eagerness to hear the story.
"It was like this," said Bill, blowing out a big whiff of smoke; "Old Man Holloway lived about eighty mile from Bismarck—had lived there fer ten years er more, an' should hev knowed better—an' he had some business that ought of bin did 'long in the winter; but the winter hed bin a hard one an' he didn't hev a Chinaman's chance o' gettin' up to town. 'Long towards spring, comes Mr. Chinook Wind an' got in his fine work."
Bill paused, and Whitey asked, "What did the wind do?"
"Well," said Bill, slowly, "it's a funny thing 'bout a Chinook wind—it's fooled the people in the West since the beginnin' of time, an' 't seem 's though it's goin' right on an' fool 'em till the end o' time! Must be it's his balmy, soft-soapy ways! You couldn't never ask fer no nicer weather 'n we had fer some days, that spring, an' Old Man Holloway concluded he'd strike out fer Bismarck—never give the weather a thought 't all. He was so sure thet he didn't even hesitate 'bout takin' his ten-year-old boy, Jim, 'long with him; an' y' kin gamble thet if he'd sensed any danger he wouldn't of took Jim—'cause there was just two things thet Jim's father loved—and Jim was both of 'em!
"They set out with two saddle-horses and two pack-horses on the eighty-mile trip, an' fer forty-five mile everything was fine as silk. The night camp was made, an' the coyotes sung the'r little songs, as per usual. An' next mornin', they put away a big breakfast o' beans an' bacon, and started out on the last lap o' the trip.
"Long late in th' afternoon things begun to happen. Mr. Chinook Wind he'd got tired o' bein' nice; he'd gone courtin' all over thet part o' the country, an' he'd let the sun shine on the hills, an' he'd laughed—a nice, chucklin' little laugh—with all the rivers, an' flirted with the trees an' lullabied 'most everybody to sleep. Then he got tired er got a grouch an' didn't want t' play any more! He jes' says, 'Good-by! I'm gone!' An' he let Winter take his place. An' though it lacked three hours o' sun-down, the sun hid hisself an' it got dark, an' then it got darker; an' the winter wind commenced to whistle—not a nice, clean tune of a whistle, but an ugly, threatenin' sort of a sound—like a fire-engine whistle in the night. It was pretty tol'able dark, but it was light enough fer Jim t' see thet his dad's face was white. Old Man Holloway wasn't sayin' much, but he was doin' a heap o' thinkin'. An' pretty soon, things begun to fall through the air which was snow, but nobody ever seen snow like it before ner since. The flakes was as big as plates, an' they was fallin' so thick thet they seemed like a solid wall!"
Bill paused, reminiscently, and Whitey waited eagerly for the finish of the story. Injun sat impassive—he knew pretty well what Bill was talking about.
"Bime by, Jim thought his father's horse hed bumped into him; but when he looked up, he seen it was a strange man—it was me! An' the strange man hed five other men with him—they was outriders lookin' fer stray cattle, an' the fact thet they'd run into Jim an' his father was the only thing thet saved both the'r lives.
"By this time, the wind was blowin' great guns—y' couldn't hear yerself think—an' what with the darkness an' snow, it didn't look like much could be done." Bill paused. "A horse er a steer," he said, digressing, "never tries to do anythin'; they jes' turn the'r head away from the wind an' drop it down an' wait fer the finish! Humans is different. God didn't give horses an' steers human intelligence, an' humans hev to use the intelligence they hev to protect 'emselves." Bill paused again, as though he disliked to say what he intended, but, after a moment, he resumed.
"It may seem mighty hard on the hosses—what happened—but it was the only thing that could be done; an' if folks 'd think it over, mebbe they'll realize thet it was the most merciful thing thet could be did fer all hands,—I means fer the hosses too. They was led into a little circle, head to tail, an' each ranch rider put his gun between his horse's eyes an' fired!"
It was very plain that Bill could not think of this act without pain, although it had been a necessary one, and the saving of human lives was made possible only by the sacrifice of the lives of the animals. It is only as a last resort, that a plainsman will ever consent to the destruction of his horse. In many great emergencies, in the desert, the man will deny water to himself that his horse may drink; or, at least, he will divide with the animal.
At length, Bill went on: "When the hosses fell, they made a sort of rampart er buffer against the storm; an' inside this little circle, seven men an' a boy crouched fer two days, with the'r buffalo-robes drawed over 'em an' the snow peltin' and driftin' over that. Fer two days, the blizzard raged, an' the seven men an' thet boy stayed right there! Then she broke—that is, she got so people could see. An' 'bout the end o' the third day, the seven men an' the boy footed it into Bismarck—an' each one o' the seven men hed some part of his body frozen! They hed kep' the boy in the middle an' protected him!"
Bill rose from his seat and started to go toward the corral, but stopped for just another word. "I might mention," he said, as though it were a matter of little moment, "to give yo' some idea of a Dakota blizzard, thet when them seven men an' the boy limped into Bismarck at the end o' the third day, the thermometer showedfifty-two below!"
The nearest ranch to that of Mr. Sherwood was the "Cross and Circle," which lay some twelve or fifteen miles to the northwest, toward and nearer the mountains, near the left bank of Elkhorn River, the ranch-house itself being not more than about a hundred yards from the water's edge. Being nearer the mountains, the ground upon which the ranch-house stood was of rock formation, and was over-shadowed by a high cliff.
While it was a rather valuable property, it did not compare with the Bar O, either in its extent, improvements, or in its grazing facilities. It was occupied by Samuel Ross, who had obtained it from its former owner about six months before the time this story opens.
In many ways Ross had allowed the ranch to run down. The house needed repair, the out-buildings and fences were not well kept, and there was no semblance of the discipline or morale that prevailed at the Bar O. It had perhaps somewhere between five hundred and a thousand head of cattle, but they were notoriously ill-cared for and neglected.
The ranch was not noted for its hospitality—in fact, exactly the reverse was the case; and any attempt to establish anything like neighborly intercourse was frowned upon or roughly declined. The men kept to themselves in a surly, clannish way, even when excursions were made into town and "festivities" were indulged in at the saloon and dance-hall and gambling-joint.
In one way, this was not resented. It is regarded as a man's right to keep to himself. In many parts of the West, even to-day, it is not well to start an investigation into a man's family and pedigree, or where he comes from and what his business is. Young readers may not understand why this is so.
In the early days, the West was a haven or refuge for all sorts of characters who, for reasons of their own, sought to lose their identities. Some desired to escape punishments for crimes committed elsewhere; some were ne'er-do-wells or failures who desired to start life over again with a clean slate. In the vast confines of the West, this was comparatively easy. In the case of criminals, the law had difficulty in reaching into its remote corners and dragging a man back to Justice. In the case of ne'er-do-wells and failures, they could start again on an even basis with other men, unhandicapped by their previous records. Thus it can be seen that all inquiry into a man's past was resented. So general did this become, that even those who had nothing whatever to hide grew to resent questions of this nature.
And the mistake must not be made of thinking that the West was overrun with people of shady records. Nothing could be further from the fact. There never has been a higher standard of manhood established anywhere in the world than that which prevailed, and does prevail, in the West. And naturally so. Nowhere were, or are, such great opportunities offered; but the taking advantage of these opportunities required not only brains, but physical fitness, courage, and a moral fiber of a high order as well. Nowhere in the world have people come to themselves—weeded out the bad, separated the wheat from the chaff, and purged themselves from uncleanness—in so short a time or in so effective a way as did the people of the West.
And another thing that the West has had to stand: any time a penny-a-liner with an inflamed imagination thought out some lurid, impossible tale of blood and thunder and crime and debauchery, he staged it in the West. It is safe to say thatnot one in a hundredof these "penny-dreadfuls" was ever written by a man who had been west of Hoboken, New Jersey! As said before, there is more gun-play in New York City in one month than there is in all the states west of the Mississippi in one year! And we'll throw in Alaska, too, for good measure! Of course, there are "skunks" in every community, but if there is one climate in the world where it is unhealthy for a "skunk" it is the climate of the West. They can't "get by" out there! Not for very long, they can't!
With this matter settled we can get back to the story.
Ross, himself, was a huge man, weighing in the neighborhood of two hundred and fifty pounds, and was of most forbidding mien. His red, bloated face was encircled by a closely cropped thatch of hair that came down within an inch or so of his eyes, and the lower part of his face was covered by a thick, rank growth of sandy whiskers. His whole person gave the impression of untidiness and neglect, and probably the impression did not belie the fact. He seemed to have a perpetual grouch, and enforced his wishes by sheer brutality. And even in the rough band about him he carried things with a high hand, and brooked no crossing of his will.
After he had taken possession of the ranch he had proceeded to carry on the business in his own way. The men about him—the ranch-hands—were a motley collection; many of them half-breeds, and all of a similar stripe to the boss. There was no attempt to conceal the frequent sprees and drunken brawls that occurred at the ranch, and there were rumors that more than one "killing" had taken place within the walls of the ranch-house. This, of course, was a difficult matter to prove; and as the alleged victim had invariably been a man who was not especially an ornament to the community, no thorough investigation of these rumors had taken place.
When a scorpion kills a tarantula, nobody feels very much like punishing the scorpion—on that account, at least.
But while the outfit at the Ross ranch had, in general, a bad name, there was nothing that one could put his finger on as being contrary to law. Ross paid his obligations—possibly reluctantly and late—but he paid them; and however much suspicion of sharp practice might be attached to him, suspicions are not evidence in a court of law. And however much his neighbors may have disliked him, the dislike had hardly gotten strong enough to warrant a visit from a Vigilance Committee.
One thing had caused considerable comment—no visitor had ever been permitted to enter the ranch-house proper. Many people had, at one time or another, come to the threshold; but that was as far as they ever got. The bulky form of Ross, or of some one equally hospitable, blocked further passage; and the conduct of any necessary business took place out in the ranch-yard. While this may have caused comment and aroused curiosity, the fact remained that "every man's house is his castle," and unless he has put himself outside of the pale of the law, nobody is justified in violating it. And thus, it will be seen that Ross, mean and underhand, as he undoubtedly was, in many ways was well within his rights.
Ross made his shipments of cattle in the regular way, but over a different branch of the railroad from that used by the Bar O, and as far as any one could see these shipments were regular and not disproportionate to the amount the ranch should make under proper handling. It is doubtful if anybody had ever kept actual tabs on these shipments; and as Ross was more than usually "reticent" about his business as well as his personal affairs, little was really known.
In view of the foregoing facts, it was somewhat surprising to see Mr. Sam Ross and two of his men ride into the Bar O ranch-yard early one afternoon. They were received civilly, if not with any very great cordiality by Bill Jordan, and after he had made them known to Mr. Sherwood, Ross opened up.
"Hev yo' all been losin' stock?" he asked. Mr. Sherwood glanced at Bill, putting the matter up to him.
"Well, yes," said Bill Jordan, cautiously, answering for Sherwood, "I reckon we hev had some losses—not nuthin' very much, but some, and pretty continual. Hev you?"
"We hev," said Ross, emphatically, "an' enough to speak 'bout, too! But we can't find hide ner hair ner no trace of any rustlers, 'less'n it be them Injuns thet's down toward the Fork. An' yet we can't find nuthin' to fix it onto 'em."
Bill pondered the matter for a time before he spoke. "Thet's 'bout the same fix we're in," he said. "We been givin' them Redskins the once-over right consider'ble frequent, but we're pretty well satisfied it ain't them. An' none o' the boys has seen any strangers hangin' 'round. But," he added, shaking his head, in a mystified way, "them steers don't evaporate! Somebody is puttin' somethin' over."
"What are y' goin' to do—let 'em get away with it, clean?" asked Ross.
"I dunno," said Bill, rolling a cigarette. "I thought I put the fear o' God into the hearts o' them rustlers some time ago, but I guess I hev bin kiddin' myself. What areyougoin' to do?"
"It's got me guessin'," answered Ross. Then, after a moment, he said: "How's all your men? Be they all right? Never had no suspicions on none of 'em bein' in on the job?"
"The men is as straight an outfit as ever was got together!" answered Bill with a little asperity. "This here thing of our'n ain't no inside job. How's yours—know their pedigrees an' all that?"
"Same thing with me," said Ross, "I got a lot o' crackerjacks—honest and straight as day—no chanct fer any leakage thataway. I'm inclined to put it up to them Injuns. Don't see who else kin be at the bottom of it."
Bill was silent for a time; then he said, "Well,if 't ain't nobody else, itmust bethem," and Bill smiled, enigmatically.
"My men says thet they's one on 'em—a boy—hangs 'round here a good deal," said Ross, tentatively.
"You needn't give him a second thought, Mr. Ross," said Sherwood, quickly, in defense of Injun. "He is nothing but a boy, and he and my son occupy themselves in a perfectly legitimate way. Besides, he has very little to do with his own people and is seldom with the rest of his tribe."
"Well," said Ross, shaking his head, "I wouldn't put anything past an Injun. He may be givin' 'em a lot o' useful information. If he comes up my way, he'll get short shrift."
"I'll answer for him," said Whitey, butting into the conversation with indignation. "I'm with him most of the time, and he hasn't any more to do with stealing cattle than I have!"
Ross laughed. "Mebbe not, Son," he said. "Mebbe not. But I don't want him 'round my place." Ross and his two men rose. "I guess we'll be pullin' our freight," he said; "it's gittin' late. Let me know what yo' all intends to do, an' I'm with yo'. In the meantime, I'm goin' to keep my eye on them red devils—an' I advise yo' all to do the same."
When Ross and his men had ridden out of the ranch-yard and were well down the road, Bill Jordan looked quizzically at Mr. Sherwood, who gave back an answering look of inquiry.
"What do yo' make o' all this?" Bill asked.
"I don't quite know," said Mr. Sherwood. "Have you got any solution? I didn't know that there was any significance in the call other than appeared on the surface—to warn us against the Indians."
"Well," said Bill, slowly, "I dunno as the' is—'cept thet ol' bird knows 't ain't them Injuns thet's gettin' away with his stock—pervidin' anybody is gettin' away with it."
"Do you mean that he's lying about it?" asked Mr. Sherwood in a surprised way.
"Well," said Bill, smiling, "I dunno 's I'd want t' say jest thet, but I do say thet him an' Anannias is blood kin—proba'ly full brothers! He was boostin' the men in his outfit jes' now, wasn't he? Well, I know personal, thet the tall galoot he hed with him done time in San Quentin. He's named an' denominated as 'One-Card' Tucker an' he's one bad egg! The's some o' the rest of 'em thet wont assay up very good. Our boys wont hev nuthin' to do with 'em—the's a few Greasers an' half-breeds mixed in with 'em."
"You couldn't be mistaken about the tall man being a jail-bird, could you, Bill?" asked Mr. Sherwood. And then, smiling, he added, "How do you know—were you there with him?"
Bill laughed. "I was," he said. "I ain't mistaken—I brung him there an' handed him over—when I was Dep'ty Shur'ff, out San Diego way. He done got a lot o' somebody else's sheep mixed up with his'n. He was one lucky guy to get off with four years in prison—'Judge Lynch' come near settin' on the case. Oh, I knowhim, all right," said Bill, "an' I reckon he must of knowedme! I noticed he wasn't exactly easy in his mind when he set there jes' now. An' I think I know this Ross, too."
"Humph!" said Sherwood, reflectively, "that kind of association doesn't speak very well for Mr. Ross anyway. What do you think we better do? I understand that our man Walker reports that he came across a place where a bunch of our cattle had been stampeded. He followed the trail, but lost it at the creek—couldn't pick it up anywhere. I don't suppose it could have been a grizzly?" he asked.
"Grizzly, nuthin'!" said Bill. "It had been rainin' shortly before the cattle was drove off, an' the' was no sign of a grizzly's tracks—I rode out there an' seen it myself," said Bill with positiveness. Then he added: "But the'washorses' hoofs! I ain't heard of no grizzlies wearin' iron shoes—not this summer, I ain't! Besides, if they was stampeded, they'd of scattered more. Them beeves kep' together—they was drove!"
"And you think——" Mr. Sherwood paused, and Bill nodded his head:
"Jest a plain case o' rustlin'—nuthin' else to it!" and Bill spat disgustedly.
There was a silence for a moment or so while the two men pondered the matter, and Whitey waited almost breathlessly for what would follow. Here was a mystery—a vital ranch mystery—and he was in the thick of it! He had tried to imagine the situation, many times, when he had read of such things in books; and now he was face to face with it. Suddenly the thought came to him that here was something for him to solve, and he instantly determined that he would take a hand in the game—though he was wise enough (or, perhaps foolish enough) to keep this determination to himself. He knew that once he broached the subject to his father, he would receive positive orders to keep his hands off; but, in the absence of those orders, he intended to "mix in." In that way, he was going to justify himself in his own mind!
Finally Mr. Sherwood broke the silence: "Does the creek run near Ross's ranch?" he asked.
"No," said Jordan, "it's quite a ways from his line. His ranch is way down on the Elkhorn—this is a branch thet empties into the Elkhorn a few miles below where we lost the trail. It's too deep there fer cattle to ford; besides, there wasn't no place on the opposite bank where we found they'd come out—not fer two er three mile down—where she empties into the Elkhorn. We went over the hull ground careful."
"Do you think they could have been drowned?" asked Sherwood. "If they went into the river and didn't come out, that would seem to be the only alternative," he added.
"Mebbe!" said Jordan, enigmatically. The two men rose and walked toward the corral, much to Whitey's disgust. And though he tried to follow and hear the rest, he was not able to do so. But strong in his bosom the mystery burned, and more than ever he was determined to conduct an independent investigation, taking Injun, of course, into partnership.
Whitey did not have long to wait for the opportunity to put the matter up to Injun, for that individual rode into the ranch-yard within ten minutes after the conversation that had awakened Whitey's curiosity. It took five additional minutes for Whitey to retail to Injun what he had heard, and, as usual, Injun thought gravely over the matter before speaking. In fact, it was Whitey who again broke the silence.
"Injun," he said, "do you think you could find the place where Bill lost the trail of the cattle at the creek, and the place where it looked as though they had stampeded?"
Injun nodded confidently. It must not be imagined that because Injun seldom spoke, or because of his broken English when he did speak, that he could not understand what was said. He could understand any words in ordinary usage, and there was very little in any conversation that "got by" him. He not only comprehended the words, but he had a remarkably well trained ear, and he could catch and distinguish sounds that would have been inaudible to most people. There were times when his dinner, or even his very life, depended on this faculty, and there is nothing like Necessity to develop the faculties.
The same Necessity that had developed Injun's hearing had also developed his sight; and although Whitey supposed that he had as good eyes as anybody, he found, after a time, that Injun could distinguish objects that were all but invisible to him. What was a mere speck in the distance to Whitey, Injun would declare to be a man on horse-back. And by the time that Whitey could recognize this to be true, Injun could tell who the man was.
It is, after all, a matter of training. Probably Whitey's eyes were just as good, in many ways, as Injun's; but they were not trained the same way. For instance: when trailing a man or an animal, Whitey could see the broken twig or the pressed down spear of grass that marked the trail—after Injun had pointed it out to him. But he could not detect it if he went over the ground first. Injun had trained his eyes to observe the most minute things, for those minute things told him a story that meant a great deal to him; and often very small things made big sign-posts to guide or regulate his movements. Possibly Injun, had he seen Whitey read rapidly the page of a book, would have thought Whitey's eyes far more wonderful than his own—and that is only another kind of eye-training. Nature was Injun's book, and, perhaps, just as easy to read as Whitey's book—but it takes different eye-training.
The two boys slipped away from the ranch without attracting notice. This was not unusual, for by this time Whitey had become accustomed to riding long distances, and he and Injun were permitted to go about as they pleased. But up to the present time his wanderings had been confined to the ranch limits.
A mile or so from the ranch Injun broke away from the trail and struck off to the northwest toward the mountains. The branch or creek that Whitey had described lay some seven or eight miles further on, and in the general direction of Ross' ranch; and at the steady clip set by Injun, they made it without much exertion in something less than an hour. The ride was without incident until they were a mile or two from the creek, though still within the confines of the ranch, when the quick eye of Injun detected two horsemen riding in a direction that would bring them across their trail.
"Who are they?" asked Whitey, when they were a long distance away. "Can you make them out?"
"Him Bar O," said Injun confidently.
Whitey had not figured on meeting men from the ranch, who might interfere with their plans, or, at least, carry back the news that they had crossed the trail of the boys; and he suggested that they make a detour that would carry them in such a way that the trails would not meet. The boys turned their horses at almost right angles and started toward a wooded and rocky region where they would not be so conspicuous; but if they thought to escape in that way, they soon found that they were mistaken. It was evident that the ranchmen were not to be lost or thrown off the track, and that they proposed to find out who was riding in that neighborhood. It was either a case of run for it, or stand and deliver; and after some hesitation Whitey determined that the former course, even if successful, would alarm the ranch, as the supposition would be that they were rustlers, and would invite a general pursuit. So the boys again turned their horses and continued in the general direction that they had first taken, and it was not long before the range riders came alongside of them.
"What are yo' two scalawags doin' out here?" asked Walker, who was one of the riders in that section. "Yo' liable to give us heart-disease—we was plumb shore we hed ketched a pair o' rus'lers!"
"We're just taking a ride," said Whitey, innocently. "It's a fine day, isn't it?" he added.
"Yes," said Walker, dryly, "it shore is a fine day—if it don't rain. Does yo'r pa know yo' all is gallivantin' 'round out here? Where was yo' all headin' for, anyhow—yo' an' Settin' Bull, here?"
"I tell you, Mr. Walker," said Whitey, "we were just looking 'round to see what we could see."
"Oh, them kids is all right, Walker," said the other rider. "Let 'em alone. Thet there little red devil knows this here range like I know my boots. They won't git into nuthin'."
"Mebbe," said Walker, undecidedly. "Mebbe they won't—an' mebbe they will. 'Tain't none too healthy fer them 'babes in the wood' right in these parts jes' now! Not to my way o' thinkin' it ain't. But, howsumever, 'tain't really none o' my funeral. But lemme give yo' all a tip—keep away from thet Cross an' Circle outfit an' stay on the range!"
"Why?" asked Whitey, a little impatiently. "What harm will it do to go off the range?"
"Will y' listen to thet!" exclaimed Walker, laughing. "Ain't yer own yard big enough fer yo' all to play in? Looks to me like 't might be! Anyway, yo' jes' take my tip! An' as fer yo', young Mr. Rain-in-the-Face, don't yo' let this here kid git into no mischief, er Bill Jordan'll cut off them two ears o' your'n an' sic the coyotes onto yo'!"
With this parting injunction, the two riders turned their horses and rode away; but it was plain that Walker was not altogether satisfied with the situation; and more than once he looked back at the boys as the distance between them increased.
Whitey was not the kind of a boy to be turned from his purpose by any such admonition as this. In fact, the scent of some possible danger only added zest to the matter; and the two boys rode forward toward the creek with an increased appetite for the business in hand.
Within a few moments the boys came to the edge of the branch or creek that marked the confines of the Bar O ranch. The banks were, except at intervals, steep and high—some six or eight feet above the water—and it was manifestly improbable that the cattle had taken to the water from the top of the bank. Injun, therefore, followed the stream down; and some half-mile below where they had come upon the creek, they found a place where the bank sloped gradually down to the water's edge.
Injun dismounted and examined the ground closely, Whitey following, but not able to see anything more than that it had been somewhat trampled. Injun, however, saw a good deal more than that. He pointed out the fact that on the two outer edges there were marks of horses' hoofs; while in the middle of the trampled course leading to the river, the cloven hoofs of the cattle were visible—not plainly, but after Injun had outlined several of them with his finger, Whitey could make them out.
"Bill was right, then?" asked Whitey, excitedly; "the cattle were driven and kept close together?"
Injun nodded, and proceeded with his investigations. Leading his pinto and looking closely at the ground and the surrounding grass and bushes, he followed the trail back from the creek. Some distance from the bank the boys came upon a place where the ground was bare and somewhat softer than that near the water, and this spot Injun examined minutely, crawling on his hands and knees and measuring the horses' hoof-prints carefully with one of his arrows. At length he rose as though apparently satisfied.
Although Walker and Bill Jordan had ridden over the ground, their horses had left no traces that confused the other marks; for by this time the ground was hard and dry, while at the time of the stampede it had been wet. Whitey looked at Injun inquiringly. "Four hoss," said Injun, holding up four fingers.
"And how many cattle?" asked Whitey, anxiously.
Injun shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "Dunno," he said, frankly; "Mebbe 'lev'n ten."
"And could you tell the horses if you saw their hoofs again?" asked Whitey, the Sherlock Holmes instinct stirring within him.
"Tell two," said Injun, holding up two fingers; and then, in response to Whitey's inquiry as to how he could do this, Injun pointed out certain slight peculiarities in the hoof-prints that were plainly discernible on a minute examination. Whitey was delighted at this exhibition, and he noted well the peculiarities for future reference.
Injun even went a little further than that. Two of the hoof-prints were very plainly marked; and taking some flat stones, he arranged them in such a manner as to cover and preserve the impressions of the hoofs in the ground and yet at the same time were not particularly noticeable.
Not satisfied with this, Injun then proceeded to search for a marked peculiarity among the cloven hoof-prints; and succeeded in finding one in which there was an unmistakable dissimilarity. The right forefoot of one of the cattle showed an unusual deformity, being so split as to give the impression of toes. This print Injun covered in the same manner. Injun had never heard of the Bertillon fingerprint system, but he had common sense.
Having followed the trail back to the point where the animals were separated from the rest of the herd, nothing new in the way of foot-prints was found, the nature of the soil and its thick carpet of grass making any discovery difficult. In fact, most of the marks were almost obliterated.
But the keen eye of Injun detected another thing, seemingly slight, but really of the utmost importance in the last analysis. On one of the tough branches of a small, thorny bush, there hung several woolen threads of variegated colors; threads not more than an inch or two in length, that had apparently been torn from a piece of cloth by being caught by the tough thorny branch. An examination of the ground near the bush, which was fortunately soft, showed that the heel-mark of a man's boot was plainly discernible, and also the four hoof-prints of a horse. The heel of the boot had been pressed into the ground to a more than ordinary depth, and the hoof-prints of the horse were on each side of it. Injun pointed this out to Whitey with some evidence of satisfaction, but it meant nothing to Whitey.