When Injun dropped to the ground from the barred window, he made off in the darkness toward the corral, dodging behind such objects as seemed likely to offer any concealment, although he figured that pursuit was unlikely, as the men at the ranch-house had their hands full with Whitey. He kept his eyes open for such of the outfit as might be without the house, for he knew that capture would mean, not only his own death, but would destroy the last chance of bringing aid to his pal. Once he had arrived at the high bank of the river, he felt that his chances to escape observation had materially increased, and he set out on a dog-trot to cover the miles that lay between himself and the Bar O ranch.
Meanwhile, the two searching parties, one on either side of the river, were sweeping toward the Cross and Circle ranch, leaving little of the ground unobserved as they proceeded. Acting under Bill Jordan's orders, the parties maintained silence as they drew nearer the Cross and Circle. When they were not more than half a mile distant from it, the party on the left bank of the river suddenly drew up their horses in response to a call that sounded close by, and Injun scrambled over the edge of the bank and ran to them. In a few words Injun told what had happened, and Bill Jordan swung the boy up behind him, called the men to cross from the opposite bank, and the whole party, some fifteen or sixteen strong, was soon headed for the Cross and Circle at a gallop.
Arrived at the ranch-yard, under the guidance of Injun, Jordan located six men at the mouth of the tunnel in case an attempt should be made to escape that way; and with the balance of the party he rode straight for the house. Injun, once he had pointed out the tunnel, slipped away unnoticed and made for the window through which he had escaped.
Inside the house the situation was grave for Whitey. Crowley faced the enraged Ross who was backed up by the more desperate members of the gang. His cool nerve had a disconcerting effect upon the Boss, and it is probable that had he dealt with him alone, he would have been able to prevent him from carrying out his avowed purpose. But it is a difficult thing to keep an eye on several men at once, and by a stealthy and almost imperceptible movement "One-Card" Tucker drew his revolver slowly from its holster.
He stood with his side to the window, at which Injun had posted himself, and there was no doubt as to what Tucker intended to do. But before he had a chance to raise his gun an arrow from Injun's bow pierced the muscles of the man's arm, pinning it to his side!
Tucker dropped to the floor with a howl of agony, and it was a second or two before the other men realized what had happened, for there had been no sound; and until they saw the arrow, which had gone entirely through Tucker's biceps and was imbedded deep in the muscles of his back, they were ignorant of the presence of an unknown enemy.
For a second the men stood dazed—as is always the case when something of a more or less mysteriously disconcerting nature happens—and as they turned hastily toward the windows to ascertain the source of the attack, they saw the Winchesters of the Bar O boys glisten between the bars, and heard the voice of Bill Jordan shout, "Hands up—an' keep 'em up!"
It was the work of but a few moments to complete the capture of the gang. The seven outlaws were faced to the wall, and while they were in this position, and under cover of the Winchesters, Injun squirmed through the bars of the window, relieved the ranchers of their weapons, loosed Whitey's bonds, and then unbarred the heavy door and admitted the Bar O men.
To tie the hands of the outlaws securely behind their backs was the work of a few moments, and then they were faced about.
"A fine gang of high-binders!" commented Bill Jordan, as he looked them over. "I had your number, all right, Yancy, though sence yo' growed them wriskers yo' bin castin' asparagus on the good name o' 'Ross!' I reckon, mebbe, the folks down to Albuquerque 'll be right tickled t' see thet there ugly mug o' your'n—'speci'ly the Sher'ff. An' here's my ol' friend, 'One-Card' Tucker, all ornamented up 'ith arrers an' such! I reckon yo' done drawed yo'r last card, ain't yo', Tucker?"
"That's the meanest scoundrel in the whole outfit!" exclaimed Whitey. "If he'd had his way, I wouldn't be here now! He got that hand by swinging a punch at me when I lay on the floor with my hands tied! It must have been Injun who made a pin-cushion out of him with that arrow!"
"'Pin-cushion' is right!" said Jordan, looking at Tucker's arm; "but I want to tell you, Son, the' ain't no such thing as 'themeanestskunk' in thet bunch—the's all the same kind o' pizen. One's 'bout like t' other."
"No," said Whitey, "you're mistaken about that; there's one man here, Crowley, the foreman, who saved my life twice—once when Tucker wanted to shoot me, and once when Ross tried it. He wouldn't have it, and he stood off the whole gang."
"Which is him?" asked Bill, in an incredulous tone.
"Here he is," said Whitey, pointing to the foreman.
"Step out here, yo' Crowley person, an' lemme have a slant at yo'."
Crowley looked at Bill sullenly, but did not move. "I ain't askin' no favors," he said. "I reckon I kin take my medicine with the rest."
"Seems like yo' was some squeamish in this here matter," said Bill, eyeing Crowley keenly. "I'm s'prised at yo'! Was yo' 'fraid?"
"I reckon I wasn't 'fraid none. I done 'bout ever'thing in my time, but I draw the line at murderin' kids an' wimmen. Thet ain't in my line o' business!" Then adding, indifferently, "Go on with the proceedin's! Don't let me hender yo' none!"
Bill stepped closer to the man and looked intently into his face. "No," he said after a moment, "I guess you wasn't 'fraid!" Then he asked, "Was you ever in Juarez, Mister—er—Crowley?"
"Yes," answered Crowley, "but not recent, I wasn't."
"When?"
"Several times," said Crowley. "Th' las' time was when the' was a right smart o' trouble into Silver-Dollar Joe's place—consider'ble shootin' and such. Havin' the luck to git out with mostly a hull skin, 'cept in a few places, I never felt no call to go back."
"I thought so," said Bill. "Name wasn't 'Crowley' then, was it?" Crowley smiled and shook his head.
Bill walked over to Crowley and turned the man around, and taking out his knife, he cut the rope that bound his hands. Turning to Mr. Sherwood and the rest of the Bar O outfit, he said, "Gents, what I'm doin' is on my own responsibility. Ef the's any objections to it, I'm agreeable to givin' my reasons." He looked about him, and no one seemed to offer any objection.
"Go as fur 's yo' like, Bill," said one or two of the men; and Sherwood nodded.
Bill turned again to Crowley. "Yo' don't b'long to no such outfit as this here!" he said. "Yo' pick out yo'r gun an' Winchester out'n thet pile, an' get onto yo'r pinto an' see how fur yo' kin ride away from these vicinities 'fore sun-up."
Then turning to Mr. Sherwood, Bill said, "Boss, jes' lemme have forty dollars an' charge the same to me, ef you'll be so kind." Mr. Sherwood handed the money to Jordan, who passed it over to Crowley without a word. "Thanks," said the latter, "that's right, as I figger." "Yes," said Jordan, "that's the way I figger it too. Good-by an' good luck."
Crowley turned to go and then hesitated; he looked keenly at Bill, and then he said, "I ain't s'posed to give no state's ev'dence, er nuthin' like thet, be I? 'Cause ef I am, I reckon I'll stay an' play out the string."
"I didn't mention no conditions, did I?" said Bill, a little heatedly.
Crowley turned, picked out his weapons from the pile and then turned to Jordan. "Ef you value the lives o' them hombreys you got lined up there," he said, "I'd advise you to tie up thet boy, too. He's liable to be too rough with 'em."
Then he turned and strode out of the room; and in a few moments the men heard the hoof-beats of his horse as he galloped away.
Bill offered no explanation of his leniency and none was asked; but such was the confidence in Jordan's squareness, that it is improbable that any one felt that an injustice had been done. Certainly Whitey was glad and relieved to know that the man who had twice saved his life had, in a measure, been repaid in his own coin. He also knew that there was a story behind it all—a story of some previous relations that Bill had had with the man—and he resolved to get it out of Jordan at the first favorable opportunity.
"I guess I may as well take my gun, too," said Whitey as he picked up the pearl-handled .22 from the pile that had been taken from the Ross gang, and thus was the gift of little Bobby restored to its rightful owner.
"I was wonderin' how thet puttey-blower come to be in thet outfit?" said Bill, smiling. "You want to look out, Son! Ef yo' should happen t' shoot a man with thet there thing an' he finds it out, he might be vexed!" Whitey grinned, but pocketed the little gun, which turned out to be better than it looked, long afterwards.
The arrival of the Sheriff and a posse simplified matters as far as the disposition of the outlaws was concerned. Jordan had taken the matter in hand immediately after Ross's visit to the Bar O, and had dispatched a messenger for the Sheriff, feeling that he had enough evidence against the Cross and Circle outfit to warrant that proceeding.
After the whole party had explored the place under the guidance of the two boys, and the stolen cattle had been identified, they all came back to the living-room of the ranch. The Sheriff took Jordan and Sherwood aside and said,
"There is another matter that mebbe this here Mr. Ross, as he calls himself, can throw a little light onto, an' that is, how he cum to git possession o' this here ranch. It's a cinch he didn't buy it off'n the former owner, Bradley; and nobody seems to be able to locate where this here Bradley's went to. I was calc'latin' to make some inquiries 'bout it, it havin' bin called to my attention, when yo'r messenger cum. The's some o' Bradley's folks 'd like to know 'bout the transaction."
"Well," said Bill, "I dunno, but 't seems like ef I was Sher'ff an' I got my hooks onto a bird like this here Yancy-Ross person, I dunno 's it'd be necessary to ask the cuss to do any great 'mount of explainin'. The's a powerful lot o' nice trees on the way to the Bar O!"
"So the' is," said the Sheriff, "now 't I cum to think of it! They ain't bore no 'fruit' fer a consider'ble spell, neither, hev they?"
"Not sence them other rustlers was discouraged 'bout three or four years back. Some o' my boys 'd be plumb tickled to death t' escort them hombreys t' jail—er some place."
"Hmm," said the Sheriff, meditatively. "I'll think it over."
At this moment Whitey and Injun came up to Bill, all excitement.
"Pedro isn't here!" said Whitey. "He was here just before you came, but he's not among the prisoners."
"Him Pedro gone!" said Injun laconically.
Jordan was all attention in a second: "Here, Walker, Bob, an' the lot o' yo'—the boys says thet our ol' friend Pedro was here jes' before we cum! Take a gang an' go over this dump with a fine-tooth comb! I'll give fifty dollars to the man thet brings him in, an' I ain't pertic'lar what kind o' condition he's in, neither!"
"Yes, an' I'll add another fifty to it!" put in the Sheriff. "An' the deader he is, the better I'll like it!" he added, heartily. "Thet coyote has cost the county 'bout enough as 't is!"
A thorough search of the house, cellar, and the vicinity failed to reveal any trace of Pedro, much to the chagrin of Bill Jordan, not to mention that of those who were desirous of earning a hundred dollars.
Injun shook his head. "Him Pedro gone!" he said, ruefully. It was a matter of some consequence to Injun—as events turned out.
There remained little to do at the ranch which had formerly been the home of the Cross and Circle outfit, and this little was soon done. Several of the Bar O men were left to look after the stock and keep guard. Injun's pinto was found tied in the corral; and both owner and horse gave every evidence of delight at their reunion. Much to the regret of the boys of the Bar O, the Sheriff decided to escort the prisoners to the jail himself rather than have the ranchers escort them to "some place;" and, therefore, the trees on the way to the Bar O did not bear any "fruit" as the result of the contemplated "neck-tie party."
It was found that "One-Card" Tucker's wound was a severe one, and he was given surgical attention by Bill Jordan, who allowed as how, "When a pizen critter is shore destined to be hung, 'tain't right t' cheat th' gallus an' let him croak natcheral!"
On the way home Whitey, who had commandeered one of the horses of the Cross and Circle, rode up beside Bill Jordan and Mr. Sherwood, followed of course, by Injun.
"Mr. Jordan," began Whitey, "won't you tell us why you let that man Crowley go? I'm mighty glad you did, for he certainly saved my life!"
Jordan smiled. "Mebbe," he said, "that was partly the reason."
"That may have had something to do with it," said Whitey, "but I know there was some other reason, too."
"Well," said Bill, after a pause, "now 't we're here together, I'll tell yo' all. 'Bout five six years ago I was down to Juarez, an' I gits into more kinds o' trouble than Carter's got pills. I'd bin down into Mexico, an' I was headed back fer God's country, an' I jes' drops off'n the train t' watch them skates out t' the merry-go-round they calls a 'race-track,' an' mebbe pick up a bet er two. 'Bout the fourth race I cum t' the conclusion I wa'n't no jedge o' hoss-flesh—not them kind o' hosses, anyhow—an' I lays out t' beat it away from there an' get a train. 'Fore I c'd git off'n the track—they must 'a' seen I was a hick—some dip lifted what was left o' the roll, not fergittin' t' incude my watch an' railroad ticket in the deal!" Bill laughed as he thought of it, and the others laughed with him.
"Funny, ain't it?" said Bill, grinning. "But 't wa'n't so funny then! They shore picked me cleaner 'n a col'-storage chicken, an' when I give my jeans a frisk, I found I was exactly fourteen dollars shy o' havin' a nickel! I bet I walked nine mile 'round thet town, thet evenin', an' never seen a friendly face! An' me hungry 'nuff t' eat raw dog; but I never run acrosst no dog—not no four-legged one, anyway, less'n yo' call them hairless kind dogs—the kind thet looks like a rat on stilts. Fin'ly I strays into this here Silver-Dollar Joe's place—so called on account o' him havin' a bunch of 'em riveted into th' floor an' such. The' was a bald-headed hombrey dealin' faro-bank, an' I stands around watchin' the game, hopin' somebody 'd drop a quarter er somethin'—but nobody done nuthin' like thet—not onto th' floor, 't least. I think I'd of give 'em a battle fer it ef they had! Bimeby the' was a tall guy gits up from the table an' hands out th' most artistic line o' cussin' I'd heard in some time. When a gent kin manhandle language an' discuss his luck like he done, it's a gift! He cum over towards me, an' I reckon I must 'a' looked like a picture o' hard luck, too; an' he says, stopping an' givin' me the once-over, 'Yo' don't look yo' had no rabbit's foot workin' over-time fer yo', neither,' he says.
"'Correct," I says. "As fur 's luck's concerned, it's a case o' horse-an'-horse—only mebbe mine's a mite worse 'n your'n.'
"'I kin lick any man thet says his luck is worse 'n mine!' he says.
"'Commence!' I says, squarin' off.
"He looked me over, an' 'n he says, 'Mebbe we better have somethin' first?' he says.
"'Yo' 're on!' I says, linkin' my arm into his'n so 't he couldn't git away an' change his mind.
"Well, we had one an' then another, him doin' the payin', me havin' declared myself insolvent. We stood leanin' agin' th' bar, me havin' visions that mebbe he'd say somethin' 'bout a san'wich. But seems he had other idees. He fin'ly digs up a ten-dollar gold-piece an' twirls it on the bar careless—an' me meditatin' robbery from the person when I seen it. In a minute I was glad to kep' control o' my yearnin's.
"'This here's the last o' th' Mohigans,' he says. It ain't no good t' me,' he says, 'an' mebbe, ef you'd take it an' set into thet game, yo' might make her run. The's them thet says thet two neg'tives makes a affidavit, er somethin', an' combinin' yo'r luck an' mine mebbe 'll start somethin'. Want t' take a chanct?'
"Did I want t' take a chanct! I did so! Tho' I was some tempted t' buy ten dollars wu'th o' ham an' eggs with th' hull of it.
"Well, I set in, an' my friend went to sleep pronto. Pretty soon luck begin t' cum my way an' I win a bet now an' then. After a spell I had seventy dollars in silver in front o' me, an' my friend woke up. He cum over back o' my chair an' he says, 'How much yo' got?' 'Seventy dollars,' I says. 'Don't make no more bets,' he says, kinder loud, 'thet bald-headed pirate is dealin' seconds an' settin' up splits.'
"Right there's where she started. I managed t' git the money into my jeans before the worst cum, an' the' was considerable fire-works an' breakage took place. I dunno jes' what happened, but I seen my friend wa'n't no slouch an' took quite a hand in th' festivities, an' the' wa'n't much left o' the place when the smoke cleared. I seen my friend make a get-away, an' I follered as soon 's I could. But though I put in all nex' day lookin' fer him to give him his forty dollars, I never saw him agin till to-night!"
Bill rode along in silence for a moment; then he said, reminiscently, "His name wasn't Crowley, then—somethin' a heap more stylisher! Seems t' me 't was some such name as Smith—er, mebbe, Jones. Whatever 't was, I consider he had mebbe a little more'n forty dollars comin' to him from me—after what he done to me thet night in Juarez."
The happenings at the Cross and Circle ranch had served to knit closer those bonds which held the white boy and the Indian together. Already fast friends, the trials and dangers that they had been through still further cemented the tie into something more than friendship. Injun received his full share of credit in the affair, for it had been through his wonderful sagacity and his remarkable powers of observation that the various discoveries had been made that led to the tracing of the cattle, the cleaning out of the gang, and the recovery of much valuable property. In fact, it was finally revealed, after a long investigation, that the former owner, Bradley, had been murdered by Ross, or Yancy, and that deeds and other papers conveying the property had been forged, and thus the rustler had come into possession of a valuable property—far too valuable to have jeopardized it by the nefarious practices in which he engaged. And when the property was finally restored to the rightful heirs, each of the boys was remembered in a substantial way by the Bradley heirs, as will be seen later.
Whitey, too, was not forgotten when it came to apportioning the credit for the clean-up. He, it must be remembered, had first undertaken the investigation on his own hook; he had crawled out of the hay and offered himself for capture that Injun might escape—a thing which required very much more than ordinary nerve and unselfishness. And it was largely on account of his aggressive action that the capture of the band was effected without any bloodshed, except that which flowed from "One-Card" Tucker's arm, and the bruises which Whitey inflicted on the various members of the Ross gang.
When the whole story was fully known, it is almost needless to say that the two boys were heroes with the men of the Bar O and the other nearby ranches; but they bore their honors modestly, and each made little of the part that he, himself, had played in the affair, and gave credit to the other for having enacted the principal rôle.
The one "fly in the ointment" was the escape of Pedro. Not only did this continue a very grave menace to Injun, for Pedro had sworn to get even with the boy, but it was a keen disappointment to Bill Jordan, who regarded Pedro in about the same light as a mad dog, only the man was far more dangerous and resourceful than any dog could possibly be.
And now, in view of the part that Whitey had played in the wiping out of the gang, both Mr. Sherwood and Bill Jordan felt that the white boy, also, would be added to Pedro's list of those upon whom he proposed to visit his revenge. Pedro was known to be a most persistent and consistent hater, and he had been known to cherish a trifling grievance for years, and to go a long distance out of his way to avenge some trivial injury, real or fancied.
The entire outfit at the Bar O were, therefore, given strict orders to keep a sharp eye out for the gentleman, and to "get" him on sight, taking no chances whatever on his escape. There was a general feeling that he would not leave the neighborhood until he had, in a measure, repaid those who had been instrumental in balking his schemes, even if it took a long time to do it; and Bill took the boys aside and impressed this upon them.
Altogether, it was a jolly party that rode into the ranch-yard a few hours before daylight. As they neared the ranch, Injun, according to his custom, had started to leave the party and go to his own haunts; but Whitey, backed up by his father and Bill, put a veto on this, and so it was finally decided that Injun should spend the night with Whitey at the Bar O ranch.
Injun faced the proposition with some misgivings; he was not accustomed to the usages of civilization, being even more wild than the members of his own tribe. He preferred the wilderness and the mountains even to the primitive arrangements and comforts of the Indian village, and his initiation into anything so civilized as a modern ranch-house was a wide departure.
When he was ushered into Whitey's room, after a plentiful "breakfast"—both the boys were nearly famished, having had nothing to eat since noon of the day previous—he looked around in positive awe. The room did not exactly resemble a society belle's boudoir, but there were many things in it that meant nothing in Injun's young life.
He was introduced to himself, probably for the first time, by means of a large mirror that surmounted the dresser, and he was greatly surprised and pleased when Whitey showed him that, by tilting it, he could get a full-view of himself as well as a "close-up." It is doubtful if he would have gone to bed at all if Whitey had not insisted, but would have spent the rest of the night seeing himself as others saw him.
The hair brush was also new to Injun; and after he had been instructed in its use, he spent considerable time arranging his long hair in various ways before the glass. Whitey watched him with a broad grin: "Why don't you do it up in blue ribbons?" he asked, laughing. Injun rejected this suggestion with a grunt and a shake of his head. "Ugh! Red!" he said. He didn't object to the ribbons, but the color! (An Indian likes any color—as long as it's red!)
It took him a long time to decide to take off his clothes, and he balked at the clean, white pyjamas that Whitey offered him. Nothing doing! Fortunately Whitey had a pair of vivid pink pyjamas; and these Injun could not resist. He arrayed himself in them with some difficulty, and surveyed himself in the glass until Whitey threatened to put out the light. And when it came to getting into the bed, he was most dubious. He would have much preferred to lay himself on the floor near the open window andbe comfortable!
After much persuasion, however, he consigned himself, with much misgiving, to the soft bed. Injun was accustomed to selecting a spot protected from the winds, first making a fire, if occasion demanded, and then stretching out on the ground or some pine boughs that he collected if they were available.
He could adjust himself to the most cramped and uncomfortable positions and get the repose he needed, even "keeping one eye open," as the saying is, against the dangers that might beset him in the night. However, notwithstanding all the "discomforts" of the civilization that surrounded him, Injun was asleep inside of five minutes, though Whitey lay awake for a long time, the exciting events of the past twenty-four hours running through his mind in vivid review; until, at last everything became a jumble of caverns and Crowleys and Rosses and cattle and scrimmages, all crazy and indistinct, fantastic and illusory, as things always are in the borderland of dreams.
The sun was high in the heavens when Whitey awoke. The first sight that met his eyes was Injun, clad in the pink pyjamas, parading up and down before the mirror, and evidently much pleased and impressed with his appearance. Whitey watched him for a time, and then bounded out of bed, and pouring out a basin of water, scrubbed his face and hands vigorously. Injun watched him with some curiosity, but declined to follow his example. The water part of it was all right, but the soap he couldn't understand.
It must not be imagined that Injun was not cleanly; he spent considerable time in the water, but he preferred Nature's bath-tub rather than a tin, or a crockery one. When Whitey was half-dressed, he was somewhat astonished to notice that Injun had not yet started.
"Hurry up, Injun!" he cried. "Get into your clothes and let's get some breakfast! I'm starved!"
Injun couldn't see it at all! The pink pyjamas looked pretty good to him, and he had decided to adopt them for every-day wear! Whitey almost laughed himself to death. "Why, you can't wear those things around the ranch!" he said, when he got his breath. "Those are only to sleep in!"
Injun didn't feel that way about it at all; he could not understand why such comfortable, loose-fitting and becoming garments were not appropriate for all occasions. And to give emphasis to the fact that he intended to adopt them for business purposes, he proceeded to roll up his shirt and trousers, and put on his moccasins, and tell Whitey that it washewho should do the hurrying, as he (Injun) was dressed and ready.
The joke was too good a one to spoil, and so Whitey let it go at that, chuckling to himself at the thought of the sensation Injun would create when he appeared on the ranch.
Both Mr. Sherwood and Bill Jordan were at breakfast when the two boys entered, and the men burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter at the sight of Injun.
"Sufferin' comets!" said Bill, when he could get his breath; "look who's here! Well, if thet ain't a hot sketch, I never seen one!" And Bill again went off into another peal of laughter. Injun was not at all disturbed, but proceeded to take his seat at the table with solemn dignity, and reach out for whatever he saw before him that he felt he would like to eat.
"Ain't yo' got a silk hat, Mr. Sherwood?" asked Bill, as well as he could, between fits of laughing. "Ef this here bird-o'-Paradise jes' had a plug-hat onto him now, he'd be the belle o' the ball fer fair! Ef them boys out t' th' corral ever gits a flash at this here galliwumpus, I couldn't git no work out 'n 'em fer a week! They'd fall down on their face an' die a-laffin'! An' yet, I ain't got the heart t' deny 'em a peek at it! He's got a peacock lookin' like a dirty deuce in a clean deck, an' 't ain't ever' day the's a ontamed hero wanderin' 'round in pink pants, makin' his début inta sassiety, an' givin' folks a treat!"
Mr. Sherwood, convulsed as he was, signaled to Bill to let Injun go through with it, and Bill nodded understandingly. He tried to finish his coffee, but another look at Injun caused him to choke and swallow it the wrong way, so he rose hurriedly from the table and made his way out to the corral as well as he could.
In due course Injun and Whitey made their appearance at the corral, and any serious attempt to describe the scene would be idle. If it had been any one but Injun, who had more than ever endeared himself to the boys by his performances of the day before, it is doubtful if they would have ever let up. Injun took it all in good part, being supremely satisfied with himself. Mr. Sherwood, however, voiced this apprehension: "I don't know as we ought to let the boy wear those things out on the range—how do you think some of the cattle will regard that flaming get-up?"
"Well," said Bill, "outside o' them pore, dumb critters being plumb scairt t' death an' mebbe stampedin', I reckon I wouldn't worry none. Ef yo' was thinkin' 'bout thet Injun kid, from what I've saw of him, I figger he kin take care of hisself in 'bout any fix he's li'ble to git inta. It's them cattle as has a worry comin' to 'em! 'Tain't playin' square t' spring no sech chromatic outrage on them innercent an' do-cile animals an' git 'em all het up with runnin'!" Bill grinned, and then added, after he had thought a moment, "Mebbe it'd sort o' discourage this here aboriginal Aztec from sportin' them sartorial embellishments 'f I was t' git him to lead out thet little black devil of a bull inta the corral. We prob'bly might mebbe see some o' them torreador stunts them Greasers pulls down't Mexico City! How 'bout it?"
Mr. Sherwood promptly put a veto on this, although there is little doubt that Injun would have tackled the job, well knowing the danger that it entailed. The black bull was bad enough without anything to irritate him, but being led by an Indian in pink pyjamas was more than any self-respecting bull could be expected to stand.
And so it came about that Injun wore the pink pyjamas until they were reduced to rags and were on the point of falling off of him. The flimsy material was not calculated to stand rough usage, and a few days sufficed. Even then it was only with the utmost difficulty that he was induced to relinquish them. Only the offer by Mr. Sherwood to completely outfit the boy had any effect, and Injun even hesitated about this, because the outfit didn't conform to his idea of a color scheme. However, once the boy got into the new clothes and looked at himself in the mirror, he felt more satisfied.
Bill Jordan looked him over with undisguised approbation in his face; but he made a suggestion. "Injun," he said, as he looked at the boy's long and shaggy head of hair, "yo' ain't aimin' t' be an understudy fer them Absolem er Sampson persons, be yo'? Ain't yo' bin playin' hookey from the barber's fer quite a spell? Looks like the' might be mice in thet there mane o' yo'r'n. Why don't yo' let Pete here operate on them hirsute hairs an' git yo' all manicur'd up proper? I reckon yo' c'd stand it 'thout takin' gas!"
Injun was of an accommodating nature—the kind that will try anything once; and as the process of civilizing him had gone as far as it had, he concluded he might as well go ahead with it; and in a few moments Pete, the ranch barber, was at work on him. Pete was not what is known as "a tonsorial artist"; he was just a plain barber, whose standing as an amateur was unquestioned. His ways were somewhat primitive, if effective, and his equipment consisted of some sheep-shears, a pair of horse-clippers, and a willing disposition; and with this combination, Pete generally managed to get most of the hair off, in spite of the fact that he had no "Union card." He worked rapidly and was careful—frequently his "customers" escaped without the loss of anything more than their tempers, together with small pieces of hide and an insignificant clipping from an ear, which really amounted to nothing when their otherwise improved appearance was considered.
The "barber-shop" was a space in the ranch-yard, out near the corral, and consisted of a soap-box, on which the victim sat, and the welkin. There was always an "audience," or, rather, spectators, who stood around and made more or less facetious comments; but after witnessing the performance, it took considerable nerve to respond to the call of "Next!"
Injun received sundry digs and clips, but bore them stoically, probably deeming them a regular and usual part of the thing; and it must be admitted that his appearance was decidedly changed—whether for the better or not was a matter of debate, as he stood up for inspection.
"Well," said Bill Jordan, as he looked at the boy in perplexity, "mebbe, Pete, 'f yo' was t' use a ax yo' could git more off'n thet nigh ear'n what yo' done. Howsumever, I reckon yo' massacreed him sufficient as 't is! D' y' s'pose ef yo' was to take a file yo' c'd mebbe level off some o' them humps?"
Then Walker circled the boy, eying him critically and making pitying noises.
"I thought I seen some fancy hair-cuts in my time," said Walker, "but this here's got 'em all faded! Thet kid's nut looks like it cum through a McCormick harvester! Thet redskin's shore got a fergivin' disposition er he'd run this here Pete person clear to Omaha—an' justifiable, too!"
"'F I was yo', Bill," said Charley Brackett, "after I sent fer th' amb'lance and first-aid an' some court-plaster an' bandages, I'd notufy congress—Indians has some rights!"
"Is that so!" said Pete. "Mebbe you guys thinks yo' c'd do a heap better—yes? I calls thet a pretty fair job—considerin'. Lemme tell yo' thet kid's got hair like wire, an' a pair o' pliers 'd be better 'n shears."
"After looking him over," said Bill, "I reckon yo' must 'a' spoke the truth! 'T's a pity his hide ain't sheet-iron, too."
"Well," said Pete, laughing, "I don't see where yo' all got no call t' criticize—the kid ain't sayin' nuthin'!"
"He can't see hisself!" said Bill; "an' mebbe yo're lucky he can't. Them Injuns is resentful!"
At any rate, Injun survived the ordeal, and in his new outfit, made quite a prepossessing figure, notwithstanding the hair-cut. He was naturally a good-looking boy, and possessed qualities of mind and character that merited attention and development; and Mr. Sherwood determined that, if it were possible, he would, one day, see that Injun had some of the advantages that white boys enjoy.
Not the least of Whitey's enjoyments was getting letters from the boys back East—scarcely a week passed that Bobby and George and Tom did not collaborate in a letter with plenty of news about baseball and the other things that Whitey used to be interested in. I say "used to be"—he really was yet, but in a secondary way. So engrossing did he find life on the ranch, that he had, in a measure, put many of those things behind him. He found that riding a horse and throwing a lariat and fishing and hunting were fully as interesting as watching The Giants and The Cubs, or trying to curve a ball away from the plate and fool the batter. He had a feeling—and in a sense, he was right—that the former weremen'sdoings, and that he was fitting himself to be a man among these men about him.
As the days went by Whitey found that he had "increased in wisdom and stature" to a considerable degree. Although he had been the strongest boy at school, he knew that, after two months or so on the ranch, he had not only gained remarkably in strength, but in agility and suppleness the gain had been proportionately much greater. He had developed muscles that he did not know he possessed, and his almost continuous life in the open air had strengthened his lungs, and had hardened and toughened him. He did not know what "a cold" meant, now; or, in fact, illness of any kind; and he was impervious to any sort of weather that had, as yet, presented itself. In short, he fitted into ranch life like "a duck's foot in the mud," as Bill Jordan expressed it.
"Do you think, Son, you could manage to get along without me here for a time?" asked Mr. Sherwood, as he and Jordan and the two boys sat on the piazza at sunset, one evening.
"Sure, I could get along," said Whitey, "but where are you going?"
"I find my affairs in the East need some attention and I must go back, at least for a time. Do you want to go back with me?"
"I do not!" said Whitey, emphatically. "I think I won't ever want to go East again!" Bill Jordan smiled behind his hand.
"How about seeing your mother and sisters and the boys?" asked Mr. Sherwood.
"I want to see them, all right; but what is the matter with bringing them out here? You said you would, if you found things here were fit for them, and it seems to me that they are fit for anybody! I don't see why any one should ask for anything better than this!"
"I might bring your mother and sisters, but I don't exactly see how I could bring your boy friends," answered his father.
"I don't see why," said Whitey. "They'd all like it just as much as I do. Don't you think their fathers would let them come?"
"Perhaps, but there are other things to be considered," said Mr. Sherwood. "However, we'll see about it. But before I go, I want to be assured of one thing, and that is, you two boys must promise to keep out of mischief. Bill has enough to do without having to go and rescue you from a peck of trouble."
"That doesn't mean that we have to stay cooped up on the ranch all the time, does it?" asked Whitey ruefully.
"Considering that the ranch contains something like sixty square miles, that ought not to be a hardship, and I wouldn't exactly call it being 'cooped up'; but if you find that you have to go off it, go ahead—only don't get mixed up with any more rustlers and caverns; and remember, too, that our old friend Mr. Pedro is still at large. He'll skin the pair of you alive if he gets the chance."
"I don't know whether he would or not," said Whitey. "I think that in a fair fight, Injun and I could give him about all he wanted to do, and then some!"
"That's jest the trouble, Son," said Bill Jordan, "thet skunk don't know nuthin' 'bout fightin' fair. He'd sneak up an' bite a baby while it was asleep ef he could! Ef either o' you two gets yo'r lamps onto his pizen carcass, yo' both better empty yo'r Winchesters inta him an' then ride away fer dear life. Thet's th' only way to do 'ith him!"
"Injun hasn't any Winchester," said Whitey, who thought he saw an opening whereby his pal might get one—and he was right.
"Better see if you can't find one, Bill, and let the boy have it," said Mr. Sherwood. "I think he has shown that he can be trusted with anything in the way of equipment that any ranch-hand uses. He is entitled to about anything that I can give him, for he has rendered both Whitey and me most valuable service, and I want to show him that I appreciate it."
"I think thet's good jedgment, Mr. Sherwood. Them two boys is a whole team an' a dog under the wagon, to boot, but the' 's a heap safer with two guns 'n the' is with one—now 't they knows how to handle 'em."
And so Injun got his Winchester, one from the rack at the ranch-house and, if possible, he was more elated over its possession than he had been over the pink pyjamas. With his naturally keen eye, developed as it had been by continual use of the bow and arrow, he soon became fairly expert in its use, an almost unlimited supply of cartridges which Bill allowed the two boys contributing to this end.
When Mr. Sherwood left for the station to take the train East, the two boys on their horses accompanied the wagon as outriders. The long ride of twenty-two miles was soon made, and at last the East-bound limited came puffing into the station. Mr. Sherwood's baggage was lifted aboard.
"Sure you don't want to go along?" asked Mr. Sherwood of Whitey, as he stood on the observation-platform of the rear car.
"Certain!" answered Whitey. "I am hungry to see the folks and the boys, but I can wait until they come out here!"
"I'll have 'em both ridin' herd by the time yo' gets back!" said Bill as he looked at them proudly. "Thet is," he added, grinning, "unless this here son o' yo'r'n has got me workin' fer him, an' him in my job!"
"Not much danger of that!" said Whitey. "I guess it'll be some time before I can do the stunts that you seem to think are so easy."
Finally, after the good-bys had all been said, the train pulled out, and Mr. Sherwood waved at them from the back platform until they could no longer distinguish him, and the train dwindled to a speck in the distance finally disappearing altogether. And Whitey felt a thrill—the thrill that any strong, self-reliant boy feels when he realizes that he is, to all intents and purposes, his own master.
"Mr. Jordan," said Whitey, one morning, as he met the latter out at the corral, "is it all right for Injun and me to go over to Moose Lake and camp for a few days? He knows where he can get a canoe there, and he says the fishing is fine."
Bill thought the matter over for a moment and then said, smiling,
"I a heap ruther yo' 'd bring the lake over here, where I c'd keep my eye onto you'! Besides, I don't reckon I'd git dispepsy eatin' the fish thet yo' all 'd bring back—Moose Lake's more 'n sixty mile from here! Why don't yo' all go set on the bank o' one o' the branches an' try yo'r luck?"
"I've tried that," grinned Whitey, "and either there aren't any fish worth speaking about, or else they're educated and too foxy to bite."
"Mebbe yo'r worm wasn't tryin' his best," said Bill, solemnly. "The's certain kinds o' worms thet jes' nacher'ly flirts with a fish—sort o' coaxes 'em to cum up an'——"
"Yes, I know all about that," laughed Whitey, "but we haven't time to send our worms to school to teach 'em to flirt. Besides flirting isn't proper, even for a worm. The main thing is—may I go?"
"Well, Son," said Bill, "I reckon yo're yo'r own boss now, ain't yo'?"
"Not entirely," said Whitey. "I'm willing to listen to your advice, anyway."
"Good!" said Bill. "Then I guess yo' don't need none. It's them thet won't take it thet really needs advice. 'Bout how many days yo' call 'a few'?"
"Four or five," said Whitey. "I think that would be long enough."
"Goin' to take a pack-hoss with grub an' stuff—mebbe them Moose Lake fish is eddicated, too? A growin' boy's liable t' git up condider'ble appetite ef he has t' go 'thout eatin' fer four five days! Ef yo' say so, I'll pack up a tin o' biscuit an' mebbe a can o' beans, in case yo' all gits tired of a fish diet."
"That will be fine," said Whitey, "tho', maybe, you better make it two cans of each," he added, laughing. "You know I have quite an appetite at any time—I don't have to fast for four or five days to get one up!"
"So I've noticed," said Bill. "An' now thet yo' 'lowed as how yo' 'd take advice, I'm goin' to hand out some. Don' yo' two get separated too fur in thet there wilderness, an' don't go messin' 'round with no grizzlies er painters—the's both bad animals! I don't reckon yo'll see none, fer the's pretty well cleaned out; but, ef yo' see a grizzly, an' he don't see you, jes' nacherly put all the distance between you an' him thet yo' kin. An' ef he does see yo', jes' drop whatever yo're doin' an' climb a tree—don't waste no time a tall; an don't come down fer an hour after he's left; they ain't always gone when theyseemto be! As fur 's other things go, Injun knows 'nuff to pilot yo' through all right."
"I'll remember," said Whitey, "and I'll promise you that I won't take any unnecessary chances."
"Good," said Bill. "I'll have thet pack-hoss ready with them two cans o' beans onto him whenever yo're ready to start. An' say, listen—don't fergit to bring home somethin'!"
Whitey promised that he would, and turned away to tell the good news to Injun, who had just ridden into the ranch-yard.
The boys decided that they would start as soon as the necessary preparations could be made, and camp on the way for the night. This would bring them to Moose Lake late in the afternoon of the following day; and within an hour after his talk with Bill the boys rode out of the ranch-yard, their Winchesters slung across their shoulders, and leading a pack-horse that was piled high with what Bill called "a tin o' biscuit an' a coupla cans o' beans," and were headed toward the mountains that looked so near, and yet didn't seem to get any nearer as the boys put mile after mile behind them.
Nothing of any importance happened on the ride during the afternoon, and the boys determined to get as far as possible that day so as to arrive at the lake while it would be daylight on the day following. The darkness had settled down before they pitched camp near one of the numerous branches in a hollow that sheltered them from the wind. The work of building a fire was attended to by Injun, while Whitey opened the pack that contained the "biscuit and beans." It was not long before they sat by the glowing fire and watched the tempting slices of bacon as they frizzled in the pan, and sniffed the fragrant coffee. After a hearty supper the boys lost little time in rolling themselves in their blankets, and were soon in the land of dreams.
It is doubtful if a man ever sleeps so well, or if sleep ever does him so much good as when he takes it out in the open and upon the ground. He seems to imbibe or absorb some of the life-giving elements in that way, which refresh and restore the tissues far more than a sleep in any other bed would.
The two boys were awake, had breakfasted, and were on their way, almost at sun-up the following morning. As the day advanced, the gradual rise in the ground became more perceptible, and the mountains began to come nearer. The trees and shrubs became thicker and the ground more rocky and uneven; and long before dusk began to settle down they found themselves on the shores of Moose Lake, and well into the foot-hills of the Rockies.
Moose Lake was a considerable body of water, being perhaps nine or ten miles in length, though its greatest breadth was not more than a mile and a half. Its shores were rocky and heavily wooded; in some places they rose high and precipitous from the water's edge, while at other points they sloped gradually down in sandy beaches. The water was clear and very cold and in many places the bottom was visible at a depth of twenty feet or more.
Injun led the way around the southern end of the lake and toward the West, for a couple of miles, though the horses found the going very rough and they were obliged to pick their way carefully among the stones that lay in masses upon the steep slope of the mountain. After a time a small glade lay before them, and at one end of it was a cabin that evidently was deserted, but in sufficiently good condition to allow it to be inhabited, and to furnish some protection against the weather and wild animals. Here the boys proceeded to establish themselves, and after unpacking their belongings, they bestowed them in proper and convenient places about the cabin.
At the sides of the cabin were two sleeping-bunks—little else than narrow shelves; but the boys, taking their hatchets, went out into the thick growth of pine, and soon returned with armfuls of fragrant boughs which they placed in the bunks to a depth of two feet, and made them comfortable. Soon a fire was blazing on the primitive stone hearth, and the water boiling in the camp-kettle suspended above it. The horses were tethered so that they might graze freely, and everything made ship-shape for the night, though there was an hour or more of daylight remaining.
"There!" said Whitey, with a look of satisfaction, "this may not be quite so up-to-date as the ranch-house, but I'd rather be here than there."
Injun nodded and grinned his assent to this, but by the way he kept moving, showed that he was not yet through.
"Him get fish plenty supper," he said, as he got out some of the tackle that Whitey had brought. Whitey needed no urging, and fitted his jointed rod together and got out his book of flies. These Injun regarded curiously; he had no intention of fishing himself—that wasn't the way he fished—but he wanted to see how the thing worked.
At the lake, the boys went along the edge, Injun showing the way until, evidently locating a mark, he stopped and scrambled down to some rocks that were over-grown with brush. Making his way into this, he lifted out a canoe and two paddles, much to the delight of Whitey; and a moment after, under the skillful strokes of Injun's paddle, they were gliding over the glassy bosom of the waters, with scarcely a sound or a ripple.
Whitey, sitting in the bow of the canoe, put a leader and fly on his line and made ready to cast; but Injun shook his head. He steered softly near to where a huge tree bent over the lake, and stopped the canoe, and Whitey cast the line so that the fly struck the water some thirty feet away.
Almost at the instant that the fly hit the water, it was snatched under, and Whitey felt a tug at his line and started to play the fish. He had learned something of the art when he had been in the Adirondacks with his father, but he was not quite prepared for any such fight as this fish put up. It darted this way and that, at times leaping out of the water and shaking the hook like a dog shakes a rat. But finally, all his fight availed the fish nothing; for he lay in the bottom of the canoe, still making a few weak flops, but conquered. Injun took a piece of string, and tying a stick to one end, he ran the other through the gills of the fish and let him trail in the water in the wake of the canoe.
This whole performance was repeated many times, and although it was not always successful, two or three of the fish managing to get away, when Injun turned the bow of the canoe back toward the cabin, they had enough lake-trout to satisfy the most voracious appetite. Injun stowed away the canoe in its hiding-place, and both the boys threw off their clothes and plunged into the water to wash.
Injun cleaned the fish, and rolling them in some corn-meal that Bill Jordan had placed in the kit for just this purpose, they were soon frying over the fire.
"Delmonico's chef has nothing on you, Injun," said Whitey, as well as he could with his mouth full of trout; "you can't get fish like this in any hotel that I ever was in! It was worth coming sixty miles to get them!"
Injun didn't know who or what "Delmonico's chef" was, but he knew that Whitey intended to be complimentary, and grinning, let it go at that.
For a long time, after supper, the two boys sat before the fire in the cabin, listening to the night sounds and planning what they would do on the morrow. But, at last, Whitey began to yawn—nobody thinks of keeping late hours when camping in the mountains—and after the door had been barred, the boys tumbled into their beds of pine boughs and were asleep in less time than it takes to tell it, lulled by the occasional hoot of an owl or the far-away voice of a lonesome coyote.
Injun was awakened in the night by a sniffing at the door, and he heard a slight commotion among the horses. He reached for his Winchester and softly opened the door to reconnoiter. But whatever the animal was, he had made off; probably not liking the human scent; and though the red boy kept vigil for a time, nothing occurred to disturb the quiet again, and he went back to his bed of pine boughs. Whitey slept through it all; so soundly, in fact, that a regiment of soldiers might have marched across the floor and he would not have wakened.
The fact that their evening meal had consisted largely of trout did not deter the boys from having the same kind of a breakfast, especially as the "breakfast" was even then swimming in the lake and just asking to be caught and eaten.
So, after a dip in the cool water, Injun again took the canoe from its hiding-place and sent it out into the lake in the light of the early morning. In a few moments, Whitey had a fine string of trout trailing from the boat, and decided that one more would be sufficient. The "one more," however, proved to be a Tartar, and such was the fight that he put up that, in the excitement, the canoe was over-turned and both boys were dumped into the water. This made no particular difference to them, and they were inclined to regard the matter as a joke, until suddenly Injun said, "Where him rifle?" Whitey remembered that the rifle had been in the canoe, and must now be posing at the bottom of the lake! Indeed, so clear was the water, that it could be seen resting on the bottom, some twenty-five feet below.
"That's a pretty good dive," said Whitey, "more than twenty feet, I should say, though it looks much less. Do you think we can make it?"
Injun's answer was to duck under the water and force himself down with powerful strokes; but although he went down a long way, he could not come within many feet of it. Every motion that he made could be clearly seen, and Whitey watched him with considerable anxiety. At last he was forced to return to the surface. Then Whitey went down, but he fared no better; and after two or three more attempts, the boys came to the conclusion that it would be impossible to recover the rifle in that way.
"I have a scheme!" said Whitey. "We'll mark the spot carefully, then swim ashore with the boat, right it and come back and fish for it with a hook and line."
This sounded all right in theory, but although they "fished" for more than half an hour, they did nothing more than move the rifle, as it seemed impossible to get it hooked securely. It looked pretty dubious, and the boys relaxed their efforts for a time and sat in the canoe thinking.
"I've read somewhere of a trick the pearl-divers have," said Whitey, "and it is at least worth trying. Paddle back to the shore, Injun."
Injun sent the canoe to the rocky shore with a few strokes of his paddle, and Whitey landed. He selected a large, heavy stone and placed it in the canoe, and Injun paddled back over the gun. Whitey let himself over the side of the canoe and Injun handed him the stone. Whitey took a long breath, and holding the stone in his arms, went straight down to the gun. Seizing it, he let go his hold of the stone, and rose rapidly to the top, but heard a terrific ringing in his ears, and his heart beating like a trip-hammer. His chest seemed caving in and he was completely exhausted and hardly able to hang onto the canoe. Injun took the rifle, and paddled back to the shore; and for several minutes, Whitey lay upon the bank until he had recovered his breath. Injun saw that he was coming around all right, and then he carefully wiped and cleaned the rifle.
"Pearl-diving may be all right, for those that like it; but I never saw a pearl I'd go down that far after!" said Whitey, as he rose to his feet, a little unsteady at first, and made his way to the cabin.
Injun cooked the breakfast, and Whitey was as good as ever, under the influence of trout, bacon, and coffee, and eager to carry out the plans they had made for the day.
There was a large island at the other end of the lake that Injun said abounded in berries and various water-fowl; and as either of these would make a welcome addition to the menu, besides gratifying a taste for exploration, the boys determined to visit it.
Whitey tried his hand at paddling; and, under Injun's tutelage, he quickly got "the hang of it"—at least, so that he could keep the canoe in a fairly straight line. But to be able to send it swiftly through the water without a sound and scarcely a ripple, requires long practice.
After paddling for a couple of miles, it was evident, however, that it would take about all day for them to arrive at the island, if Whitey continued to furnish the motive power, and laughingly suggested that he was perfectly willing to let Injun do the paddling and suggested that they change seats. He rose in the canoe to effect this, but Injun vetoed this emphatically. He reached for the paddle, which Whitey handed to him, and Injun simply turned the canoe around, and thus sat in the stern, the canoe being shaped similarly at both ends. Whitey smiled: "There are more ways than one of skinning a cat!" he remarked, chagrined at having failed to notice such a simple and evident thing.
"I guess, Injun," he said, "I'm a good deal like the man who cut two holes in the barn door—a big one for the big cat, and a little one for the little cat! He and I would make a good team of managers!"
Under the powerful and skillful strokes of Injun's paddle—Whitey took the other paddle and tried to help, but finally put it away as he felt that he wasn't of a great deal of assistance—the canoe soon scraped on the gravelly beach of the island. Injun lifted the canoe out of the water and placed it high and dry on the bank; and, taking their rifles, the boys struck out into the dense woods that covered the island.
All that Injun had said or intimated about the island was more than justified by the actuality. It rose to a peak at the center, but was filled with gorges and small canyons, and there were two or three little streams that splashed and rippled their way down to the lake. There were no trails, and had Whitey been alone, he would have found great difficulty in retracing his steps to the point where they had landed, except by making his way to the lake and following the edge until he came to the spot.
For several hours they rambled over the island, ate their fill of the luscious wild blueberries that grew in profusion, but failed to bring down any of the wild ducks that swam about the bays and inlets, although they fired at them several times.
As they skirted the northern end of the island, high up on the rocky and precipitous bank, they came upon a cabin. Whitey was for advancing at once and investigating it, but Injun held him back—it was part of Injun's policy never to rush blindly into a strange situation, and never to take anything for granted. From the thick underbrush that concealed them, Injun examined the place carefully for at least five minutes before he ventured to come cautiously out of cover and approach the cabin. Even then, he advanced with great caution and without making a sound.
It may seem that in exercising such extreme caution, Injun was, perhaps, over-doing it; but as a matter of fact, the boy was right. It will be remembered that he was a wild thing, and brought up in the wilds, where a good deal depends upon caution and vigilance. It is the way of wild animals, except possibly those which fear nothing, or those that are notably stupid, to ponder a strange situation very carefully before rushing into it.
Many of them will assure themselves of a way to get out as well as to get in; and if the matter is at all mysterious and not understandable, will avoid it altogether unless driven by extreme hunger. Wild men and wild animals are suspicious of everything—a strange noise, a strange scent, or a strange circumstance, in the wilderness calls for investigation. Frequently, this extreme caution is the price of life, either to man or to beast, and both know this and proceed accordingly.
A very slight thing had aroused Injun's suspicion. Whitey had not noticed it, at all. Before the door of the cabin were two or three small, freshly-cut chips. Freshly-cut chips indicated recent human presence beyond any doubt. It would be better to know who the human was and whether he was at home before making their own presence known. The island was not a place for tourists, being far off the track that such people usually take; nor was the person, whoever he might turn out to be, a permanent resident. Injun had been over the island many times in the past spring and for two or three years before, and was thoroughly familiar with it; in fact, he had occupied the cabin on the occasion of his last visit. He remembered exactly how he had left the place, and could see, very plainly, that some one had succeeded him. He remembered that he had left the door open, but it was now closed—animals or winds seldomclosedoors, especially doors that are hung on leather hinges and have to be pushed along the floor.
Injun circled the cabin, leaving Whitey still concealed in the underbrush. At one point, Injun saw that fire-wood had been recently gathered and there were foot-prints in the damp earth made by high-heeled boots. This was proof positive—if any further proof was needed than that which Injun already had. He glided noiselessly to the wall of the cabin at the rear, and peeked through the chinks in the wall. He could see that there was no one in the cabin, and he came around to the side where Whitey was. He called to him, and both boys entered.
There had been a fire upon the hearth a few hours before, and the sleeping bunk was filled with fir boughs. Nothing in the cabin indicated the identity of the occupant, however, and he seemed to have no extra clothes or the usual conveniences that a camper would be likely to bring.
"What's all this about?" asked Whitey, smiling rather tolerantly. "I don't see anything so mysterious in finding that a man has been here. Why shouldn't anybody come that wants to? We don't own the island!"
Injun shrugged his shoulders, and kept his own counsel; but it was very plain that he was not satisfied with things. He didn't like being on the island with a strange man, and not know who the man was. He was "from Missouri," so to speak.
They left the cabin, Injun being careful to disturb nothing, and to close the door; and took pains to leave no mark of their visit.
The boys skirted the western side of the island on their way back, and Injun set a rather fast pace. He was careful, too, to move with as little noise as possible and to avoid leaving more of a trail than was necessary. Those things are simply second-nature to an Indian when he is in any doubt about his environment.
At length, the boys arrived at the lake at the point where they had left the canoe. They made their way cautiously through the thick brush, but as they reached the water's edge, they could see that the canoe was gone! A hurried but thorough search, failed to reveal it. The boys were alone on the island, with a man who, perhaps, was not their friend!
"Well, what do you know about that?" said Whitey, in dismay. "It must be the man who lives in the cabin who has taken our canoe!"