MYSTERY
Awaiting events did not seem a very thrilling occupation. Of course,
there was always John Big Moose's tutoring to fill in the gaps, but that
was less thrilling than just waiting, if possible. The teaching took
place in the big living-room of the ranch house, a room with a great
stone fireplace, the stone for which had been carted down from the
mountains; with walls decorated with Indian trophies--tomahawks, bows
and arrows, stone pipes and hatchets, knives--and with beadwork,
snowshoes, and many other interesting things. All these were enough to
take a fellow's mind off his lessons, and besides there was the floor,
with its bear and moose and panther skins, each with its history.
And outside, viewed through the big windows, was the rolling prairie,
with the touch of early fall on it, sometimes revealed in a light
curtain of haze, at which a fellow could gaze and imagine he saw the
squaws of the savage tribes gathering the maize for the coming winter's
store, while the braves rode off to hunt the buffalo.
Yes, it was rather distracting, but John Big Moose was very patient
about the lessons, though he had been eager for knowledge himself. He
had worked his way through a Western college, spurred on by the hope of
bettering his people, the Dakotas, and he _had_ bettered them. And when
Mr. Sherwood, Whitey's father, had gone East, with the understanding
that John was to tutor Whitey and Injun, John had resolved to do his
best.
But this other Injun, Whitey's pal, was not what you might call eager
for knowledge. Reading and writing were all right, and might be put to
some practical use, but arithmetic seemed rather useless, and when it
came to the "higher branches," geometry and trigonometry, they loomed up
to Injun like a bugbear of the future. In his heart Injun pined for his
truly loved field of study--the great outdoors.
But presently there came a slight break in the dull routine of words and
figures--a half-holiday. The first shipment of ore was to be made from
the mine. John Big Moose represented his tribe's interest in this mine,
and he was to go and inspect operations. The ore was to come down from
the mountain in sacks, loaded on horse and muleback, and to be delivered
to the railroad at the Junction, a small settlement about twenty miles
south of the ranch.
The boys thought that as they were stock-holders in the mine, they ought
to go along and attend to this matter, too, but John couldn't see it
that way. He compromised on a half-holiday for them; study in the
morning, freedom in the afternoon. So that morning they stuck to their
lessons. With John there to oversee them they might neglect their
studies. With him away, and the boys placed on their honor, the thing
wasn't to be thought of.
And here it might be repeated that Injun had a very strong sense of
honor. He had faults, as most of us have, but breaking promises, or what
he considered as promises, was not among them.
So that afternoon, as Injun and Whitey could not be with the shipment of
ore, they did the next best thing. They rode off into the foothills.
And on a grassy hill that commanded a widespread view of the plains,
they looked far off over the prairie. And winding across it, clear off
near the horizon, they saw tiny specks which represented mules and
horses, laden with the sacks of precious ore, and its escort of
cowpunchers.
That evening it was lonely at the ranch, Bill Jordan and the other men
being at the Junction. String Beans nursed his sore foot, and Ham
prepared dinner, which Injun had with Whitey in the ranch house. Time
passed and still the men did not return. Evidently they were celebrating
the shipment of the mine's first output, or waiting to see it put safely
aboard the train at the Junction. So Whitey invited Injun to spend the
night, and he accepted willingly, as it gave him a chance to wear the
pink pajamas that he loved.
Yawning time had come and passed. Whitey was sleeping soundly and
dreamlessly, when he was aroused by a grip on his arm. It was Injun in
his pink pajamas.
"Some one come," he said.
"Mebbe it's Bill and the others," Whitey ventured.
"Not Bill--only one man," Injun replied.
The coming of a man didn't seem important to Whitey, but he knew Injun
must have had something on his mind, or he wouldn't have waked him, and
he waited for his friend to speak more of the words of which he was so
sparing. The next speech was not long.
"Look," said Injun, and he went to the window.
Whitey went and looked. There was a faint light in the bunk house, and
another down by the horse corral. As the boys watched, a man came out of
the bunk house, and even in the dim light Whitey recognized him. He was
String Beans.
"Why," whispered Whitey, "I thought he was lame. He doesn't even limp."
"Him get well," Injun replied.
The light at the corral moved toward and joined that at the bunk house,
and the two revealed a man leading three horses.
"It's Whiff!" gasped Whitey. "I thought he was with the men at the
Junction."
"Him get back," Injun grunted, with meaning.
Absorbed in the scene being enacted before them, the boys watched in
silence.
Bill Jordan had said that Injun slept with his mind open; that most
Injuns did; that if they hadn't done that all these years there wouldn't
be no Injuns--and no doubt Bill was right. But any way you thought about
it, it was remarkable that the slight sound outside--the thudding of a
horse's hoofs on soft ground, or the letting down of the bars of the
corral--should have wakened Injun. It probably was not the sound so much
as the sense of something unusual, something threatening. Furthermore,
Injun had a different way of figuring things from Whitey. Also he had
been awake longer, so his mind had a better start, not being bewildered
by sleep.
"They're up to something," said Whitey.
"Um," grunted Injun.
The two men went into the bunk house and soon came out with another man
who was fat. It undoubtedly was Ham. Each man carried a saddle, which
he put on a horse. Then they mounted and rode away.
A cloud moved away, like a curtain, and a full moon shed its light over
the scene and into the window. The hour must have been late, for the
moon was low. Whitey turned and looked at Injun, who was stolidly
watching the riders disappear.
"Can you beat that?" Whitey demanded. "String Beans walked as well as
any one. I'll bet he wasn't hurt at the mine at all. That he was just
pretending."
"Uh," muttered Injun.
"Mebbe they've stolen something," continued Whitey.
"No, no come into the house, me hear 'em," said Injun. "In bunk house
nothin' to steal."
Suddenly Whitey thought of the negro cook, the only other man on the
place, and demanded, "Where's Slim?"
"Dunno," said Injun, and followed Whitey, who shoved his feet into a
pair of slippers and ran hastily from the room.
The bunk house was dark, the men having put out their lanterns before
they rode away. Whitey groped for matches and, finding one, lighted a
lamp. Slim was nowhere to be seen. Whitey looked at Injun in wonder and
alarm. Injun looked at Whitey with no expression of any kind.
"Mebbe they've killed Slim!" cried Whitey.
"Mebbe," Injun agreed.
Sitting Bull had silently followed the boys, and while they were
investigating with their eyes, he was doing the same with his nose. His
search had led him to a bunk, and with his fore paws on its edge, he was
gazing into it, his head on one side and a very puzzled expression on
his face. Bull rarely barked, except to express great joy, and he never
was afraid. His nose had told him what was in that bunk; the curious
movements of the object were what puzzled him. Attracted by the dog's
interest, Injun and Whitey went to him.
The bedding in the bunk heaved and rolled from side to side. Whitey
reached over rather fearfully and pulled down the upper blankets, and
Slim was brought to view. Not only was Slim bound and gagged, but a coat
was tied around his head, to keep him from hearing. In fact, about the
only thing to show that the man was Slim was his black hands.
Injun and Whitey hastily removed the head covering and the gag, and
Whitey eagerly asked what had happened. Slim was half choked and very
indignant.
"I dunno what happened to nobody, 'ceptin' to me," he gurgled. "Gimme a
drink o' watah. I'se burnin' up."
While Whitey held a cup of water to Slim's lips, Injun struggled with
his bonds, and with great difficulty succeeded in releasing him. Whitey
asked a hundred questions meanwhile, none of which Slim answered. He
seemed entirely absorbed in his own troubles, and when he was free, he
carefully felt himself all over.
"Dis is fine foh mah misery, fine!" he said bitterly.
As far as Whitey had ever been able to learn, a "misery" was a sort of
rheumatism.
"How is your misery?" he asked, despairing of getting him to talk about
anything but himself.
"Tehibul, tehibul," groaned Slim; "an' dey tie me wid a rawhide rope,
too, dat jest eat into mah flesh." And Slim looked venomously down at
the lariat that lay at his feet.
"Who tied you?" Whitey inquired.
"I dunno. Wen I wakes up dis yeah rag is bein' jammed into mah mouf, an'
dis yeah coat bein' wrapped round mah haid, an' dat dere rope bein'
twisted round mah body, till it cuts mah ahms an' legs somethin'
scand'lus. I dunno who dey wuz, but dey suttinly wuz thorough," Slim
admitted.
"Then you didn't hear anything?" Whitey demanded.
"Heah? I couldn't 'a' heard a elephant cough," Slim declared.
"Well, Whiff and String Beans and Ham just rode away," said Whitey.
"Dey did?" said Slim. Then an awful thought came to him, and he jumped
to his feet. "Wheah's mah watch?" he cried. He hastily fumbled under the
bedclothes, and brought to light an enormous, old-fashioned silver
watch. Then he heaved a sigh of relief. "An' dat Ham gone, too! Now,
how'm I goin' t' cook, wid dat misery wuss'n evah?"
It was very plain to Whitey that all Slim could think about the affair
was the way it concerned him personally. Also, there was no doubt in the
boy's mind that the absent men were bent on mischief. Bill and the other
cowboys were surely making a night of it at the Junction, in celebration
of the gold shipment. Whatever was to be done in the matter Whitey and
Injun would have to do. By this time Slim was busily rubbing some horse
liniment on his arms and legs.
"Injun and I will see what's to be done. You might as well go to sleep,"
Whitey said to him.
"Sleep! Ah couldn't sleep in Mistah Vanderbilt's bed."
"Well, stay awake, then," said Whitey, as he left the bunk house,
followed by Injun.
In spite of Injun's belief that the men had not been in the ranch house,
the boys took a look around, but nothing had been disturbed. Then, as
they dressed, they talked things over. Whitey was not sorry that Bill
Jordan was away. While not one to think ill of people, Whitey always had
believed that String and Ham were queer, and the affairs of the night
seemed to point to the truth of this. If Whitey could learn what sort of
mischief the men were up to, it would be a feather in his cap, and it
would give him great satisfaction to say "I told you so" to Bill, who
always was so sure of himself. And if he and Injun could prevent the
others from committing that same mischief, the boys would be something
like heroes.
As Whitey and Injun talked the matter over, Whitey reviewed what took
place the night he overheard the whispered conversation in the bunk
house.
"They talked about the mine," he said to Injun, "and about meeting on a
certain date. What day of the month is it?" he asked.
By a miracle Injun happened to know the date, for John Big Moose had
told him the day in September on which the ore was to be shipped, so
Injun answered briefly, "Him thirty."
"That was the date!" cried Whitey. "They said the thirtieth of
September." Other scraps of the men's whispered talk began to come to
Whitey's mind, and to have meaning. "They were to meet on that date, and
they did. That's what String Beans was loafing around here for,
pretending to be lame. And they rode south. Don't you see?"
"Don't see nothin'," Injun answered.
"Why," Whitey declared, jumping to his feet, "they've gone toward the
railroad; toward the water tank, where all the trains stop. I believe
they're going to hold up the gold shipment. Come on, Injun, let's get
busy."