FISH-HOOKS AND HOOKY
After breakfast the next morning when Injun and Whitey came out of the
ranch house, Whitey was heavy-hearted. The thought of going to that
school at the Forks was the cause of his depression. It was like some
sort of penalty one must pay for being a boy. Injun was to escort Whitey
to the school, as an act of friendship--as one might go to another's
funeral.
Sitting Bull was sleeping peaceably on the veranda. Sitting Bull had no
regard for the man who said that "early to bed and early to rise makes a
man healthy and wealthy and wise," or he never had heard of him. Sitting
Bull always slept late. There were other rules that boys must follow to
which Bull paid no attention. He did not chew his food carefully, as
every one knows that boys should. There were times when Whitey envied
Bull, and this first day of school was one of them.
But when the boys started for the corral to get their ponies, Bull
roused himself and expressed a wish to go with them. He had a mistaken
idea that he could keep up with the horses for nine miles, and it was
with some difficulty that Whitey got him to give it up.
"He don't know what he's missing," Whitey said sadly, as he and Injun
turned from the disappointed Bull and walked reluctantly to the corral.
It was a beautiful day, too. Did you ever notice that the first day of
school always is beautiful? Injun and Whitey's ponies made short work of
the nine miles of road that skirted the foothills and led to the Forks,
the spirited animals seeming to drink in the bracing morning air that
swept down from the mountains as though it were a tonic, which indeed it
was.
The Forks was a spot at which a road that led down from the mountains
joined the road to the Junction. The mountain road was little more than
a trail, seldom traveled, and almost overgrown with grass, and where it
joined the other stood the shack which was used as a schoolhouse. This
shack had been built by some early homeseeker, who had long ago
abandoned it to seek other pastures. It was old and discouraged-looking,
and patched in spots with pieces of tin and boards. As a temple of
learning it was not an inviting-looking place.
The pupils evidently had assembled in the shack, for tied in the shelter
of some maples near by were four cayuses and two weary-looking mules.
There were eight scholars, as Whitey knew, so he guessed that the mules
carried double. Injun seemed much more cheerful on this occasion than
Whitey, who dismounted and tied Monty near the other animals. Then,
before entering for the sacrifice, he tiptoed over to the shack and
peeped into the window. He tiptoed back to where Injun sat calmly on his
pinto. There was a look of horror on Whitey's face.
"Girls!" he whispered.
Bill Jordan had not told Whitey that some of Miss Adams's pupils were of
the fair sex. He had left that as a pleasant surprise. And there were
just two things in life that Whitey was mortally afraid of--one was
girls and the other was school.
Some persons regard the Indians as a cruel and heartless race. I do not
hold with this opinion, but I am bound to state what Whitey's friend
Injun did now. He grinned--actually grinned. Whitey gave him a sad,
reproachful look, and with his package of lunch under his arm, slouched
into the schoolhouse.
It is needless to follow Whitey into this seat of learning. If this were
a record of the torments and horrors he underwent during his boyhood
days, it might be well to describe this period at length. But suffice it
to say that Jennie Adams, the teacher, was a young woman who, if given a
little time to think, could tell you, without using a paper or pencil,
how much six pounds of butter would cost at twelve cents a pound. Also,
that the girl pupils, of whom there were four,--those who rode the mules
double,--had a habit of tittering, also of leaning over close to each
and making whispered remarks about Whitey.
A week of this did not add to Whitey's thirst for knowledge, which was
not very strong at best, and it was just a week from this first day
that he was again riding toward the schoolhouse, and something
happened. It was another bright morning, and Whitey had reached a spot
where the road branched up into the foothills to avoid a marsh, when he
noticed signs of excitement in his pony, Monty. These signs would have
been stronger had the wind been blowing the other way, and had Monty's
nose made him aware of the exact danger that lurked near. As it was, his
ears, which were much keener than Whitey's, caught sounds of some
disturbing presence, and Whitey had difficulty in keeping him in the
road.
At a sharp turn, Whitey and Monty were greeted by a roar that was deeper
than that of any automobile horn you ever heard, a roar that had menace
behind it, and that came from a large brown bear which had risen on its
hind legs and was advancing into the road with both front paws extended
wide, as though with the intent of embracing both Whitey and Monty.
[Illustration: ADVANCING INTO THE ROAD WITH BOTH FRONT PAWS EXTENDED]
Monty did not wait for any guiding rein to turn him. He wheeled on a
space about as big as a cigar-box, and hit the trail for home, and for
some time he and Whitey gave a fair imitation of a runaway train on a
down grade. All Whitey could do was to lie low on Monty's neck, digging
his moccasins into Monty's ribs, for fear he would change his
mind--which he didn't.
And neither Whitey nor Monty knew that that roar came from a mother
bear, and that back of the bear was a small cub, with a round, funny
little stomach, industriously combing the bushes for berries, and
regarding life as one round of pleasure. There was no need for them to
know that. Whitey had had experiences with bears, as you may remember.
If wireless had been invented, he might possibly have been willing to
use it as a means of introduction, but in no way he could think of at
the moment was he willing to meet a bear on its native heath.
That settled it. No school that day. Couldn't expect a fellow to go to
school when he had to run into bears on the trail. What was an old bear
doing near the ranch, anyhow? Didn't seem right. When Monty had toned
down his headlong trip away from that bear, or thought he was at a safe
distance, Whitey found himself near the river, and idly turned Monty
toward its banks. Might as well take a little ride. Fellow didn't learn
much at that school, anyway. And so, after the ways of boys and men,
Whitey made excuses for not doing what he didn't want to do.
With his mind somewhat at ease, Monty ambled along the shore of the
Yellowstone, with Whitey enjoying the scenery as much as his conscience
would let him, and his conscience getting weaker every minute. And
presently, at some distance, he saw a small huddled-up figure sitting on
the bank. Closer inspection proved this figure to be pink, and still
closer inspection revealed it to be Injun. Wondering what Injun was
doing in that neighborhood, Whitey approached, and was surprised to find
that Injun was fishing.
Knowing that Indians never fish except through necessity, Whitey was
puzzled. As he drew nearer, Injun turned and regarded him, betraying no
surprise at Whitey's being there; at his not being in school. Whitey
dismounted and sat near his friend.
"What are you fishing for, Injun?" he asked.
"Fish," Injun replied seriously.
"Of course," said Whitey. "I mean what do you want to catch the fish
for?"
"Gum," spoke Injun briefly.
"Gum?" demanded the bewildered Whitey. "You can't make gum out of fish."
Injun said nothing at all. Whitey thought that perhaps he had a bite,
but he hadn't. He just didn't ooze information. It had to be dragged
from him. So Whitey proceeded.
"Please explain about this fishing for gum," he said politely.
"Gum him chew," Injun replied.
"Oh, chewing-gum!" cried Whitey. A light dawned on him, for he knew that
Injun was very fond of chewing-gum. So was Whitey. "You trade the fish
for gum."
"No trade; sell 'em; get much gum."
This was the first commercial instinct that Whitey had ever known Injun
to show, and he looked at him admiringly. At that moment Injun got a
bite. He did not betray any of the excitement a white boy does on such
an occasion. He solemnly pulled in his line, and when it was almost in,
a good-sized pickerel squirmed off the hook, and flopped back into the
water. And now Injun showed no disappointment. He seriously examined the
worm on his hook, to see that it was intact, then cast the line into the
river again.
Whitey watched him in silence. Injun got another bite, and the same
operation was repeated, except that the fish that escaped was larger
than the other. Injun patiently rebaited his hook. "Biggest one him get
away," he grunted.
Whitey knew something about fishermen and the stories they tell: that it
is always the biggest fish that escaped. But in this case it seemed to
be true, for strung on a willow twig was Injun's catch, about six small
pickerel.
"How long you been fishing here?" Whitey asked.
"Since sunup."
"And that's all you've caught?" Whitey indicated the string of fish.
"Um."
"Let's see your hook," Whitey said, as another pickerel was pulled
almost to shore, and then flopped back into its native element.
When Injun displayed the hook, Whitey saw that it was one of the little
ones they had used in fastening the tick-tack to Wong's window. "Why,
this is too small for pickerel," exclaimed Whitey. "It's for perch. You
ought to have a bigger one."
"Yes, me know," said Injun.
Again Whitey was impressed by Injun's patience. There he had sat for
several hours, watching those big fish return to the Yellowstone and
safety. Whitey knew that he never could have stood it. Finally he
questioned him.
"If you knew that the big fish would fall off that hook, and that they
are just waiting to be caught, how could you stand just getting the
little ones?" Whitey said. "They're not worth much."
"Mebbe after time big fish him swallow hook, then me get him," answered
Injun, which was a pretty long speech for him, and explained many
matters.
As Whitey sat watching Injun waiting for an accommodating and greedy
pickerel to come along, a great idea was born to him--a fishing
partnership between him and Injun.
And that was why, if Whitey could have been closely watched, one would
have seen him sneaking around the ranch barn every morning, just before
it was time to start for school, and slipping things into his pockets.
And on examination these things would have been seen to be fishing-lines
and hooks of the proper size for pickerel.
And that is why, for about four days a week, Injun and Whitey sat
dangling their feet in the Yellowstone River, catching large flocks of
pickerel, which they peddled to neighboring ranchmen at two bits a
half-dozen. And that is why they were always well supplied with
chewing-gum.
Now, it is not my purpose to defend or excuse this conduct of Injun and
Whitey's, but simply to record it. If you are looking for a moral in
this story, you may find it in what followed on the heels of this
fishing partnership. In the first place, no boy without money may
display things which cost money without attracting attention, followed
by suspicion. Gum costs money, and the chewing of it is a very apparent
action.
Soon Bill Jordan was saying to Jim Walker: "Where d'you s'pose them kids
get all that gum?"
Jim was answering, "Down t' th' Junction."
"But they ain't got no money," Bill was objecting.
Then Buck Higgins was sauntering up and remarking, "Say, Sid Griggs,
over t' th' Diamond Dagger, was tellin' me, t'day, how Injun and Whitey
sells him herds o' fine pick'rul at six bits a throw."
"Why don't they bring some home? When do they ketch them pick'rul?
That's where they get th' cash!" Bill Jordan was exclaiming, in a rather
disconnected manner, thus showing that the putting of two and two
together is fatal to wrongdoers.
Then Bill called on Miss Jennie Adams, at her temple of learning, and
found that Whitey had spent only a week there, and confirmed
his--Bill's--suspicion that school hours had become fishing hours.
Bill Jordan was big and strong enough to lick Whitey, but he felt that
he had not the moral right to do so, and he was greatly puzzled. He
realized that, as you may lead a horse to the water but you can't make
him drink, so you may lead a boy to school but you can't make him study.
Most of Bill's own school hours had been spent in hunting, as he didn't
care for fishing. Thus, if Bill lectured Whitey, the boy could throw
Bill's own ignorance of book-learning in his face.
The more Bill thought over this matter the more undecided he became, and
finally he saddled his horse and rode down to the Junction, and resorted
to what was, for him, a very unusual action. So later in the day Mr.
Sherwood received the following telegram, in his New York office:
Whitey wont learn nothin. Ketches pickrul. What will I do?
William Jordan
You will notice that this message took exactly ten words--which was
evidence of more thinking on Bill's part.
Bill waited patiently at the Junction, and late that night received the
following answer:
Put the boy at such a hard job that he will be glad to resume his
studies.
Sherwood