UNREST
The second and last week of the threshing at the Hanley Ranch was well
on its way, and nothing had occurred to break the routine of hard work
in the daytime and nights spent in a tent, in an atmosphere laden with
tobacco smoke and the yarns of rough men.
The boys had not succeeded in confirming their suspicions against Henry
Dorgan, and if Dorgan felt any resentment against them, or against the
old cowpuncher who had defended them, he failed to show it.
Whitey now discovered a new trait in his friend Injun--persistence.
Injun was very determined in his efforts to get something on Dorgan. He
had made up his mind that Dorgan had stolen Monty, and his mind was not
like a bed that could be unmade easier than it could be made up. At
first Whitey thought that this was a phase of the Indian's well-known
desire for vengeance, but Injun didn't seem to be vindictive in the
matter. He didn't even mention Dorgan's attempt to put him out of the
tent. Whitey was interested in this trait of Injun's and liked him the
more for it. If Injun was a stick-to-itive fellow, so was Whitey. He
would show Bill Jordan that he couldn't make a fool of him and get away
with it.
And finally, as a reward of perseverance, Injun did get something on
Dorgan, though it didn't amount to much. Injun averred, and it may have
been true, that Monty had a deadly fascination for Dorgan; that when
Monty was around, Dorgan couldn't keep his eyes off him. And Injun said
that he saw Dorgan approach Monty in the corral, probably to admire him
more closely, and that Monty showed great hatred for Dorgan; laid back
his ears and bit and kicked at Dorgan.
"Him no like um. Him must know um," declared Injun, being firmly
convinced that Monty's actions indicated a close acquaintance with
Dorgan.
However, Monty couldn't give any spoken evidence that Dorgan had stolen
him, so there the matter rested. And there was something else to occupy
the boys' minds. There seemed to be a vague feeling of unrest at the
ranch. There always had been bad blood between Gil Steele and the
workers. He not only was a hard taskmaster, getting the last ounce of
work out of the men, but he was close in money matters, and had all
sorts of fines and penalties he imposed when the men were late or
neglected their work. There was continual wrangling and haggling.
With this sort of thing on the surface you will understand that it would
be easy to stir up more serious trouble from underneath, and something
of the sort was going on. It was something Whitey couldn't put his hand
on, but he could read it in signs shown by some of the men. And there
were mysterious meetings and gatherings of the disaffected ones.
Of course, Injun was quick to sense all this, and had no scruples about
butting in and finding out all about the trouble. As bad examples are as
catching as good ones, and more so, Whitey joined Injun in his
investigations. So behold! A dark night on the prairie. A tent showing
only a streak of yellow light where the opening folds did not quite
meet. Two boys lying on their stomachs near the edge of the tent,
industriously listening.
This was not their own tent. There seemed to be few grumblers in that.
It was the tent in which Henry Dorgan was housed. And listen as they
might, and sharp as Injun's ears were, they heard nothing definite. Just
murmurs, an occasional oath or two, and what might have been threats, in
louder tones. It was very discouraging. So at last they returned to
their own tent, to the yarn-spinning threshers and the silent old
cowpuncher.
Whitey soon gave up this form of effort, but Injun did not; possibly
because Dorgan was in the other tent. Friday night came, almost the last
of the threshing. Injun was absent on his eavesdropping quest, which so
far had yielded nothing. The men in Whitey's tent were merrier than
usual and, it must be admitted, more profane. Then along came bad luck,
in the person of Mrs. Gilbert Steele.
Mrs. Steele, you must know, was one of these motherly women who didn't
have anything to mother. She was stout, round-faced, good-natured, and
industrious; quite the opposite to her rather cold-blooded husband. And
this matter of her not having anything to mother was responsible for
many things, as you shall learn. Threshing-time was rush time with her.
She had few chances to think of anything except food, but this night she
happened to have a little leisure, and had devoted it to consideration
of Whitey. "That poor boy out in that tent with all those rough men. Why
didn't I think of him before?"
So Mrs. Steele had waddled out to the tent, and had arrived at a moment
when there was a particularly strong outburst of profanity on the part
of one of the rough men. Though this was nipped in the bud as Mrs.
Steele entered the tent, it caused her to reproach herself more bitterly
than before. She promptly took Whitey under her wing and told him that,
crowded as the ranch house was, a place there should be found for him to
sleep.
Whitey was greatly taken aback. Of course he didn't want to go. He
thought it made him look foolish in the eyes of the men, and it did. He
thought he might get out of it by explaining to Mrs. Steele, and he
didn't. Perhaps that lady believed that Injun's morals were swear-proof,
or that he didn't have any, for she didn't mention him. And to crown
Whitey's annoyance and chagrin, just as he was being led away to the
darned old house Injun appeared. And his face was lighted up--for
Injun's. And his eyes were shining with an unholy light. For he had
heard something!
There would have been another story to tell if Injun had acted
differently. But in the first place he was an Indian, and it was not in
his blood to follow any fat white woman and rescue a boy from her
clutches. In the next place he was Injun; he had his own personality. We
Caucasians are apt to think that because the red and yellow people look
pretty much alike, they all are alike. Then when we come to know them,
and find that they have as many differences as we have, we are rather
surprised. This may be conceited of us, but it is natural. You probably
know by now that Injun was a very independent person. So he started off
to take charge of affairs himself.
Meanwhile Whitey, feeling much like a fool, and possibly looking like
one had there been light enough to see, was being led to the ranch
house. Arrived there and seated in the living-room, motherly Mrs. Steele
apologized for not thinking of him before, and surrounding him with all
the comforts of home, away from those vulgar men. She was inclined to be
proud of herself for having done so at this late hour. Had she known
what Whitey was thinking about the comforts of home and about her, she
would not have been so proud.
For a while she entertained Whitey by talking about New York, which she
had visited ten years before, when on her honeymoon. She was surprised
to learn that Whitey had not even heard of any of the people she had met
there, he having been born in New York and having lived there the first
fourteen years of his life. Well, well; it was a queer world, anyway.
Perhaps you will get the best idea of how unhappy Whitey was by
imagining yourself in the same position.
In his misery Whitey formed vague plans for escape. Then a new horror
awaited him. He was to sleep in the Steeles' bedroom, in a cot at the
foot of their bed! In vain he protested that the living-room floor was
good enough for him. Mrs. Steele wouldn't hear of it. So he was shown
into the bedroom, and when he was undressed and clothed in one of Gil
Steele's long white night-shirts, Mrs. Steele returned and took his
clothes away to brush them!
Whitey's cup of bitterness was full. This was a fine position for a hero
to be in. He tried the sour-grapes idea: perhaps Injun hadn't learned
anything that amounted to anything, after all. But that didn't work.
There were no two ways about it, he was an abused being. By golly, this
was worse than school! But after working hard all day in the hot sun,
even an abused being will get sleepy. So at last the curtain of sleep
fell on Whitey; of dreamless sleep--perhaps he was too mad to dream.