PIONEER DAYS
Injun and Whitey sat on the veranda of the Bar O Ranch house, with
Sitting Bull between them. One of Whitey's hands rested on the head of
the dog, who leered at him lovingly. Now that Whitey was back, Bull was
so full of contentment that it almost gave him indigestion.
"Injun, do you remember the day Bull came?" Whitey asked. "And how I
said maybe it was a good omen, and there ought to be something doing on
the ranch? Well, there has been something doing--on and off."
"Um," said Injun, looking at Bull, with a gleam of appreciation in his
eye. "Him good med'cine."
Whitey's night ride from the Hanley Ranch had created much favorable
comment in the neighborhood, and Injun had come in for his share of
praise. Some one called them "the rescuing kids." But Whitey found that
being a hero wasn't what it was cracked up to be. When any one praised
him he was inclined to blush, and that made him sore at himself.
But the extraordinary effect of the affair was the change in Gil Steele.
As Bill Jordan said, it had "jarred Gil loose from his meanness." The
result of this jarring was that Gil presented Whitey with the iron-gray
colt, with _a silver-mounted saddle and bridle_. The neighborhood gasped
at that, and gasped again when Gil gave Injun a pair of gold-mounted
six-guns, with an embossed leather cartridge-belt and holsters. You can
imagine the figure Injun cut when decorated with these. And he slept
with them on.
And, pleasing to relate, Gil prospered more when he was generous than he
had when he was mean. In time he became very well off.
Things seemed to be coming Whitey's way, for the school problem was
solved, too. Mr. Sherwood brought this news from the East. John Big
Moose was to return. Not that John had been unsuccessful in the Eastern
college; far from that. He had gained the respect and esteem of the
students. It is true that they called him "Big Chief," but there was
more affection in the nickname than even the boys suspected.
But John was like many another man--and boy--who, when he gets what he
wants, finds that he doesn't want it so much, after all. It was not only
that John longed for the greater reaches and the free life of the West;
he felt a call to return to and to aid his own people. There were plenty
of men to teach in colleges; there were few who could help the Indians
as John could.
And he agreed to direct Injun and Whitey's studies until the time came
for them to go away to school, which would not be long.
So, with Henry Dorgan safely in jail awaiting trial, and a vacation in
prospect, pending John Big Moose's return, something must be done.
Wouldn't do for the boys to sit around twirling their thumbs. They began
to talk about this, or rather Whitey began to talk and Injun to slip in
a grunted word now and then; and suddenly Whitey had an idea.
Often on the plains and in the mountains Whitey had thought of the
pioneer days of the West; thoughts such as the country arouses in the
minds of all boys and of some men. Whitey could close his eyes and
imagine that he saw an old wagon train wending its way across the
prairie, its line of white-topped schooners drawn by drooping, tired
horses, its outriding guard of scouts, clad in buckskin, alert,
keen-eyed, each with a long rifle resting in the hollow of his arm. Or
in the mountains he saw an old, fur-capped trapper crouch behind the
shelter of a boulder, his single-shot, heavy-barreled rifle directed
toward an unconscious, lumbering grizzly, the trapper's life hanging on
the accuracy of his one shot. Yes, like all boys Whitey was full of
these dreams.
"Injun, we'll take a pioneer hunting trip!" he cried.
It took a little time to explain this matter to Injun, but when it was
explained Injun was keen for the plan, too, for his being Injun didn't
make him different from any other boy at heart. He was to take his bow
and arrows. Whitey would borrow an old-fashioned Springfield rifle, that
belonged to his father. There would be no Winchester repeaters, nor
trout rods with multiplying reels, nor any of the modern weapons for
slaying game or fish. It would be a sort of return to the wild.
And here the first trouble arose with Injun; that of leaving his
six-guns behind. It took some time to coax him to do this; to entrust
them to the safe in the ranch house. But, that done, it was necessary
only to get Mr. Sherwood's permission and to make the preparations. Mr.
Sherwood was not in the ranch house, nor in the bunk house, where Bill
Jordan was starting one of his lengthy yarns. Whitey paused there for a
moment.
"What I don't know about boys a tongue-tied man could tell in half a
second," Bill was saying.
"A tongue-tied man couldn't tell nothin' in half a second," objected
Shorty Palmer.
"That's just what I mean," Bill said. "There ain't nothin' to tell. Now,
'bout a boy bein' civil. You don't often find one, out West here, and
when you do it's mostly accident; mebbe inherited. 'Course you c'n train
a boy t' be p'lite, but you got t' be careful, like in trainin' any
other animal, an' not take th' spunk outa him. Most folks thinks that
when a boy's civil he ain't got nothin' else t' recommend him, but
'tain't allus so. Now, I knowed a boy, onc't--"
But Whitey fled. He could not afford to wait for Bill's story, which
probably would take all the morning. He found his father, overcame that
gentleman's objections to the pioneer hunting trip, and Injun and Whitey
had a busy time gathering the food, weapons, and clothing for their
journey to the mountains, where the simple life was to be led.
It was shortly after noon when they rode away, the men on the ranch
watching, and perhaps each feeling in his heart a little twinge, as
though he'd like to be a kid again, and up to some such boyish prank.
Whitey was on Monty, Injun on his pinto, leading a pack-horse laden with
their few belongings. From the corral the intelligent eyes of the
iron-gray colt regarded them with interest; the colt that was to be
trained for racing, and that Whitey hoped to ride in rodeos.
This country was so full of game that all one had to do was to go a mile
from any town, in any direction, to find it. Prairie chickens were most
prolific; the principal game. They were so plentiful that one could
walk through thousands of them and they would part and allow the hunter
to move among them, without taking wing.
Of course, one never would dream of shooting at a bird unless it was on
the wing. The only time that was excusable was when hunting for
partridges among the trees in the foothills. Usually Injun with his bow
and arrow would take first shot at the partridge as it perched in the
tree branches. If he missed, which he seldom did, Whitey would let go
his shot-gun when the partridge was on the wing. And as Injun seldom
missed, Mr. Partridge lost both ways. But this day the shot-gun was at
home, so Injun bagged all the partridges they needed for food.
The prairie chickens have a peculiar call. First the hens cry, in a
high, treble, "Chuck-luck, chuck-a-luck!" and the male replies, in a
deep, full sound, "Bomb-bombo-boo!"
In that part of the country there was a rather eccentric character named
Charlie Clark. He had been creased on the head by a bullet sometime,
somehow, and he was not exactly all there. And Injun and Whitey used to
interpret the calls of the prairie chicks to:
"Char-lie--Clar-k--Char-lie--Clar-k--Char-lie--Clar-k--" for the hens,
and:
"Darn'd ol-fool--" for the males.
And so the boys went on their merry, heedless way. They expected to camp
in the foothills that night, and had made about ten miles in a leisurely
way, when Injun happened to look back and saw an object approaching them
in an uncertain and wobbly but determined manner. Injun's sharp eyes
soon identified it as Sitting Bull. The boys were first surprised, then
sorry that Bull should have had such a long pursuit, but that did not
keep back Whitey's laughter when Bull staggered up to where they waited
for him. He sure was a happy dog, and fatigue did not keep him from
showing it, his method being to twist his body into almost a
half-circle, wag his stump tail, and prance about gazing delightedly up
at the boys.
As a hunting companion he was a frost. Looking at it in that light, and
after deep consideration, Injun spoke. "Him must go back," he said.
"How?" asked Whitey.
More profound thought, and Injun spoke again. "Me take him," he decided.
"Oh," said Whitey, "and I wait up in the mountains alone. Perhaps you
wouldn't mind sending me daily or hourly reports of Bull's condition
while he is recovering from the fatigue of his journey." Injun didn't
know whether this was sarcasm, or if he was being kidded, and he didn't
care. His was a serious mind that was not easily turned to light
thoughts. "No," said Whitey, "he goes with us, I can't bear to
disappoint him." And perhaps Injun was better satisfied at this
decision, though he did not express himself.
So the journey was resumed. For a time Whitey would carry Bull. When he
tired, Injun would carry Bull awhile. When Injun tired, Bull would
waddle a way. It was a strange way for a dog to go hunting.
As we are soon to part from Injun and Whitey, there is one more thing I
feel that I should tell you about them. In a way I don't like to tell
it, in another way I feel that I ought to tell it and--anyway, I'm
_going_ to tell it and to call it: