ON THE WAY
The train carrying Whitey and his father sped across the continent at an average speed of perhaps fifty miles an hour, but it seemed to Whitey that it crawled along at a snail's pace after it had crossed the Mississippi. The first day, and most of the second, were novelties; new scenes presented themselves continually and Whitey kept his face glued to the window. But after that the monotony of the thing became tiresome even to so wide-awake a boy as Whitey.
Of course, as they came into the great prairies and away from "civilization," the chance of encountering train-robbers lent an added zest to things; but as time went on and no train-robbers appeared, Whitey gradually came to the conclusion that the train-robbing business was not all it had been cracked up to be, and that maybe the Daltons and the James Boys and the rest of the bandits had retired. Which, perhaps, was fortunate for them, as it will be remembered that Whitey had the pearl-handled .22 in his hip-pocket! He should worry about train-robbers!
Whitey was completely staggered at the size of his own country. He had no idea it was so large; distances, on the map, had seemed insignificant, but when traveled, became prodigious. And long before he got to his destination Whitey had come to the conclusion that this is the greatest country on earth—as indeed it is!
Mr. Sherwood told him the story of the foreigner who started from New York for San Francisco. When the train got to Chicago, the foreigner asked of the porter, "Aren't we there yet?"
"Nossah," said the porter, "not yet!"
Every morning, for three mornings, he asked the same question, and received the same answer.
When they finally got to San Francisco, after about five days, the foreigner said, "They make an awful fuss about Columbus having discovered America—I don't see how he could have missed it!"
In order to get to the ranch, it had been necessary to leave the main line at a junction, and take a branch road up into the northern part of Montana. Traveling in this train was slightly different from what they had enjoyed in the luxurious Pullman, but Whitey felt that they were now near their journey's end, and he didn't mind the inconvenience of the combination baggage and passenger coach which was the only one on the "train."
Whitey and his father alighted on a small platform, in the early hours of the morning, and the prospect seemed dismal enough. There were only a few people in sight, and it was cold and raw. Even in summer, at a high altitude, such as in the foot-hills of the Rockies, the early morning is cold.
As they looked about them, a tall, and very sunbrowned man approached and said, "I reckon you must be Mr. Sherwood?" and on being assured that such was the case, the tall man introduced himself: "I'm Bill Jordan, the foreman of the Granville ranch. Your telegram was a mite delayed, but I managed to get here with a wagon to meet the train. You an' this youngster has a pretty long drive ahead, an' I'd suggest yo' all better get a hot cup o' coffee an' some eggs over to the shack 'cross the road before yo' all starts." This was most agreeable to both Whitey and his father, and they proceeded to the shack for breakfast.
It must be acknowledged that what they called "breakfast," was not much like what Whitey used to get at home. The room was low and dingy, and the dishes were thick and cracked, and a big man who acted as waiter, seemed to "deal" the plates from his arm. But "hunger is the best sauce," and Whitey managed to consume everything that was set before him, while his father and Jordan talked about the ranch.
Whitey liked the big man the moment he saw him. He had a firm and rather cold face, but a very kindly one when he smiled. His manner toward every one was reserved. It was evident that the other men all deferred to him. He did as little talking as possible, and his eyes seemed to be taking in everything. He always thought for some time before he expressed an opinion; but when he did venture one, it carried conviction with it. And what meant more than anything else to Whitey, was the fact that he took a good deal of notice of him, asking him one or two questions about New York, and telling Whitey that there were lots of horses on the ranch for him to ride.
When they came out of the shack, Whitey got his first look at an Indian, except those that he had seen in the Wild West shows. His shoulders were covered with a very dirty blanket, his trousers were much too long and were crumpled about his ankles and under his bare feet at the heels. Altogether, he was not an impressive figure. He stood near the wagon while their baggage was being loaded into it, and watching his opportunity, approached Mr. Sherwood. But whatever the Indian intended to do was nipped in the bud, for Bill Jordan came back a little unexpectedly. "Beat it!" said Jordan, and the Indian ducked away hastily, just in time to escape most of the kick that Jordan aimed at him.
This was most astonishing to Whitey. The Indian did not conduct himself in the way that might be expected from the books that Whitey had read, and as "the proud Red Man of lofty mien and bearing," this Indian was a most dismal failure. According to all the authorities, he should have said to Jordan, drawing himself to his full height, "Dog of a Paleface, an insult to Rain-in-the-Neck can be wiped out only in blood! Let the White Man tremble before the vengeance of the Chief of The Wallawalloos!"
But nothing like that happened, at all. No full height; no dignity of folded arms and proud and awful threat of terrible vengeance. The Indian just "beat it!" And half way across the platform, he stopped and scratched himself. It was all wrong! All wrong!
In a few moments, everything was in readiness and they entered the wagon, Jordan taking Whitey on the seat with him. They sped over the ground at a fast and steady gait that put the miles behind surprisingly. And Whitey had many questions to ask about the various interesting things they saw, which Jordan answered cheerfully.
Whitey could not get the Indian out of his mind. "Are all the Indians out here like that one?" he asked, after a while.
"Well, no," said Jordan, "not all of 'em. That feller evidently don't b'long up here; he's prob'ly from the Southwest an' ain't nuthin' but a sort of a hobo. He's jest a sample of the kind that hangs 'round towns. An Indian h'aint no business in a town—he belongs in the open. He h'aint no more business bein' in a town ner an eagle has bein' in a cage—both on 'em is plumb ruint by it. Now, the's some Indians up North fu'ther," Jordan went on, after a pause, "that's quite consider'ble men—'twouldn't be safe exac'ly, to kick none of 'em, 'less you wanted a fight. But they keeps to theirselves—'way from town." Whitey's fallen hopes in the noble Red Man revived a little at this.
"Do those fellows give you any trouble now?" asked Mr. Sherwood. "I mean the Indians that gave Mr. Granville so much trouble some years ago."
"Not lately," said Jordan, and his grim face set hard. "We give 'em quite consider'ble of a lesson, one time. They was a bunch o' Dakotas wanderin' 'round, an' they sure played hob with the cattle, fer a spell. The' was some Greasers among 'em, too; but we give a few neck-tie parties an' they kind o' got discouraged."
"What is a neck-tie party, Mr. Jordan?" asked Whitey.
"Well," said Jordan, smiling, "the way o' playin' the game is like this: you take a man—gener'ly a Greaser—an' tie his hands behind him an' set him onto a horse. Then you make a slip-knot in a rope, or a lariat, an' you put it 'round the Greaser's neck an' throw the other end over the limb of a tree, an' two or three o' the boys takes a holt of it. Then, if somebody happens to hit the horse a slap—well, most gener'ly the neck-tie fits sort o' snug!"
"Why, that's hanging a man!" exclaimed Whitey, all excitement.
"Some calls it that," said Jordan, dryly. "I guess it 'mounts to 'bout the same thing—fer the man! But, y' see, this way, it's gener'ly a kind of a accident—somebody jes' happens to slap the horse, or mebbe the horse is res'less an' moves hisself. Then th' ain't nobody to blame!"
"Gee!" said Whitey, "I'd like to see one of those parties!"
"Well, I dunno," said Jordan, soberly, "they ain't altogether such all-fired pleasant an' sociable affairs as y' might think. I hope I've seen the last one—in these parts." And Jordan didn't speak again for some time.
Whitey figured that, after all, maybe all the Indians wouldn't stay tame and dispirited, and that maybe there would be "something doing," before the summer was over.