THE GOLDEN WEST BOYS
"INJUN" AND "WHITEY"

A Story of Adventure

BY WILLIAM S. HART

ILLUSTRATIONS BY MORRIS H. PANCOAST

BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge

Copyright, 1919, by
WILLIAM S. HART

MADE IN U. S. A.
All Rights Reserved

TO MY BOY FRIENDS

TO MY BOY FRIENDS ALL OVER THE WORLD

The first fifteen years of my life were spent in the Dakota Territory. The great West mothered me during the shaping of my boyhood ambitions and ideals. Therefore, I know by personal experience much of the actual life of our frontier days.

Let me relate a few unusual stories of early environment which will show why a man brought up in the West never forgets its history, traditions and life.

While boys of my age in the East were playing baseball, football and the various school games, I was forced through environment to play the more primitive games of the Indian. I lived on the frontier. White settlers were scarce. Naturally, I had but a few boy companions of my own race. A boy is a boy no matter what race or country; therefore, we played with the Indian youths.

In this way, I learned to ride Indian-style as well as with the saddle; I learned to shoot accurately with rifle or six-gun; I learned to hunt and track with the wisdom of my red friends; and I learned to play the rugged, body-building games of the native Americans, which called for the greatest endurance and best sportsmanship. In short, I was a Western boy.

For instance, we used to sail primitive Indian ice-boats on the upper Missouri river. This sport was the chief joy of my winter days. With our Indian boy friends we would construct the ice-boat in this fashion:

Taking a suitable number of barrel-staves, we lashed them together lengthwise with buck-skin thongs. Thus the staves were raised from the surface both in the front and rear, making a canoe effect. Then a soap box was placed in the middle of the craft. Next we placed a stout pole upright in the front end of the box. To a crosspiece on the pole we lashed a blanket. We were then all ready to go.

When the winter winds hit those rude sails, we traveled so far and so fast in one direction that it would take us all day to walk back home.

During my Dakota boyhood I not only acquired the accomplishments of the West, but I met some of the most famous characters of frontier days—white and red men. In fact, my early days of intimate relationship with the Sioux Indians enabled me to learn their tribal traits and history nearly as well as I know our own. I speak the "silent tongue"—the sign language of the Sioux which, by the way, is understood by all Indian tribes.

In those days the luxuries and even many of the necessities of civilization were denied us in our frontier settlements. My mother brought four children into this world, attended by Sioux squaws because a doctor could not be procured. And, when a vicious rattler nearly ended my career at the age of twelve years, a squaw officiated as the doctor, the nearest physician being engaged in punching cows at a ranch some sixty miles distant. That the Sioux squaw was a good doctor is proven by the fact that I am alive to-day.

I relate these incidents merely to acquaint the public with the West as I knew it.

When Western plays were first tried out on the American stage, I was an actor of considerable experience. Previous to this time in theatrical history I had played many diversified rôles, including those of Shakespeare.

As Cash Hawkins in "The Squaw Man," produced at Wallack's Theatre, New York City, in 1905, it was my good fortune to be able to give the American public a typical Western character. My success in this character opened up a subsequent line of Western rôles for me, the emphatic success of "The Squaw Man" causing the production of many Western plays. Considerable comment was caused by my repeated successes in these characters that I knew as a boy and loved so well. Many persons who were interested in my work marveled at the realism of the interpretations. Their enthusiasm persuaded me that the entire American public loved the West and its traditions when presented with truthfulness—and the boys most of all.

Unfortunately, other sections of the United States had long been deluged with sensational "thrillers" of the West on the melodramatic stage, in dime novels and later in the early motion pictures. Many intelligent people had formed the most weird and distorted ideas of the West from the history of frontier days to the present.

In 1914 Western pictures were, to use the language of the motion-picture producers, "a drug on the market."

Now I loved the themes of these plays. It hurt me to know that what I loved was not appreciated simply because the true West was sacrificed on the altar of sensationalism. Realizing that because of my early associations of the West and my training as an actor combined, I was qualified to rectify many mistakes which were then being made in the production of Western photoplays, I decided to try my luck. To give the American public the benefit of all I knew of the West from experience and training became my one ambition. In turn, I would enjoy the gratification of doing something that I had longed to do all my life. And, naturally, I hoped for increased fame and financial success. My continued success in Western rôles on the stage revealed to me that what the public desired most of motion pictures of the West was consistent realism. Of this fact I was so thoroughly convinced that I was ready to sacrifice my standing on the legitimate stage, purchased by long years of toil and hard knocks, to take a chance with fate.

So I declined a flattering and remunerative offer from a big theatrical firm in New York City and paid my own railroad fare to California. In May, 1914, I started my work in Western pictures as a star at the salary of $75 a week, with no other financial interest of any nature. Such was the status of Western photoplays at that time. Nearly five years have passed since that eventful time in my career. That I have devoted this lengthy period exclusively to the production of Western pictures is the best proof that the American public possesses a love for the West that will endure for all time.

"The Golden West Boys" is my answer to the thousands of letters I have received from the boys—most of them, of course, from America, but many from all points of the compass. My story in verse, "Pinto Ben," and my prose story "The Savage" have been translated and published in the Swedish language. With the war over translations in other languages are to follow.

All Hail the Boys!—I shall never "go broke" as long as I hold their esteem. My next story will continue the "Golden West" Series in which "Injun and Whitey Strike out For Themselves."

"So long, boys—take keer o' yerselves."

Faithfully yours, W. S. H.

CONTENTS

THE GOLDEN WEST BOYS

[CHAPTER I]

NEWS FROM THE WEST

"Hooray! Hooray!" shouted Alan Sherwood,—better known as "Whitey" to the boys in school. "Ooo-lu-lulu-loo-lulu!" he called, making the sound by putting his hand over his mouth and rapidly pulling it away and putting it back. He considered this a very good imitation of an Indian war-whoop.

Mr. Sherwood, "Whitey's" father, had just finished reading aloud a letter from a firm of lawyers in Montana which stated that Uncle Robert Granville, who died some weeks before, had left a will bequeathing his large ranch and everything on it to Mr. Sherwood; and that, as the ranch was a profitable one, it would be necessary for him to come to Montana and either carry on the business or see to its disposal.

"Hooray! Hooray!" yelled "Whitey," executing a very wild dance, and letting out a series of whoops that almost deafened the other members of the family.

"What are you 'hooraying' about?" asked Mr. Sherwood, while his wife and his two small sisters held their hands over their ears. "I hope," said Mr. Sherwood, with a quizzical smile, "it is not because your poor uncle Robert is dead?"

"Why, of course not, Father," said "Whitey," somewhat abashed; "I'm very sorry that Uncle Robert is dead—but—I'm just glad that I'm going out West and can go hunting and be a cowboy, and maybe shoot a few grizzly bears and Indians!"

"Who told you that you were going?" asked his father, pretending to be very serious, but having hard work to keep back a smile.

"Well, I'd just like to see myself staying here if we owned a ranch out West!" said "Whitey," with fine scorn. "I've heard you say, lots of times, that the West is the place for a young man!"

Whitey had just attained the age of fourteen, and Mr. Sherwood had to conceal a smile behind his hand, as he glanced at his wife, who was an interested listener.

"And what do you want to kill Indians for—they never did anything to you, did they?" asked Mr. Sherwood.

"No," said Whitey, hesitating about making such an admission, "I don't know as they ever did anything to me—but everybody kills 'em, don't they? In all the Western books I read, people always kill 'em—'wipe 'em out' is what the scouts call it in the books—make 'em 'bite the dust!' I thought that was the proper thing to do," he said, in defense of his position.

"Well," said Mr. Sherwood, "I think I'd give the matter a little consideration before I started the slaughter. It isn't open season for Indians just now, and besides, if the Indians should happen to hear that you were coming, they might all leave, while there is yet time to escape the White Avenger! And as for the grizzlies—did you ever see a grizzly bear, Son?"

"Sure," said Whitey, disdainfully, "up at the Bronx Zoo. He was a terribly moth-eaten looking affair—no life in him at all! He just went sniffing around and all he cared about was to eat peanuts. And when the keeper went into the cage, he ran like he was scared to death!"

"Maybe he'd act a little different if he were in his native Rockies, and you might not have any peanuts with you," said Mr. Sherwood, shaking his head. "Would you believe it, if I told you that a grizzly can run almost as fast as the fastest horse? And in the brush and over the rough ground, a great deal faster?"

"I'd believe it, if you say so; but it doesn't seem possible," said Whitey, doubtfully. "If he can run that fast, it would make him mighty hard to catch, wouldn't it?" he asked, after some thought.

"It would," laughed Mr. Sherwood, "if he always ran the other way—but he doesn't! Sometimes it's harder to let him go than it is to catch him! Sometimes he runs after you—and then you'd have to 'go some'—as you say."

"If he ever came at me," said Whitey, belligerently, "I'd put a bullet in his heart!"

"Even that doesn't always stop a grizzly, right away," said Mr. Sherwood. "They have very surprising vitality. I think that, for the time being, I'd let the Indians and grizzlies alone—let the poor things live! At any rate, you're not out West, yet, and it may be that I shall decide not to go at all—though I suppose I shall," and Mr. Sherwood proceeded to ponder over the matter. Nevertheless, it was plain to be seen that he, too, felt the call of the mountain and the prairie almost as much as did his son.

Although a prosperous merchant in New York he had spent several years of his early life in the great West; and once a man gets the lure of the wilds in his blood, he is seldom able to shake it off altogether. But he felt that there were too many things to be considered—his business, his family and their welfare and the schooling of his children—to make a hasty decision, pack up, bag and baggage, and leave a comfortable home for a new and untried one.

No one, not even grown-ups, can always do just as he likes. Everybody has obligations to others; and there are many things that we all must forego to fulfill those obligations—as a matter of duty. For duty is, after all, nothing but fulfilling obligations, and the sooner a boy learns this, the sooner he becomes a man!

Alan Sherwood, although he was only fourteen years old, was getting to be a good deal of a man. The nickname "Whitey" had been given him by his companions at school on account of his light blonde hair. He had resented it, at first; but after he found out that he couldn't "lick the whole school,"—although he came pretty near doing it—he gradually became resigned to it, and answered to it readily.

Whitey was large for his age, and was far stronger than the average boy of fifteen or sixteen. This had been brought about by the fact that he had been a weakling up to the time he was seven or eight, and had been humiliated and imposed upon by the other boys until he determined to remedy his physical defects, if hard work and systematic exercise would do it.

He consulted his father and found out that the first thing for an athlete to do was to breathe properly, for "wind" is a most important thing in all contests of strength and endurance.

"No matter how fast a boy can run," said Mr. Sherwood who had been a famous college athlete in his day, "if he hasn't good wind, he won't last in a long race; and even if he is far stronger than his opponent in a boxing or a wrestling bout, he will be beaten by the boy who has good wind."

Whitey began by taking a long, deep breath, as soon as he came out of doors in the morning, and holding it while he walked ten steps; and this he repeated ten times. It made him a little dizzy, at first, but he found that he could soon increase it to twenty and thirty times without discomfort. He was careful to make the increase very gradually, stopping the deep breathing as soon as he felt the slightest dizziness.

Then he began to take up systematic and regular running, jogging around the block at a slow pace, and slowing down to a walk as soon as he felt his heart beating fast. He soon found that he could negotiate this without breathing hard, and then he began to increase the distance. He had been assured by his father that many boys, and men, too, who think they are training are really hurting themselves by over-doing it, and are surprised to find that they do not get into condition, being ignorant of the fact that moderation is the basis of all success.

Mr. Sherwood pointed out to Whitey that shrewd baseball managers do not allow their men to exert themselves to the utmost in the early days of spring training, but compel them to "lob 'em over" until their arm-muscles become flexible. And they will not allow a player to run bases at top speed for fear that he may strain a tendon in his leg and impair his speed for a large part of the playing season.

"It is a hard thing for a young and ambitious athlete to keep himself in check when he is brimming over with health and strength and enthusiasm," said Mr. Sherwood, "but it is the real way to train. Many a young athlete ruins his chances for future success by going at it too violently at first."

Of course, there were many other things that Mr. Sherwood showed Whitey, one of the most important being regular hours—regular hours for sleep and for play; in short, to be systematic. And another thing of great importance was cleanliness—both of mind and body—for no boy or man can, or ever did, become a really great athlete without the aid of both of these.

And as for smoking—"Well," said Mr. Sherwood, "I can't say that there is anything really wrong about a man smoking, but for a boy to smoke means that he is willing to sacrifice almost everything to that. It not only is apt to stunt his growth, but one cigarette may destroy all the good effects of a week's training. And not only that, it affects the eye and the nerves—takes away accuracy from the eye, and makes the hand unsteady. I don't believe it pays—I don't believe there is enough fun in smoking to make up for what it costs a boy in a physical way, even if there were no other reasons."

And so Whitey really went into training without seeming to have done so—any boy can do it; he doesn't need any dumb-bells or gymnasium apparatus—and the result was, that by the time he was thirteen, he was the strongest boy in the school; and what is more important, he had learned to control himself. He wasn't nearly so anxious to fight as he had been, although, when he did get into a fight, he was able to render a good account of himself. It is always found that the boy who really can fight isn't nearly so quarrelsome as the one who is always ready to start a fight—and let some other fellow finish it!

Long after Whitey had gone to bed, and was dreaming of picking up a grizzly bear by the hind leg and knocking down eleven Indians with him, Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood sat debating the pros and cons of going to Montana. And it was finally decided that before moving their home to the West, Mr. Sherwood should go out to the ranch and learn what the conditions were and whether it was a suitable place to bring his family. And what is more interesting, it was finally agreed that Whitey was to go with him, although this arrangement was not made without some protest from Mrs. Sherwood, who had a mother's natural solicitude for her boy. But Mr. Sherwood said, with a smile and a shake of the head, that he was not at all fearful about Whitey—"It's the poor Indians and grizzlies I'm sorry for!"

[CHAPTER II]

PREPARATIONS

The next few days were busy ones for Whitey and his friends. It was vacation time, and as soon as Whitey had the "honest-to-goodness" assurance that he was "really and truly" going out West, he lost no time in communicating the news to all the boys. He found Tom Johnson at breakfast; but after Tom had heard the news, he had no further appetite, and went with Whitey over to the home of George and Bobby Smith, and the four boys went out to talk over the matter. Whitey's equipment was a matter for much consideration.

"Gee!" said Tom, "you'll need a revolver—Colt's forty-five is what all the cowboys use—an' the sheriffs, too. An' a Winchester rifle."

"Yes," said George, "an' 'f I was you, I'd take a lot o' fishin'-tackle and rods an' reels an' things. You bet there's fish out there in Montana—I've heard the fish are so thick in some river out there that you can walk in an' ketch 'em with your hands!"

"I guess you're thinking of the Columbia River salmon—that ain't in Montana," said Whitey, who was up in geography.

"Well," said George, unconvinced, "it's right out there in the West, some place—mebbe you could tramp over there some afternoon. I know I would 'f I was out there!"

"Well, I'll tell you what I'd do," chimed in Bobby, excitedly, "'f I was you, the first thing I got would be a big felt hat an' some cowboy clothes! If you don't they all call you a "tenderfoot," an' they'll make you do a dance by shootin' at your feet! I've seen 'em do it in the movies lots o' times." Bobby was aged six, but he had advanced ideas and experience, too. "An' you're going to want a saddle an' a lariat an' a good pair o' snow-shoes—it snows fierce out there in Montana an' Alaska an' all those places—'tain't safe to go any place without snow-shoes! A blizzard is liable to come up any old time!"

The wisdom of all this was readily admitted; and after a list had been carefully prepared, the four boys went to a big sporting-goods store and submitted it, and asked to see the various articles. The clerk looked the list over and got out the various things it called for, which included everything from a baseball—which Tom said "might come in handy"—to snow-shoes. Each of the boys handled and carefully inspected each article and approved it. Whitey had looked at some woodman's hatchets, but Bobby suggested that Whitey could take a tomahawk away from the first Indian he killed and thus save expense.

"How much would all that come to?" asked Whitey, a little apprehensively.

The clerk figured it up. "One hundred and sixty-eight dollars and forty cents," he said cheerfully.

A hurried audit of the finances of the party revealed the fact that the cash capital on hand amounted to two thirty-six!

"Just send them up to the house," said Whitey, loftily, and he gave the name and the address. One of the proprietors stood near and listened smilingly to the whole transaction; and when the boys had gone, he went to the telephone.

Mr. Sherwood, in his office, picked up the receiver, and a familiar voice came over the wire: "Hello, Sherwood! This is Robertson. Your boy was just in here with some friends and bought out the store! He's evidently going out West—with a vengeance!"

"Is that so?" laughed Mr. Sherwood. "What did he buy?"

"I can tell you what he didn't buy easier than what he did! The bill amounts to one hundred and sixty-eight, forty. What do you want me to do?—he said to send the stuff up to the house!" and Robertson laughed the good-natured laugh of a man who appreciates boys.

"Great Jehosaphat!" said Mr. Sherwood. "What kind of a selection did he make?"

"Well," answered Mr. Robertson, "it isn't altogether bad, but of course, he's got a lot of things that he won't need at all. It's June, and he has selected an elegant pair of snow-shoes!"

"My, my!" exclaimed Mr. Sherwood. "Can you beat it?"

"Yes," answered Mr. Robertson, "I think I can. He had expert advice from the three youngsters who were with him and it was more or less a consultation purchase. One of the kids assured him that it was the next thing to suicide to go around Butte, Montana, without a compass! Said a man might get into Butte and wander 'round and 'round in a circle and never get anywhere, if he didn't have a compass! Ha, ha! I guess that beats the snow-shoes, doesn't it?"

"I'll have to admit that it does!" laughed Mr. Sherwood. "Any other freak stuff?"

"Well," laughed Mr. Robertson, "I wish you'd run over here and take a look at it! Or, if you say so, I'll send it all up to the house and you can return anything you don't want him to have. It is certainly surprising how much those kids know about the West, at that. I suppose they get it from the movies—the outfit wouldn't be bad for a man, but I know you don't want that kid of yours to have some of the things. There's a Colt forty-five and a 'scalping-knife', the boys called it, a foot long, among other things."

"I'm not really surprised," laughed Mr. Sherwood. "The minute Alan heard the news about the ranch, he declared war on Indians and grizzlies! Don't bother to send the stuff up to the house—I'll bring the boy in and buy some stuff before I go. Thanks for calling me up! I need a few things, myself, but they are strictly in the line of peace."

That evening, after dinner, Mr. Sherwood said, good-naturedly, "Mr. Robertson tells me that you made a few purchases to-day, Son?"

"Yes," answered Whitey, "but they haven't come. I've been looking for them all afternoon—I guess something's the matter."

"Have you got the list of the things you ordered?" asked his father. "I'd like to look at it—maybe I can make some suggestions—possibly you didn't get enough?" and Mr. Sherwood repressed a smile.

"Oh, yes! I guess I got about everything I wanted. Tom and George and Bobby were with me, and the things I didn't think of they did. It only came to one hundred and sixty-eight dollars, and you know I've got more than two hundred in the savings bank." And Whitey showed the list to his father.

Mr. Sherwood examined it with a good deal of interest. "Well," he said, "this shows that you have been thinking the matter over and getting prepared—which is all right. But I don't believe I'd carry all these things out there, if I were you. They can be bought there just as well, and many of them are unnecessary. It's summer now, and I don't think you'll need any snow-shoes just yet, and as for rifle and revolver, I'm not sure that I ought to buy you anything in that line until you know something more than you do about handling them. We'll see to that after we get out there."

"Do you mean to say that there are stores—regular stores—out there in Montana?" asked Whitey, in astonishment.

"Oh, yes," smiled Mr. Sherwood, "some very fine ones—you can buy about anything there that you can here. And as for those 'cowboy clothes,' I think a couple of good suits of corduroy would be better—the big felt hat is all right—after you get used to it. I'll get you everything you need, though I'd like to have you suggest things for me to get and I'll tell you whether you should have them. It is well for a boy to study out those things for himself, and then take advice of some one who knows as to the things he really needs.

"On a man's first trip into the West, he almost always takes a lot of stuff that is of no value to him, and might better be left at home. But, there is such a thing as not taking enough, and we'll be careful to avoid that."

Then he added, "And another thing, Son—you won't find that there is as much difference between New York and Montana as you think. You mustn't get the idea that people out there are altogether savages, and that Indians and 'bad men' go around shooting up people every day. Of course, there is a little of that sort of thing, even now; but I believe there are more people murdered in New York City every year than in all the states west of the Mississippi put together. I may be wrong, but I think not."

Whitey looked much disappointed, and his father laughed as he saw his rueful face. "You'll see plenty of adventure—don't worry about that! But you'll find people a good deal the same as they are here."

"Don't the Indians put on war-paint and feathers and have a war-dance and scalp the pale-faces—and things like that?" asked Whitey, reluctant to give up all his cherished traditions.

"Well, not exactly," said Mr. Sherwood, smiling. "The sheriff won't let 'em. He just locks 'em up until they get sober, and then puts 'em to work on the rock-pile."

This seemed to take a good deal of enchantment out of things, and Mr. Sherwood added, "I am speaking, of course, of where we are going. There are many places where the Indians have to be watched and reckoned with; but you won't be very likely to get into those places."

Out on the front steps, later in the evening, Whitey and the boys held a consultation, and the sad news about the gun and the revolver was received with much apprehension and shaking of heads.

"Gee!" said Tom, "I'd certainly hate to be out West among those bears an' panthers an' cowboys an' Indians without a gun!"

"We'll simply haf' to get Whitey one—somehow!" said George who was much concerned. "'Tain't safe for a man out there 'thout he's heeled! Mebbe," he continued, after some thought, "if Whitey ain't goin' till next week we can manage it—somehow!"

Bobby, the youngest boy of the lot, was as much alarmed about Whitey's safety as anybody, but he said nothing. However, he gave the matter deep and even prayerful thought. On his knees, that night, he concluded his prayers—"And, Lord, please don't let Whitey go out West without a revolver! You know it ain't safe! Amen!"

And that was why Bobby's father never could find that little, pearl-handled pistol that he kept in the automobile!

Many of the boys in the neighborhood dropped in, and by bedtime Whitey was the most envied as well as the most popular boy on the block. He had promised a bear or a panther-skin to every one of his pals, allowing each of them to make his own selection—some preferred bear, some panther, with a slight demand for buffalo. It was all the same to Whitey.

There were requests for souvenir Indian scalps, but Whitey was doubtful about supplying them. And they in return, had given him much sage advice as to how he should conduct himself when he came in contact with the desperate characters, both man and beast, that he must inevitably encounter in the wilds of Montana. It was unanimously agreed that a compass was necessary.

"This goin' around Butte without a compass, is takin' a chance," said Tom, with a warning shake of his head. "'Most as bad as bein' without a gun! If a man ain't got a compass," warned Tom, for the sixth time, "an' he gets lost, he goes 'round and 'round in a circle and doesn't get anywhere!"

It was agreed that this would be very bad in Butte!

[CHAPTER III]

OFF FOR THE GOLDEN WEST

As the eventful day approached when Whitey and his father were to start, it seemed to Whitey as though Old Father Time had lost his habit of flying, and had subsided into a very slow walk. Whitey's entire equipment was purchased at Mr. Robertson's store where he and the boys had made their selection at first, and Tom and George and Bobby had been allowed to come along and assist in the buying and selection.

And, too, Mr. Sherwood made certain concessions. The apprehension of the boys was so great at the thought of Whitey being in the wilds of Montana without a gun, that, after some hesitation, Whitey's father allowed a Winchester .22 calibre rifle, with a safety-lock, to be added to the equipment. It was expressly agreed, however, that the rifle must not be loaded until the boy had arrived at the ranch in Montana.

Mr. Sherwood put Whitey through a sort of drill, instructing him in the mechanical workings of the gun, and how to handle it under all circumstances—walking, running, climbing a fence or a hill or a tree, or on horse-back; and explaining that a different method must be used when a companion is with you than if you are alone. Whitey was made to understand that when not in use, the muzzle of a gun must point either straight up into the air or straight down at the ground, and never in the direction of any other person nor in the direction of himself. "And," said Mr. Sherwood, "if you ever aim the gun at any one, I will take it away from you and never let you have it again."

"But," said Whitey, "if the gun isn't loaded, what harm can it do?"

"That is exactly the trouble," said his father, impressively. "It is the guns that 'are not loaded' that kill somebody! Careless boys—and men, too—often think the gun isn't loaded, when it is, and that is the time when the damage is done! So, the only rule is, don't ever point a gun at any one whether it is unloaded or not!"

Whitey readily agreed to all these conditions, for he could see the wisdom of them. The corduroy suits were purchased and the wide-brimmed hat as well as two pairs of heavy shoes and a pair of water-proof boots that came high up on Whitey's legs above the knee. The compass—a small pocket one—was added to allay Tom's fear that Whitey might get lost in the wilderness of Butte! Then Mr. Sherwood added two things which the boys had not thought of—a big strong jack-knife and a camera.

"You boys will find that hunting with a camera is just about as much fun as hunting with a gun," said Mr. Sherwood. "It isn't necessary to kill every animal you run across. It is just as interesting and far less cruel to take his picture, and the animal likes it a great deal better—and you've got something to show afterward. And as for the jack-knife, you'll find that to be one of the most useful things you can have when you are in the wilds."

"Yes," said the excited Bobby, "an' if Whitey kills an Indian, he can take his picture first, with the camera, and scalp him afterwards with the knife!"

"You don't ever scalp an Indian—nobody does!" said Tom, reprovingly.

"Father says it ain't open season for Indians now—the sheriff won't let any one kill 'em," said Whitey, a little disgustedly. "They put 'em to work on the rock-pile if they get gay, like they used to. Besides," he added, with an air of superior wisdom, "the Indians are kind o' dyin' out, anyway—just like buffaloes—and the ones that don't die go to Carlisle College, or some place."

"Gee!" said George, "I saw the Carlisle football team play over at the Polo Grounds last fall! They didn't look as though they were 'dyin' out!' They 'put it all over' some Eastern college! I wouldn't advise Whitey to try to scalp one of those fellows!"

"Of course not!" said Whitey. "They're educated and civilized—just like other folks. The kind you kill—in all the books—are the ones that get drunk on fire-water and put paint and feathers on 'emselves and go 'round murdering the white settlers and burning folks at the stake. The Carlisle boys don't do any of those things!"

"Well," said Bobby, dubiously, reluctant to give up cherished traditions, "I dunno. You can't tell—they might!"

Mr. Sherwood ended the discussion by saying that they better get home and finish packing; and the boys were much put out when Mr. Sherwood had the big package sent to his house. It would have looked so much more like business if they could have carried the gun through the streets!

It seemed to Whitey that the next morning would never come, but it did, finally, and there was a large delegation at the Pennsylvania Station to say good-by. While the farewells were being said, Bobby took Whitey a little aside and with much secrecy slipped the little pearl-handled .22 revolver into his hand and Whitey hastily transferred it to his hip-pocket.

"I got it out of our car!" Bobby whispered. "Mother was always afraid of it an' tried to make Daddy get rid of it—so I just took it! You oughta have it on the train—you know, for train-robbers, or somethin'! Jack Harkaway says 'a man oughta go heeled!' Mebbe," he added, a little apprehensively, "it'd be jes' as well not to say anythin' about it—till you get out there."

"Is she loaded?" asked Whitey, in an awed whisper.

"Sure!" said Bobby.

"I guess, mebbe, I better unload her," said Whitey, and he did.

Whitey thanked his loyal little pal, and agreed that the matter should be kept entirely secret. And it must be confessed that Whitey felt very much safer—now that he was "heeled," though it made sitting down awkward and slightly uncomfortable.

Finally—it seemed an hour—the train pulled out, and, after kissing his mother and sisters many times, and amid a hurrah from the boys and a great waving of hands by everybody, Whitey was on his way into the Boundless West.

[CHAPTER IV]

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.

[CHAPTER V]

INJUN

It was some twenty-two miles out to the ranch, but the wagon rolled over the prairie at a fast clip, and well inside of two hours they were inside the boundary of the ranch, and saw, here and there, herds of cattle grazing. Jordan called their attention to both the boundary and the cattle, and Whitey felt a sense of elation when he thought that all of this belonged to his father. Also, he felt that, for once, he had a yard big enough for him to play in without feeling crowded.

In the distance, loomed the mountains, and Whitey promised himself that he would explore them some afternoon—they didn't look very far off. But when he spoke of it, Jordan laughed and said, "When you pick out the day you're goin', it'll be jest as well to start kind o' early—them mountains is more 'n fifty miles away."

Mr. Sherwood explained to Whitey that the apparent nearness of the mountains was on account of the clear and rarefied air. But to tell the truth, Whitey was frankly incredulous; he had a good pair of eyes, and if he could believe them at all, those mountains were certainly not fifty miles away! He made up his mind that he would test it, sometime, and he did. He came to the conclusion that instead of being fifty miles away, the mountains were at least five times that distance!

As the wagon neared the ranch-house, they came upon a strange figure on a small, but very wiry pinto, moving almost directly across their trail. It was an Indian boy, apparently about the same age as Whitey, and picturesquely clad in a "hickory shirt," open at the neck and leaving a good part of his breast exposed, "buck-skin" trousers, and rudely made moccasins. A bow and a quiver containing a number of arrows were slung over his shoulder. The boy had neither saddle nor bridle, and seemed to be a part of his horse, guiding and controlling him solely by the pressure of his knees.

"Here's a card!" said Jordan, to Mr. Sherwood and Whitey. "Just look this bird over for a minute. He's a queer duck!" Then raising his voice, he shouted, "Hello, 'Injun!'"

The boy stopped the pinto suddenly, without any perceptible movement, and raised his hand in salutation, and waited for the wagon to come up.

As they ranged alongside of him, Jordan pulled up the horses: "'Injun,'" said Jordan, "this here is the new Boss," pointing to Mr. Sherwood. "An' this here is his boy," and Jordan indicated Whitey. "You come over to the ranch-house to-morrow; I've got somethin' fer you to do."

The boy looked calmly at them, but gave no sign that he understood. His face was most intelligent and not at all unpleasant, though as far as any change of expression is concerned, it might have been carved out of stone. His eyes, however, were keen and restive, and he looked from one to another of the party in a shrewd, appraising way. He seemed slight, compared to Whitey, even a little scrawny, with very thin arms and legs; but as keen an observer of physical condition as Whitey had become by this time was not to be deceived thereby. A steel wire is thin and attenuated, but it is very strong; and to Whitey's practiced eye those arms and legs were simply bundles of wire.

"Well," said Jordan, after he had allowed the boys to size each other up for a time, "I guess that'll be about all, 'Injun.' So long!" and Jordan clucked to the horses.

The Indian boy raised his hand in a peculiar sort of salute as he turned his horse slightly and galloped away. Whitey watched him with admiration on every line of his face as far as he could distinguish his movements; and Jordan watched Whitey, smiling.

"Who is he?" asked Whitey, at last, turning to Jordan, and Mr. Sherwood also looked an inquiry.

"He's some kid!" laughed Jordan. "He don't belong to nobody, an' he don't live nowhere! Wherever he builds his camp-fire is home! He's took care of hisself ever sence he was big 'nuff to kick a duck in the ankle, an' he don't ask no odds o' nobody! Him an' that pinto is jes' one—they're part of each other. That there hoss knows what thet kid is thinkin' 'bout! You talk 'bout yer Centaurs, er whatever they was, they didn't have nuthin' on that pair!"

"Did he understand what you said to him?" asked Whitey. "He didn't seem to."

Jordan laughed: "Oh, he understood, all right! He'll be there the first thing in the mornin', with bells on!" Jordan looked smilingly at Whitey for a moment, and then added, "I kind o' figured him an' you'd sort o' team up, mebbe?"

Whitey was plainly pleased, and he looked at his father inquiringly. "If you are asking my permission, Son," said Mr. Sherwood, "I have no hesitation in granting it. No doubt this Indian boy will teach you a lot of useful things; and perhaps you can teach him something, too." Then turning to Jordan, Mr. Sherwood said, "I suppose the boy is all right, isn't he? By that I mean, he doesn't take too many chances and get into trouble?"

"I guess he takes chances a-plenty," said Jordan, slowly, "but what boy won't—providin' he's a reg'lar boy? Er a man either? Y' can't keep a squirrel on the ground, as the sayin' is. But I'll take a ticket on that 'Injun' to git out 'n any fix he gits into. He's a pretty wise fish, that kid," said Jordan; and then looking at Whitey, he added, "An' this here youngster don't look like no mollycoddle, neither. Long as they don't set out t' deevastate the grizzly crop an' they let painters alone, I don't reckon nuthin' 's goin' to muss 'em up much. Let 'em go to it!"

This seemed to settle it, much to Whitey's relief; and Jordan did not speak again until they drove into the ranch-yard.

[CHAPTER VI]

BILL JORDAN

The ranch-house itself was a long, low building, with broad porches on two sides of it built on the Arizona style; and nearby were several other out-buildings and two or three large corrals. Some of the ranch-hands lounged about the yard, and took charge of the horses and wagon and carried the luggage into the house. The rooms were large and airy, with many windows; and the coolness was a relief after the long ride in the blazing sun.

After a good dinner, prepared by Sing Wong, the Chinese cook, Jordan showed Mr. Sherwood over the ranch, Whitey following, an interested listener and spectator of all that was said and shown. Whitey had lost no time in unpacking the trunk that contained his rifle, and carried it with him on the tour of the ranch, handling it in a way that showed that the drill given him by his father had not been wasted.

Bill Jordan examined the rifle and pronounced it a good one. "The question is," said Bill, banteringly, "kin you hit anythin' with it? The gun's all right, but how good kin you pint it?" and he handed the gun back to Whitey.

"Well," said Whitey, "I don't think I'm a very good shot—I've only shot a rifle a few times in a shooting-gallery—but if you'll pick out a mark, I'll see what I can do."

"All right," said Bill, "I'll do it." He took off his broad brimmed Stetson and handled and brushed it fondly. "I think a heap o' this here hat, Son, but I'm goin' to resk you havin' one chance at it, purvidin' the distance is reasonable." And Bill walked about twenty yards away and hung the hat on a post and rejoined them. Whitey prepared to aim, and Mr. Sherwood was about to interfere, but at a sign from Bill, he refrained.

"What'll you bet you hit it?" asked Jordan, banteringly—"the first time you pull the trigger, I mean?"

"I don't bet," said Whitey, "but I think I can hit it."

"I guess you're a pretty level-headed kid," said Bill, "that bettin' thing ain't much good—I wisht I never'd made no bets," he added, reminiscently. "But I don't think y' kin hit it—not under present circumstances, I don't. I don't think that there Stetson is in no danger whatsumever!"

Whitey grinned and took careful aim and pulled the trigger. There was only the snap of the hammer and no report. Whitey looked at the rifle and then at the grinning Bill.

"What did I tell you!" said the latter, exultantly.

Whitey examined the rifle and then announced, disgustedly, "There wasn't any cartridge in it!"

"Jesso," said Bill, opening his big hand and showing Whitey the cartridge that he had removed from the gun when he had taken it into his hands for the ostensible purpose of examining it. "Jesso," he repeated. "I played it sort o' low-down on yo' so's to show yo' somethin'. There was jest two reasons why you wasn't goin' to let fly no bullet at that hat—mebbe three."

"What were they?" asked Whitey.

"Well," said Bill, "unless you're in a big hurry, always examine your gun 'fore yo' shoot, to see that everythin' is O. K. An' another an' more important thing is, always look where you're shootin'. If yo'll jest cast yer eye over and beyond that hat, you'll see there's two cow-punchers a-leanin' agin that corral—not right in line—but in that direction. I admit that a cow-puncher ain't worth much," said Bill, grinning at one or two of the boys who stood near watching the performance, "but 't ain't a good thing to shoot 'em up—'specially with no twenty-two's! The third reason is that's a mighty good hat—I paid eighteen bucks fer her!"

Whitey readily admitted the first two propositions, and said he would be careful anything like that did not occur again; but when Bill started to get his hat, Whitey said, "Just a moment, Mr. Jordan," and Bill stopped and looked at Whitey inquiringly.

"You offered to make me a bet, didn't you?" Whitey asked.

"Yes, I guess I did," said Bill, scratching his head. "What about it?"

"Well," said Whitey, "I always heard that if a fellow didn't have a chance to win, then he didn't have a chance to lose. That's so, isn't it?"

"Well, yes," admitted Bill, "I guess that's right 'nuff."

"Then," said Whitey, resolutely and with conviction, "I think I'm entitled to a real chance at that hat!"

This was a bomb-shell in Bill Jordan's camp. The cow-punchers who had gathered around heartily endorsed Whitey's argument. "The Kid's right! Come on, Bill! Be game! Give him a chance!" came from all sides, coupled with loud laughter and slaps on Bill's broad back.

Bill scratched his head and grinned in great apparent apprehension. "Looks like the majority was agin me," he said, finally, looking ruefully at the Stetson and calling to the cow-punchers at the corral to get out of the way. "An' that is a good hat, too! All right! Fire away! I throws myself on the mercy o' the co't! But say, Son, have a heart! You're shootin' at eighteen dollars wo'th o' hat!"

Whitey took careful aim and fired, and the hat flew up into the air and fell in the dust. A loud yell went up from the boys as several of them ran and picked it up and brought it to Bill, who examined the hole in it ruefully. "She's ventilated now, all right," he said, "an' I reckon it'll be some lengths o' periods 'fore I tries to put anythin' over on this here kid again! If I ever do so far fergit myself, I got this here ventilator in my sky-piece to remind me!"

It was plain, however, that Bill was tickled at the way Whitey had handled the situation, and "making a hit" with Bill Jordan meant something on the Granville ranch.

[CHAPTER VII]

WESTERN AIR AND APPETITE

The following morning, Whitey was up almost with the sun, but he found the ranch already astir. Mr. Sherwood was busy over the ranch accounts when Whitey went in to breakfast. It needed very little persuasion on the part of the shuffling, grinning Sing Wong to induce him to put away a bigger breakfast than he had ever had before in his life. Twenty-four hours in that mountain air would give an appetite to a mummy, and Whitey was far from being a mummy. Bill Jordan watched him stow away plate after plate of flap-jacks and honey in addition to bacon and eggs and milk, and finally said with an anxious shake of his head, that the ranch would have to do a bigger business than ever if Whitey intended to make a long visit.

"Mr. Jordan," said Whitey, pausing to get his breath, and accepting with some hesitation "just one more plate" of flap-jacks, "I don't believe I'll ever want to go back!"

Bill threw up his hands in a gesture of despair, and "allowed as how, if that was the case, he'd haf' to raise Sing Wong's wages, or else see about getting him an assistant!"

Whitey laughed and assured Bill that he hadn't been very hungry that morning, but when he got down to business, he'd show him how a really hungry boy could eat.

"It's a pity you wasn't here 'bout a year or so ago," said Bill. "We could o' made a clean-up with you!"

"How is that?" asked Whitey.

"Well," said Bill, "we had a feller here who was some strong as a table-finisher an' bone-polisher, an' we issued a challenge to eat him agin any man in the West. He et like nine starvin' Cubans, an' then some! It looked like he could spot most anybody three er four good-sized steaks an' then win pulled-up. But the' was a 'hayseed' blowed in one day an' offered to eat him fer consider'ble change. They set down to make the terms and specifications o' the eatin' contest, an' our man says, 'What'll we begin with?' An' the other feller says, 'Well, suppose we start on hams?' 'All right,' says our champion, 'how many slices?' 'Slices!' says the other guy, contemptuous like, 'slices! I didn't say nuthin' 'bout slices! I said hams!'

"Well, sir, that settled it! Our man give this feller one look an' crawfished right there! He snuk out an' got on his pinto, an' we ain't never saw him sence. Now, if yo'd a bin here——" and Bill shrugged his shoulders and made a deprecatory gesture that indicated that a real eater, like Whitey, never would have allowed "hams" to faze him.

"Mebbe we better issue another challenge?" added Bill, tentatively. "Yo' won't need much trainin'!"

"I'm not very fond of hams," said Whitey, "but if he'll start on steers I'll accommodate him!"

Bill let out a laugh that shook the rafters. "I guess you'll do!" he said as he reached for his hat, and regarded the hole in it with a grin.

"Do you suppose 'Injun' will be here to-day, Mr. Jordan?" asked Whitey.

"He's bin here more'n an hour, a'ready!" said Jordan, "I seen him an' that pinto of his when I come past the corral. I meant to tell you 'bout it, but disremembered to."

"I hope he'll wait," said Whitey.

Bill laughed: "He'll wait, all right. Patience is an Injun's middle name! Time don't mean nuthin' to them."

Whitey got his rifle and started out for the corral. He found 'Injun' just where Bill had said he was, waiting patiently, and Bill Jordan made it a point to be on hand a few moments afterward. Both of the boys were diffident, although Injun did not display it.

Whitey began the conversation: "Hello, Injun," he said, in a pleasant way. Injun raised his hand in his peculiar way of salutation, but made no other acknowledgment of the greeting, but eyed Whitey's rifle interestedly.

"Want to look at it?" asked Whitey, holding it out. "It's a dandy!"

Injun took the gun and examined it carefully, and Whitey noticed that he did not violate any of the rules of handling it and he evidently knew all about the mechanism. After he had looked it over admiringly and tried the sights, he handed it back to Whitey without comment, but there was no doubt that he would have given his right leg to own it.

Whitey, in turn, examined and admired Injun's bow and arrows, and found that, although he was undoubtedly as strong as Injun, he had considerable difficulty in pulling the bow back to its fullest extent.

There is a certain knack in this which comes only from long practice; just as there is in all branches of athletic sports or feats of skill; and experience is not alone the best teacher, but may be said to be the only teacher. In this particular thing, the Indian has the added incentive of necessity—the ability to shoot an arrow far and straight means his very livelihood; and the loss of an arrow is serious—not only because he loses the animal or bird, but because it takes a long time to make a really good arrow.

A similar condition exists in many other branches of out-door craft, and the novice has great difficulty in mastering something which looks easy. The ability to ride a high-spirited horse, or to throw a lariat accurately, or to send a canoe through the water swiftly without making a ripple or any perceptible noise, or to run at high speed over the snow and through the thick woods on snow-shoes without coming to grief, cannot be learned in a day or a month. In fact, some people can never learn to do these things properly. If a boy or man hasn't a good eye and steady nerves, he can never arrive at any extraordinary proficiency.

It is impossible for two red-blooded boys to be together any length of time without engaging in some kind of a contest; and the examinations of the rifle and the bow and arrows made a very good basis for it, and Jordan acted the part of promoter.

"Let's see who is the best shot," he suggested. "Whitey—(Jordan had by this time learned what he termed Alan's "handle" or "monicker"), you use the gun an' let Injun use the bow and arrows and shoot at a mark—say 'bout twenty paces off. What d' y' say?"

"Sure," said Whitey, agreeing readily. "We'll shoot at your hat!"

"Not by no means, y' won't!" said Jordan, grinning. "I got some respect fer that old hat yet! 'T was a new one, yestiddy—till yo' made an old one out'n it!" he added, reproachfully.

Jordan took a pine board, marked a circle and bull's eye on it, and fixed it against a post of the corral about twenty paces away. He elected that Whitey shoot first, and the latter took careful aim and fired. The splinters flew from the board, but it was found to have only chipped the edge, and was not within the circle; but it was not such a bad shot, as the board was hardly more than a foot wide.

Injun fitted an arrow to the bow and drew the string back to his ear. The arrow went straight to the mark and sunk itself in the pine board in the bull's eye. Injun had not used one of his sharp-pointed hunting arrows, or it would probably have gone clear through the board. Whitey was most enthusiastic in his admiration for such skill as this, and, too, it stirred in him a determination to emulate it. But try as he would, he could not send the bullets from his rifle with anything near the accuracy that Injun shot his arrows.

Whitey tried the bow and arrows several times, but succeeded in hitting the board only once, and with nothing like the force that Injun had communicated to the shaft. He urged Injun to try the rifle—he didn't have to urge very hard, as the latter was dying to try it. And while he obtained somewhat better results from it than Whitey got from the bow, he proved that as far as getting his dinner in the woods or mountains is concerned, he might better stick to his bow. However, there was no doubt that the first competition between the boys had resulted in Injun's favor.

As Injun handed the rifle back to Whitey, he looked at Jordan, and for the first time spoke.

"Him shoot!" he said.

"Who—me?" said Jordan, "I guess I'm a leetle mite out o' practice. Tell yo' what I'll do, though, Whitey—yo' done put my lid on the bum, an' I'll shoot if you'll let me have a crack at that new hat o' your'n! Come on now, are yo' game?" said Jordan, taking his big Colt forty-five from his holster.

"Turn about is fair play," said Whitey, "so here goes!" and he fastened his hat on the board, making a fair mark.

Jordan laughed, and turning, he emptied his revolver in the direction of the hat in less time than it takes to tell it. "By Crackey!" exclaimed Jordan, in a disappointed way, "I don't believe I hit thet air old sky-piece, after all! I'm shore gettin' outer practice!"

The boys ran to the hat, and found that it was untouched. BUT—Jordan had put a ring of bullets all around it, none of them being more than half an inch from the brim!

"I guess you don't need much practice!" gasped Whitey, as he came back with the hat. "I wouldn't have thought it possible for any one to shoot like that!" he added, in undisguised admiration.

"Well," said Jordan, slowly, "mebbe if I'd bin a leetle more careful an' took more time, I might have hit it. I reckon, now, I've done throwed away my chance to get even with yo'!"

"You'll never get another chance at my hat—not unless you let me put it up a mile away—and even then I'd be afraid you'd hit it!"

"I reckon the hat's some safe if thet's the case," said Bill.

[CHAPTER VIII]

WHITEY LEARNS TO RIDE

"Look here, Whitey," said Bill Jordan, one afternoon, "kin yo' ride a hoss? If yo' an' this here Injun is goin' in cahoots, yo' gotta ride some!"

"I'm not what any one would call a good rider," said Whitey, "but I guess I can manage to stay on. I used to ride the horses down at Coney Island, and once or twice when we were in the country; but these horses are different. They don't wait till you get your seat before they whirl 'round and beat it!"

"Some of 'em is a mite hasty," admitted Bill, "but we got one or two nice, ol' hobby-hosses in the corral thet'll be 'bout yo'r size. Buck," he shouted to one of the cow-punchers nearby, "go bring thet ol' sorrel out'n the corral—thet is, pervidin' he's able to walk. Yo'll probably find him leanin' up agin the fence to keep from fallin' down. This here Whitey person is goin' to set on him fer a spell an' take a nap."

Buck took a halter and went into the corral, and soon returned leading the sorrel, which did not seem to be in any danger of falling down if he didn't have something to lean against. In fact, the sorrel was a pretty lively animal, and Whitey had his misgivings; but he knew that Bill Jordan would not allow him to mount a fractious or vicious horse, inexperienced as he was, and he made up his mind that he would "go through" with it. If he were to spend any length of time in the West, he knew that the sooner he learned to ride, the better off he would be, and the more he could enter into the work and play of the ranch—and, indeed, the very life of the West with which the horse is so inseparably associated. Then, too, he admired and marveled at the way Injun rode his pony, and the spirit of rivalry within him made him determine that he would not remain outclassed, for any long time, by a boy of his own age in any department of out-door life.

Bill watched Whitey narrowly, and it is probable that if he had seen any exhibition of "the white feather," he would have stopped the performance. For he knew that confidence is the main thing, and if the boy were timid, he might come to grief. But Whitey evidently did not have "cold feet."

"Buck, you keep the ol' rack-o'-bones from fallin' apart, an' I'll give the kid a hand," said Bill, offering to boost Whitey into the saddle.

"Let me try to mount myself," said Whitey. "I may be out on the prairie some time and it won't be convenient to come way back here to get you to boost me up."

"Correct," said Bill, tickled over the boy's refusal of his assistance. "It's always well to play a lone hand—ef yo' got the cards to do it!" And Whitey swung himself onto the horse in as near an imitation of the way of the ranchmen as he could.

Once he was mounted on the sorrel, after some elementary instructions from Bill as to mounting and keeping his seat by the knee-grip, Buck, who had stood at the horse's head, released his hold, and the sorrel started off at a lively clip; and if Whitey had not remembered his instructions and been prepared for just this thing, he would have been unseated. As it was, he had a narrow escape, but managed to stick on, to the great delight of Bill—and, incidentally, of himself! Every added minute on the horse gave added confidence to Whitey, and as he began to get the swing and rhythm of it, he already felt that exhilaration which comes from riding. Injun, of course, accompanied him, and the two boys rode around the big corral to which his first essay was confined.

Bill Jordan watched Whitey with considerable satisfaction; he had taken a great interest in the boy because he recognized in him many of the sterling qualities that go to make a man. He had not selected a "rocking-horse" for his first ride largely to see if Whitey would tackle what seemed to be a difficult undertaking without fear; and the manner in which the boy had "gone to it" pleased him immensely. He knew that there was really very little actual danger, for the sorrel was steady and "honest" and had no vicious traits, and there is such a thing as too much "babying."

Whitey was strong and confident, and there are worse things than a fall from a horse. Jordan knew, also, that if a rider starts on an "easy-chair" sort of a horse, he will learn many things which he must eventually un-learn. At any rate, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and the manner in which Whitey performed justified his judgment. It would not do, of course, to start every boy in this way; but Whitey was an unusual boy, and Bill felt that he took very few chances.

In the next few days Whitey picked up a surprising lot of horsemanship and though he had a fall or two, when he attempted to do some of the "fancy stuff" that Injun and the cow-punchers showed him, he had no broken bones, and he felt that he was competent to ride almost anywhere and keep up the pace. Confidence, after all, is the main thing, and this Whitey had in large measure. And, what counts for much also, he was willing to be shown. He did not "know it all." Any boy who starts in a new game and thinks he knows it all will certainly come to grief.

The taking over of a new property like the big Bar O ranch and getting the run of things is no small job; and Mr. Sherwood was kept too busy to pay more than casual attention to Whitey. Thus the two boys were left almost entirely to themselves, although Bill Jordan kept an eye on them, as did many of the ranch-hands with whom they were favorites.

[CHAPTER IX]

THE BOYS SETTLE A QUESTION

Not only is it impossible for two red-blooded boys to be together for any length of time without engaging in some kind of competition, but usually that competition takes the form of seeing "who is the best man!" No boy likes to be out-done at any sport; and if he is, he usually tries to improve in that sport, or casts about to find something at which he is better than his victor. Whitey was compelled to acknowledge that Injun was the better shot—how long he would remain better, especially with the rifle, was a matter that was up to Whitey—but the strongest and fleetest boy in the big Eastern school was not going to acknowledge Injun's superiority in other branches of sport until he was obliged to do so.

As far as riding was concerned, there was no comparison at all; and again Whitey was compelled to admit inferiority. But he knew that his rival had by far the better horse, and had practically been brought up on his back; and Whitey felt that, given an equal opportunity, he, too, could ride as well as the next boy. If spending most of his waking hours in the saddle would accomplish this, he determined to put them in that way.

It must not be understood that Whitey was a "poor loser"—such was far from the truth. Defeat did not make him "sore" and engender hatred in him; it only made him try the harder. He was always the first to congratulate his successful rival, and to make up his mind that he would strive to equal or excel his rival's performance. In this instance, however, he realized that he was "playing Injun's own game"; and maybe, if Injun played some of Whitey's games, he would not come off any better than Whitey had at Injun's.

It was several days before the stiffness from riding began to leave Whitey's muscles and they assumed their usual elasticity; but he had stuck to his saddle during that time, and gradually the soreness began to wear away. He also had acquired confidence and a knowledge of his horse, the sorrel, which he had named Monty, and Monty had begun to know him. This is a necessity for really finished or satisfactory riding; and, on the advice of Bill Jordan, Whitey assumed entire charge of the horse, grooming and feeding and watering him, and ingratiating himself into Monty's confidence and affection in every way that he could until he had established an understanding between them.

"Ef yo' an' that sorrel gets to be pals," said Bill, "Yo' hes gone a long ways toward bein' a rider. Team-work counts for a heap in that game!"

And so, although it would be a long time before Whitey and Monty could ever hope to rival Injun and his pinto, yet, for all practical purposes, Whitey became a fair horseman, and the pair made a good combination. He even had aspirations toward riding one of the bucking bronchos that the boys broke in the corral; but Bill Jordan put a veto on this, and said that there would be "plenty of time for thet stuff when funeral expenses ain't so high!"

On most of his excursions out into the prairie, Injun accompanied him, and seldom did the two boys come back to the ranch without a race. At first Injun won regularly; but as Whitey learned to ride, he gradually shortened the distance by which he and Monty were the losers, until it became nip and tuck, and finally Whitey and Monty had won two heats in succession.

On the third day, as they came in neck and neck, the two boys rode so close together that they could touch each other; and before they knew it, were indulging in that most hazardous and difficult game, wrestling on horse-back. Injun, who was literally part of the horse, finally succeeded in unseating Whitey, and the latter hit the ground with a thump.

Whitey picked himself up, and grinning, said, "Injun, you might throw me when we're on our horses, but you couldn't do it on the ground!"

Injun slipped from his pinto, laid aside his bow and arrows and his hunting-knife, and accepted the challenge without hesitation: "Me 'rassle," he said, and began to slip around Whitey with a gliding and panther-like motion, looking for a hold. Whitey faced him alertly, and for a moment nothing else happened. Bill Jordan and several of the boys watched the contest from the fence of the corral. Suddenly, Injun darted in with the swiftness of a rattlesnake making a strike, and secured a hold on Whitey's leg, coming within an ace of upsetting him. But Whitey was not to be upset so easily; he seized Injun's arm with one hand, and putting his forearm under Injun's chin, forced his head back; and exerting his thigh-muscles, he broke Injun's hold on his leg. Quickly shifting his hold from Injun's arm, and slipping his other arm beneath Injun's, he secured what boys call "an under-hold"; and then, half turning, he threw Injun over his hip to the ground, heavily.

But Whitey came down, too, although he was on top; for Injun had locked his arms about Whitey's neck and held on with a grip like a vise. They were locked in this way for perhaps two minutes, but Whitey knew that it was only a matter of time when he could break this hold, and he was in no hurry. At the slightest relaxation of the pressure that Injun was putting on, he could get one of his hands under Injun's arms, or he could twist out. He felt, at first contact that he was stronger than Injun and a good deal heavier, and these are two big assets in wrestling, though the smaller boy was perhaps quicker. And then, too, Whitey knew many wrestling holds, while Injun depended entirely upon his natural instincts; this, also, was greatly to Whitey's advantage.

But there was one thing Whitey had not reckoned on, and that was Injun's nature—Injun was getting angry, and Whitey could feel that his opponent was trying to strangle him, and meant to do him some injury if he could.

"What are you trying to do?" asked Whitey as Injun put on more pressure. "This isn't a fight—we're not trying to kill each other!" But Injun made no reply but continued to rough it.

This put a new face on the matter, and Whitey quickly slid one hand beneath Injun's arm, and prying it up, he wrenched his head from Injun's strangle-hold in no very gentle manner. As he did this, Injun slid out from under him and got to his hands and knees in a sort of "dog-fall"; and this gave Whitey a chance to twist one of Injun's arms around his back and force it upward between the shoulder-blades in what is known as a "hammer-lock," and quickly turned Injun over on his back and pinned his shoulders down. Once Injun was "down" and manifestly helpless, Whitey jumped to his feet and held out his hand; but Injun rose slowly and did not take it.

"Look out fer that Injun," said one of the boys to Bill Jordan, "he's bad medicine! He'll do that kid some dirt, first thing y' know!" But the warning was unnecessary, for Bill was already on his way toward the two boys.

Quick as a flash Injun stooped and picked up his knife which he had thrown beside his bow and arrows, and turned to Whitey; but the latter was ready and proceeded to show Injun a game that Injun knew nothing about whatever. The Indian, in the wilds, doesn't know anything about using his fists—he fights only with a weapon. Boxing is confined, almost entirely, to the Anglo-Saxon race, and when Whitey's solid fist landed on Injun's jaw with all the force that Whitey could put into a long swing, Injun was a very much astonished young man, and he went down in a heap, his arms stretched out and his eyes blinking and his mind dazed. Whitey stepped on the wrist of the hand that held the knife, and took it out of the boy's hand and threw it far from them.

Whitey's solid fist landed on Injun's jaw.

Seeing this, and knowing that any real danger was over, Bill and the boys stopped.

"Might as well let 'em have it out," said Bill. "They'll have to settle who's boss, an' it may as well be now as any other time. That Whitey person ain't no slouch! Did you see the slam he handed that kid?"