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The Golden West Boys

INJUN AND WHITEY TO THE RESCUE

by

WILLIAM S. HART

Author of Injun and Whitey and Injun and Whitey Strike Out for
Themselves, etc.

Illustrated by Harold Cue







[Illustration: THEY COULDN'T SHOOT HIM - HE WAS GOING TOO FAST (_page 272_)]




Grosset & Dunlap Publishers New York
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1922, by William S. Hart
All Rights Reserved
Printed In The U.S.A.





PREFACE


_In the Boys' Golden West Series I have done my best to present to its
readers the West that I knew as a boy._

_Frontier days were made up of many different kinds of humans. There
were men who were muddy-bellied coyotes, so low that they hugged the
ground like a snake. There were girls whose cheeks were so toughened by
shame as to be hardly knowable from squaws. There were stoic Indians
with red-raw, liquor-dilated eyes, peaceable and just when sober,
boastful and intolerant when drunk. And then there were those White Men,
those moulders, those makers of the great, big open-hearted West, that
had not yet been denatured by nesters and wire fences, men to whom a
Colt gun was the court of last appeal and who did not carry a warrant in
their pockets until it was worn out, men who faced staggering odds and
danger single-handed and alone, men who created and worked out and made
an Ideal Civilization, - a country where doors were left unlocked at
night and the windows of the mind were always open, - men who were
always kind to the weak and unprotected, even if they did have hoofs and
horns, men like William B. (Bat) Masterson and Wyatt Earp. They and
their kind made the frontier, that Great West which we can now look back
upon as the most romantic era of our American History._

_I love it; I love all that was ever connected with it; and to all those
who are in sympathy with my crude efforts to set forth what little I
know, to each and every boy who feels a choke in his throat when he
reads the closing lines of "In Memory," I say, I have a choke in my
throat too, and I am silently clutching your hand, for that red boy has
crossed the Big Divide and gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds and the
white boy is saying Farewell._

The Author




CONTENTS

I. An Arrival 1

II. A Surprise 13

III. Mystery 26

IV. Solution 39

V. Bunk-House Talk 51

VI. Boots 66

VII. Education and Other Things 77

VIII. Injun Talks 87

IX. Fish-Hooks and Hooky 115

X. A Hard Job 129

XI. The T Up and Down 139

XII. Felix the Faithless 150

XIII. A Fool's Errand 160

XIV. The Stampede 170

XV. The Cattle-Sheep War 185

XVI. "Medicine" 206

XVII. "The Pride of the West" 218

XVIII. Wonders 229

XIX. Threshing-Time 235

XX. The Story of the Custer Fight 247

XXI. Unrest 263

XXII. The New Order 271

XXIII. Pioneer Days 290

XXIV. "In Memory" 299



ILLUSTRATIONS


They couldn't shoot him - he was going
too fast _Frontispiece_

In Front of Them Stood Sitting Bull 16

Advancing into the Road with both Front
Paws Extended 120

The Man's Figure disappeared through
the Opening, the Bucket falling from
his Hands 202



INJUN AND WHITEY TO THE RESCUE




CHAPTER I

AN ARRIVAL


There was no doubt that affairs were rather dull on the Bar O Ranch; at
least they seemed so to "Whitey," otherwise Alan Sherwood. Since he and
his pal, "Injun," had had the adventures incidental to the finding of
the gold in the mountains, there had been nothing doing. So life seemed
tame to Whitey, to whom so many exciting things had happened since he
had come West that he now had a taste for excitement.

It was Saturday, so there were no lessons, and it was a relief to be
free from the teachings of John Big Moose, the educated Dakota, who
acted as tutor for Injun and Whitey. Not that John was impatient with
his pupils. He was too patient, if anything, his own boyhood not being
so far behind him that he had forgotten that outdoors, in the Golden
West, is apt to prove more interesting to fifteen-year-old youth than
printed books - especially when one half the class is of Indian blood.

As Whitey stood near the bunk house and thought of these things, his eye
was attracted by a speck moving toward him across the prairie. He
watched it with the interest one might have in a ship at sea; as one
watches in a place in which few moving things are seen. The speck was
small, and was coming toward Whitey slowly.

From around the corner of the bunk house Injun approached. It will be
remembered by those who have read of Injun that he was very fond of pink
pajamas. As garments, pink pajamas seemed to Injun to be the real thing.
It had been hard to convince him that they were not proper for everyday
wear, but when he was half convinced of this fact, he had done the next
best thing, and taken to a very pink shirt. This, tucked in a large pair
of men's trousers, below which were beaded moccasins, was Injun's
costume, which he wore with quiet dignity.

"What do you s'pose that is?" asked Whitey, pointing at the speck.

"Dog," Injun answered briefly.

"A dog!" cried Whitey, who, though he had never ceased to wonder at
Injun's keenness of sight, was inclined to question it now. "What can a
dog be doing out there?"

"Dunno," Injun replied. "Him dog." Injun's education had not as yet sunk
in deep enough to affect his speech.

Whitey again turned his eyes toward the object, which certainly was
moving slowly, as though tired, and, as the boys watched, sure enough,
began to resolve itself into the shape of a dog. Here at last was
something happening to break the dullness of the day. A strange dog
twenty-five miles from any place in which a dog would naturally be.

Furthermore, when the animal was near enough to be seen distinctly, he
furnished another surprise. He was entirely unlike any of the dogs of
that neighborhood - the hounds, collies, or terriers. He was white,
short, chunky. His head was very large for his size, his jaw undershot,
his mouth enormous, and his lower lip drooped carelessly over a couple
of fangs on each side. Under small ears his eyes popped almost out of
his head, and his snub nose could scarcely be said to be a nose at all.
From a wide chest his body narrowed until it joined a short, twisted
tail, and his front legs were bowed, as though he had been in the habit
of riding a horse all his life.

Injun gazed at this strange being with something as near surprise as he
ever allowed himself. "Him look like frog," he declared.

"Why, it's a bulldog, an English bulldog!" exclaimed Whitey, who had
seen many of this breed in the East.

"More like bullfrog," Injun maintained solemnly. "What him do - eat
bulls?"

The brute's appearance surely was forbidding enough, and if Injun had
been subject to fear, which he wasn't, he would have felt it now. He did
not know, as many better informed people do not, that beneath this
breed's fierce appearance lies the deepest of dog love for a
master - and that's a pretty deep love - and that no other "friend of man"
holds gentler, kinder feeling for the human race than this queerly
shaped animal. And this in spite of the fact that he owes the very
queerness of his appearance to man, who has had him bred in that shape,
through countless generations, to the end that the poor, faithful beast
may do brutal deeds in the bull ring and the dog pit.

Whitey did not know all this - that the wide jaws were designed for a
grip on the enemy, the snub nose to permit breathing while that grip was
held, the widespread legs to secure a firm ground hold; in short, that
he was looking at an animal built for conflict, which had the courage of
a lion where his enemies were concerned, and the love of a wild thing
for its young where its human friends were concerned.

But Whitey knew the latter part of it - that bulldogs were friendly, and
usually misunderstood, and he proceeded to let Injun in on his
knowledge. "You needn't be afraid of him," he said.

"No 'fraid, but no go too close," replied the cautious Injun.

Now that this dog was in reach of humans he sat down, opened his
cave-like mouth, allowing a few inches of tongue to loll out, panted,
and looked amiably at the boys. He certainly was tired.

"He's not only tired, he's thirsty," said Whitey, and ran to the stable
for water.

And while he was gone the bulldog and Injun looked at each other - Injun
with his bronze skin, his long, straight hair, his calm face, and his
steady, dark eyes. This descendant of thousands of fighting men regarded
that descendant of thousands of fighting dogs. And what they thought of
each other the dog couldn't tell, and Injun didn't, but ever after they
were friends.

Presently Whitey returned from the stable with a pan of water, and with
Bill Jordan, foreman of the Bar O, Charlie Bassett, Buck Higgins, and
Shorty Palmer, all the cowpunchers who happened to be on the place. They
all knew bulldogs, and they regarded the newcomer with awe and respect.

Whitey put the water before the dog, who, after favoring him with a
grateful glance and a quiver of his stub tail, went to it.

"He's sure awful dry," Bill said. "Ought t' take him up to Moose Lake.
Looks like that pan o' water won't even moisten him."

"Where d'ye reck'n he come from?" asked Shorty.

"Dunno."

"Mebbe he was follerin' a wagon, an' got lost," Buck Higgins suggested
hopefully.

"Wagon nothin'!" snorted Bill. "Nobody in these parts'd have a dog like
that, an' if they did, what would he be doin' follerin' a wagon? He
ain't built to run, he's built to fight."

Where the dog had come from was something of a mystery. Neighbors were
not near by, in those days, in Montana, the nearest being fourteen miles
off, and the railway twenty-two, and nothing there but a water tank.
There was some discussion regarding the matter which ended in a
deadlock. It was certain that none of the ranchmen in the vicinity owned
such a dog, and even so, or if a visitor owned him, how would he get to
the Bar O? Walk, with "them legs"?

While the discussion went on, the subject of it gulped down large chunks
of beef which Whitey had begged from the cook, and after that he went
with the men and boys to the ranch house, where, with an apologetic
leer, and a wiggle of his tail, he stretched himself on the veranda, and
fell into a deep sleep. He was very grateful, but he was also very
tired.

In a lonely ranch house matters are of concern which would create little
comment in a city. This dog's coming was in the nature of an event at
the Bar O. Bill, the foreman, and all the punchers were ready to neglect
work for a considerable time and talk about it. Even Injun occasionally
looked interested. But all the talk could not solve the problem of the
animal's presence.

The only one who knew lay sleeping on the veranda and couldn't tell. It
isn't likely that he dreamed, but if he did it might have been of being
tied to the handle of a trunk in an overland limited baggage car; of the
train's stopping for water at a lonely tank; of the earthy, wholesome
country smell that came through the door, left open for coolness.

There had been a stirring in the grass near the track. A glimpse of an
animal that looked something like a fox and something like a wolf, and
wasn't either one, a wild animal that was sneaking around the train for
the odd bits of food that were sometimes left in its wake. As the
pungent scent of this beast reached the bulldog's snub nose, the leash
that held him to the trunk became a thing of little worth. With a
violent lurch he broke it, leaped from the door, landed sprawling
alongside the track, and was off in pursuit of the strange animal.

Now, any one who knows how a bulldog is built and how a coyote is built
can imagine how much chance the first has to catch the second. The dog
followed by sight, not by scent. With his head held as high as his short
neck would allow he dashed on. The coyote didn't bother very much. After
getting a good start he doubled on his tracks for a little way, turned
aside, and sat down. And if he wasn't too mean to laugh, he may at
least have smiled as his enemy rushed forward toward nowhere.

Then that bulldog ran and ran until he couldn't run any more. Then he
walked till he couldn't walk any farther. Then he slept all night, while
other coyotes howled dismally near by. And in the morning he started off
again, thinking he was going toward the train and his sorrowful master,
really going in the opposite direction. But there was one thing that man
hadn't taught him to do in all the years, and that was to quit, so he
kept on. And at last, as any one will who keeps going long enough, he
had to arrive somewhere and he reached the Bar O Ranch.

So you and I and the dog know how he got there, but Bill Jordan, the
punchers, and the boys didn't, and presently they gave up trying to
figure it out.

"'Tain't likely his owner'll show up, so he's ours," said Bill Jordan.

"He's Whitey's," Buck Higgins maintained. "He saw him first."

This law was older than any ranch house, or any cowpuncher, so it held
good, and Whitey became the proud owner of the dog. The matter of his
name came next in importance. Of course he had one, and he was awakened,
and asked to respond to as many dog names as the party could think of.
These were many, running from Towser to Nero, but they brought no
response from the sleepy animal.

"Must be somep'n unusual," Buck Higgins decided, and he ventured on
"Alphonse" and "Julius Cæsar," but they didn't fit.

"Well, we jest nachally got t' give him a name," said Shorty Palmer.

Again the list was gone over, but nothing seemed quite right. "Oughta be
somep'n' 'propriate," said Bill Jordan. "How 'bout Moses? He was lost in
th' wilderness."

"Wilderness nothin'!" objected Buck. "In the bullrushes. Them ain't
prairie grass."

"Besides," said Whitey, "he ought to have a fighting name. Napoleon!"

"'Tain't English."

"Wellington."

"Too long."

As he seemed to have no choice in naming his own dog, Whitey turned in
despair to Injun, who had stood solemnly by. "How about you?" Whitey
asked. "Haven't you a name to suggest?"

The dog knew that he was the subject of the talk, and possibly felt that
he ought to keep awake, for he sat on the veranda and blinked at the
humans. Injun gazed at him stolidly.

"Huh!" he grunted. "Sittin' Bull."

"Great!" cried all the others.

This matter settled, the men went away. Sitting Bull stretched himself
out on the veranda and again fell asleep, and Whitey told Injun that the
dog's coming probably was a good omen. That there ought to be something
doing on the ranch now.




CHAPTER II

A SURPRISE


It was early morning, and the Bar O Ranch slept, heedless of the keen
late-autumn air that had in it just a faint, brisk hint of the fall
frosts to come. Whitey came out of the ranch house and moved toward the
stable. Sitting Bull trudged after him.

The dog was entirely rested, having slept the better part of two days
and nights. He seemed to know that Whitey was his new owner. Dogs have
an instinct for that sort of thing. And though Bull was civil and
friendly enough with every one else on the ranch, he took to Whitey by
selection.

At six o'clock each night Bull sat near the ranch-house front door as
though waiting for some one. He waited a long time. Bill Jordan, who
prided himself on what he knew about dogs, and men, said that Bull's
former owner probably was a city man, and was in the habit of coming
home at six; that the dog was waiting for him to appear. Be that as it
may, in the days to come Bull gave up this custom. No one knew what he
felt about the loss of his old master. He became a Montana dog. The city
was to know him no more.

Now he waddled along after Whitey, who was making for a straw stack,
near the stable. Among the field mice, gophers, rabbits, and such that
thought this stack was a pretty nice place to hang around, were two hens
that were of the same opinion. At least they made their nests in the
stack and laid their eggs there. And they were the only hens that the
Bar O boasted, for hens were scarce in Montana in those days - as Buck
said, "almost as scarce as hen's teeth, an' every one knows there ain't
no such thing."

It was Whitey's particular business to gather the eggs of those hens,
which they saw fit to lay early in the morning. So Whitey came to the
stack early, to be ahead of any weasels or ferrets, who had an uncommon
fondness for eggs. This morning as he moved around the stack he didn't
find any eggs, but he saw something black and pointed sticking out of
the straw. Whitey took hold of the object and pulled, and the thing
lengthened out in his hands.

And right there a sort of shivery feeling attacked Whitey's spine and
moved up until it reached his hair, which straightway began to stand on
end, for the object was a boot and in it was a man's leg. The boot came,
followed by the leg, followed by a man. From what might be called the
twin straw beds, another man emerged. Both sat upright in the straw and
rubbed their eyes. Whitey didn't wait to see if any more were coming, or
even to think of where he was going. He fled.

Instinct took him toward the ranch house, and good fortune brought Bill
Jordan out of the door at the same moment.

"Bill!" yelled Whitey, "there's two men in the straw stack!"

Bill did not appear unduly excited. "They ain't eatin' the straw, are
they?" he inquired.

"No, but they look awfully tough, and they nearly gave me
heart-disease," Whitey panted.

"If tough-lookin' folks could give me heart-disease, I'd of bin dead
long ago," Bill responded. "Let's go an' size 'em up."

Bill strolled to the stack with Whitey. The two men, now thoroughly
awake, were still sitting upright in the straw. In front of them stood
Sitting Bull. His lower jaw was sticking out farther than usual, and he
was watching the men and awaiting events.

[Illustration: IN FRONT OF THEM STOOD SITTING BULL]

"Hey! Call off yer dog, will ye?" requested one of the men.

"He ain't mine," Bill answered calmly, indicating Whitey. "He's his."

"Well, get him to call him off," said the man. "Every time we move he
makes a noise like sudden death."

Whitey summoned Bull, who came to him obediently enough, and the men
rose to their feet, and stretched themselves and brushed off some of the
straw that clung to their not over-neat attire. They were not as
bad-looking as they might have been, neither were they as good-looking.
One was tall and slim and wore a dark beard. The other was almost as
tall, but, being very fat, did not look his height. He was
clean-shaven, or would have been had it not been for about three days'
stubbly growth. Their clothes were well-worn, and they wore no collars,
but their boots were good.

"What you fellers doin' here?" demanded Bill. "Ain't the bunk house good
enough for you?"

"We got in late, an' ev'body was in bed," said the taller of the two.
"We're walkin' through for th' thrashin'."

"Well, yer late for that too," said Bill.

The threshing in the early days of Montana was an affair in which many
people of all sorts took part, as will be seen later. Bill questioned
the men, and their story was brought out. It seemed that they had come
from Billings, in search of work at threshing. The taller, thin one was
named Hank, but was usually called "String Beans," on account of his
scissors-like appearance. He had formerly been a cowpuncher. The other
had been a waiter, until he got too fat, then he had become a cook.
Originally named Albert, after he had waited in a restaurant for a
while he had been dubbed "Ham And," which, you may know, is a short way
of ordering ham and eggs. And this name in time was reduced to "Ham."

Bill Jordan did not seem to take the men seriously. Their names may have
had something to do with his attitude, and the early West was not
over-suspicious, anyway. It had been said that "out here we take every
man to be honest, until he is proven to be a thief, and in the East they
take every man to be a thief, until he is proven to be honest." You can
believe that or not, as you happen to live in the West or in the East.
Besides, Bill could make use of the talents of String Beans and Ham. He
needed "hands" to work on the ranch.

When Whitey found that his supposed tragedy was turning into a comedy,
he felt rather bad about it, especially as Bill was inclined to guy him.

"Lucky you didn't shoot up them two fellers what's named after food,"
Bill said, when the strangers had retired to the bunk house. "Or knock
'em out with some of them upper-cuts you're so handy in passin'
'round." For a boy, Whitey was an expert boxer.

"What was I to think, finding them that way?" Whitey retorted. "And they
don't look very good to me yet."

"Clothin' is only skin deep," said Bill.

Whitey felt called on to justify his alarm. "It's not only their
clothes," he said, "but their looks. You noticed that Bull didn't like
them, and you know dogs have true instinct about judging people."

"Let me tell you somethin' about dogs," began Bill, who usually was
willing to tell Whitey, or anybody else, something about anything. "Dogs
is supposed to be democratic, but they ain't. They don't like shabby
men. I'm purty fond of dogs, but they got one fault - they're snobs. They
don't like shabby men," Bill repeated for emphasis.

As Whitey thought of this he remembered that the dogs he had known had
this failing, if it was a failing. He also tried to think of some reason
for it, so he could prove that Bill was wrong, but he couldn't. That is,
he couldn't think of anything until Bill had gone away and it was too
late. Then it occurred to him that it was only the dogs that belonged to
the well-dressed that disliked the poorly dressed. That a shabby man's
dog loved him just as well as though he wore purple and fine linen,
whatever that was. Whitey looked around for Bill to confound him with
this truth, but Bill had disappeared - a way he had of doing the moment
he got the better of an argument.

If the two men were aching to work, they had not long to suffer; Bill
Jordan soon found occupation for them. Slim, the negro cook, had been
taken with a "misery" in his side, and Ham was installed in his place.
And to do Ham justice he was not such a bad cook. The ranch hands
allowed that he couldn't have been worse than Slim, anyway. String Beans
did not make so much of a hit as a cowpuncher. Bill watched some of his
efforts, and said that though he was a bad puncher he was a good liar
for saying he'd ever seen a cow before. So String Beans was sent to the
mine to work.

This quartz mine, up in the mountains, was the one near which Injun and
Whitey had had so many exciting adventures. Now they owned an interest
in it, as has been told, though Mr. Sherwood and a tribe of Dakota
Indians were the principal shareholders. During the summer the mine had
been undergoing development, and the first shipment of ore was soon to
be made.

With String Beans working at the mine, and Ham improving the men's
digestion as a cook, it began to look as though Whitey's idea that they
were desperate characters was ill-founded. In fact, the thought had
almost passed from his mind, and was quite forgotten on a certain
Saturday. On that day Injun and Whitey were free from the teachings of
John Big Moose, and were out on the plains for antelope. They didn't get
an antelope, didn't even see one. All they got were appetites; though
Whitey's appetite came without calling, as it were, and always excited
the admiration of Bill Jordan. After dinner that evening Whitey went to
the bunk house. Some of the cowpunchers were in from the range, and
Whitey loved to hear the yarns they would spin.

So he lay in a bunk and listened to a number of stories, and wondered
if they were all true - and it is a singular fact that some of them were.
But Whitey's day's hunt had been long, and his dinner had been big, and
his eyes began to droop.

Buck Higgins was in the midst of a tale about being thrown from his


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