CHAPTER X
A HARD JOB
The next day, as Whitey--all unconscious of the plot againsthim--returned from the affairs of his fishing partnership, he was met byBill Jordan.
"Whitey," said Bill, "I got somep'n' for you t' do, an' I'm 'fraid it'lltake you out o' school for a while."
Whitey looked sharply at Bill for a trace of suspicion or sarcasm, butBill's face was as blank as a Chinaman's.
"'S very important," Bill continued, "an' I think your father'd considerme justified in takin' you away fr'm your lessons." Having studied thismatter all out beforehand, Bill was using larger words than usual. "Igot a letter for t' be delivered t' Dan Brayton, up at th' T Up and DownRanch, 'bout some business o' your father's. Really, I ought t' gom'self, an' see Dan pussonally, but I ain't got time. Can't spare any o'th' men, 'count o' th' roundup's comin' on. Don't see nothin' t' do,except t' make you th' messenger."
Whitey was delighted. "Where is the T Up and Down?" he asked.
"'Bout a hunderd an' fifteen miles no'thwest o' here, t'other side o'Zumbro Creek," Bill answered.
"Good!" cried Whitey. "I'll take Injun, and--"
"Wouldn't do that," Bill objected. "Dan hates Injuns, an' he'd sure berambunctious 'bout this one."
"All right," Whitey agreed, rather reluctantly. "If I start earlyenough, Monty and I ought to make it some time to-morrow night."
If Whitey had been noticing Bill's face at that moment, he would haveseen a rather peculiar smile cross it, but he wasn't. Nor did he suspectanything the next morning, when he met Bill at the corral before dawn.
"That Monty hoss o' yours seems sort o' lame, this mornin'," said Bill."Reck'n one o' th' other cayuses must 'a' kicked him, or somep'n. Dunnoas he c'd stand th' trip."
And, sure enough, Monty limped slightly as he moved about the corral.Whitey did not know that a hair tied around a horse's leg, just abovethe hock, will make the animal limp, and will not be noticeable, northat as a part of Bill's scheme Monty had been so treated. So Whitey wasworried about his pony, but Bill assured him that Monty would probablybe all right in a day or so--when it was too late.
"Pshaw, I'll have to ride a strange horse!" Whitey said dejectedly.
"I bin thinkin'," said Bill, "what with our bein' kinda short on stock,just now, an' th' boys needin' all their strings for th' round-up, an'everythin', it might be a good scheme for you t' go in th' stage. Besort of a change for you. You c'd ride as far as Cal Smith's ranch, an'he'd lend you a hoss t' take you on t' th' T Up and Down."
Again the unsuspecting Whitey was delighted, as every Western boy was,in those days, to ride on the old-fashioned but swift-movingstage-coaches that were still the main means of communication betweenmany places in that sparsely settled country.
At six o'clock Whitey was waiting in the road, with Bill, and when thecoach appeared, and was halted, was hoisted up to a seat beside thedriver; a seat of honor that did not happen to be occupied that trip.Messenger boys and telephones were unknown on the Frontier at that time.Even the telegraph lines were limited to the course of the big railroadthat pointed its nose from St. Paul to the Pacific. So Whitey, with theimportant letter sewed inside his shirt, thereby became the firstmessenger boy known to the history of the West.
And he surely enjoyed seeing the driver wield his long whip, and capablyhandle the six reins that controlled the six spirited horses. And goingdown grade Whitey would have to put his arm around the driver's middle,because his legs were not quite long enough to reach the dashboard, andif the body of that old-fashioned stage-coach had hit him in the middleof the back, Whitey would have beaten the horses down the hill.
Everything went well for ninety miles, and at a certain trail thedriver pulled up and said, "Well, son, here's where you have t' wear outyour moccasins. There's your trail, bearing off t' th' right. Follow itfor twenty-five miles, an' you'll be where you want t' go."
"Twenty-five miles!" gasped Whitey. "Do you mean to say that I have towalk twenty-five miles?"
"Sure," said the driver. "If you keep goin' good an' lively th' rest o'th' day, you c'n hit th' Zumbro before dark, an' just one mile this sideo' th' Zumbro is Cal Smith's ranch. He'll take care o' you overnight,an' you c'n go t' th' T Up and Down in th' mornin'."
"B--but I didn't know I had to walk," Whitey protested.
"Reck'n you do, unless you c'n ketch a jack-rabbit an' ride him," thedriver answered.
"I thought the ranch was right on the line of the stage road," Whiteysaid weakly. "Bill Jordan didn't say anything about walking."
"Well, Bill's a funny cuss, an' mebbe he kept this for you as a sort o's'prise," the driver allowed, with a grin. "Good-bye. Giddap!" And thecoach whirled away, in a cloud of dust, leaving Whitey standing in thelonely road, looking off over the lonelier prairie.
But nothing was to be gained by that, and he started along the trail,which really was a little-used wagon track. And as he walked he thoughtabout Bill Jordan, and his conclusions were none too pleasant. He didnot suspect that this was part of a deep-laid plot of Bill's. Rather hethought that, as the driver had said, this was one of Bill's jokes, andhe could fancy Bill and Jim Walker and Buck Higgins and the otherschuckling over the trick, and Whitey planned how he would get even withBill when he returned. He little guessed how long it would be beforethat return, and how many events would intervene to drive thoughts ofrevenge from his mind.
And Whitey trudged on and on, and the walking was very bad, for therehad been a succession of heavy rains, almost cloud-bursts, that had madethe road soggy. And for several miles the trail led through rocky hills,and there the walking was even worse, for the rains had washed theearth out of the trails, leaving a series of sharp stones that certainlywere hard on moccasin-clad feet. And the harder the trail was, theharder became Whitey's opinion of Bill Jordan and his jokes.
Darkness comes late in that northern country, and it was dusk whenWhitey had another unpleasant surprise, for he came to the Zumbro, and asight met his eyes that would have made almost any grown-up stand backand look a lot. She wasn't a creek, she was a river; no, she wasn't ariver, she was a rearing, roaring, raging torrent, owing to the rainsand floods that had filled the banks to overflowing.
And this wasn't the worst of it. Where was Cal Smith's ranch, a milethis side of the Zumbro? The driver had told him about that, so itcouldn't have been another of Bill Jordan's jokes. Whitey looked back,and saw a line of hills, and realized that the ranch lay behind them,and that he had passed it. And sorrowfully he retraced his steps.
They say that the last mile of a long walk is the worst, and itcertainly proved so in this case, for it was dark when Whitey turned offinto a side road and the lights of Cal Smith's ranch house met his view.
There may have been more welcome sights to Whitey than the yellow gleamsof those window lights, but he could not remember them, as he limpedtoward the house. Even the sharp barking of a dog, that was stilled by acall from an opening door, sounded good to him. And when he was in thehouse, where he was welcomed by big, genial Cal Smith, and seated at atable in the kitchen, devouring ham and eggs and home-made bread andpie, and drinking hot coffee, provided by good-natured, motherly Mrs.Cal--why, it was almost worth the tramp to meet such a reception at theend of it.
And friendly and hospitable as were Mr. and Mrs. Cal, there were otherand greater attractions in that household for Whitey. There were fiveyoung Smiths,--five boys, three older and two younger than, Whitey,--andnot a girl in sight. In that company Whitey forgot all about beingtired. A new boy, that knew stories, was meat and drink to them--andfive boys, that knew stories that were new to Whitey, were meat anddrink to him.
Their sleeping quarters were the garret, and while a lantern swung froma beam, and Mr. and Mrs. Cal were asleep, and the boys were supposed tobe asleep, those kids just wrote and rewrote a history of the West thatwould make all the tenderfeet in the world stay at home, and foreverhold down the population of the Frontier.
And the smallest boy, named Cal after his f
ather, had a hard timekeeping awake, but was bound to do it if it killed him; and the biggestboy, named Abe after Abraham Lincoln, probably knew more about wildanimals than any boy in the world; and the smallest boy never had killedany animals, except a stray mole or two, that happened to get out in thedaytime, by mistake, but he was _goin' to_--and--well, there was so muchto be told, and it had to be told so fast, that no shorthand writer thatever lived could have put it all down.
But finally, no matter how interesting the company, sleep will come tohealthy boys, and just before that time came, and could not be put offany longer, they happened to be talking about dreams. Abe said that ifyou would tie a rope around your neck, and tie it to a beam, just beforeyou went to sleep, you would sure dream of a hanging. And, of course,Whitey had to try it.
He tied the rope around his neck, he tied the other end around a beam,and he went to sleep. There were six boys in that bed, and there was awhole lot of crowding, and Whitey was sleeping on the outside. And hedidn't have to dream about any hanging, because he came so near the realthing. I don't have to tell you how it happened. Bill Jordan's lettercame mighty near not being delivered. However, all ended happily, andsave for rubbing that part of his anatomy where he wore a collar afterhe was grown up, Whitey was all right.
Injun and Whitey to the Rescue Page 11