Injun and Whitey to the Rescue

by William S. Hart

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE NEW ORDER

  At midnight Whitey was awakened; awakened and almost strangled at thesame time. A hand was clamped across his mouth, with force enough topush his teeth down his throat. A lamp burned low in the room. Whiteysaw Mrs. Steele bending over him. Her face was ashen with fear. Hereyes, bulging from her head, looked to Whitey to be the size of saucers.Whitey struggled vainly in her clutch.

  "They're going to kill my husband!" she gasped. "Go, go to your father'sranch. Get the vigilantes. Bring them here quick, for God's sake!They'll murder him, they'll murder him!"

  She dragged Whitey from the bed and, half pulling him behind her, gropedher way to the side door of the ranch house and into the blackness ofthe night. Tied to a bush, by a hackamore, was an iron-gray colt, thefastest on the ranch. After that night's work he was known to be thefastest in that part of the country.

  Mrs. Steele gave the half-awakened Whitey a "foot up" upon the pony,untied the hackamore, and he was gone. Fortunately for Whitey the horsewas turned in the right direction. That pony had been wanting to runever since he was born. This was the first time he ever had had achance, and he sure took advantage of it.

  Back toward the men's quarters the night was fractured by sounds likethose of a healthy young riot. These meant nothing to Whitey, nor didthe pung! pung! of bullets, when he started, or rather when the coltstarted. Perhaps the men were shooting wide, or perhaps the pony wasgoing so fast the bullets couldn't catch him. Be it said for thethreshers they didn't know they were shooting at a boy.

  You will admit that being wakened from a sound sleep, shot on to theback of an almost wild colt, and borne across a dark prairie atlightning speed does not tend to make one think clearly. Whitey had onlyone lucid thought during that ride. If any cowpunchers mistook hiswhite-clad figure for a ghost, they couldn't shoot him--he was goingtoo fast. In a vague way he was thankful for this.

  The distance was fourteen miles, and it seemed to Whitey as though hemade it in thirteen jumps. When the pony arrived at the Bar O Ranch, hestill had the boy with him. And when Whitey pulled up the restless colt,and roused the slumbering household, he had another sensation coming,for his father was there.

  Mr. Sherwood had intended his coming to the ranch that day as asurprise, and it was. And he had had a surprise coming to him. He hadlaughed when Bill Jordan told him how he was hazing Whitey. Then WaltLampson, of the Star Circle, had arrived with Mart Cooley, who was nowworking for Walt. They had dropped in to see if Whitey had arrived homesafely, supposing that he had started for home when he left the StarCircle.

  When it was learned that Whitey wasn't at home, and no one knew where hewas, Mr. Sherwood had his surprise, and it wasn't pleasant. And BillJordan looked crestfallen. They had talked it over till late, anddecided to start a search for Whitey in the morning. Then, when Whitey,clad in a large night-shirt and riding a half-wild pony, came to summonthe vigilantes--well, it seemed a time for surprises.

  The men hastily dressed and armed themselves, summoned all the others onthe ranch, and saddled their horses. While this is going on, at the riskof telling you something you already know, a word about the vigilantes.In the Old West various bodies of men were formed to clean up the wilderelements. Sometimes they enforced their law by being lawless themselves.They made a man be good if they had to hang him to do it. The law wasweak. By harsh, rough treatment--as a tigress might treat its cub--theymade it strong. And when the law was strong and able to care foritself--again like the tigress--they allowed it to do so; the vigilantesdisbanded.

  The Bar O mustered about ten men. The rider of the fastest horse dashedahead to the Junction, to get reenforcements to join the ranchmen ontheir way to the scene of action. And now came bitter, oh, bitter!disappointment for Whitey. He was not to be allowed to go. He had beenhero enough. The only clothing that iron-gray pony had on during thatfourteen-mile ride was a hackamore, and the only clothing Whitey had onwas a night-shirt. He was fit for nothing except to lie face downwardand sleep--no attitude for a hero.

  Whitey begged, he appealed, he almost wept, but his father was firm. Hewas willing to risk his own life; he would not risk his son's. So, withtears in his eyes, Whitey stood and watched the party gallop away in thedarkness. And beside him, a lantern in his hand, stood the cook, anelderly man who had taken Wong Lee's place. And he watched wistfully,too, for he wanted to go, but he had left one of his legs on a Southernbattle-field.

  Whitey choked back a sob with which the silence would have been broken.He felt something warm and moist on his hand, and looked down. It wasthe tongue of Sitting Bull, the faithful--forgotten but not forgetting.And as Whitey gazed at the friendly ugly face of the dog, he noted thedetermination marked in every feature of it. He could not imagine anyone's stopping Bull from going into a fight if he wanted to go into it.And perhaps unconsciously Whitey's under lip and jaw shot out, and hisface took on much the expression of Bull's. Whitey would like to see anyone stop _him_ from going.

  That new, elderly cook not only approved of Whitey's purpose ofdisobedience or rebellion, he aided him in it; yes, if it cost him hisjob! There was the iron-gray colt, still restless and as ready for thefourteen-mile ride back as he was for his breakfast. While Whitey limpedinto the ranch house for some clothing and footwear, the cook had hisown troubles getting his own saddle and bridle on that pony.

  When Whitey reappeared and was helped into the saddle, he let out a yellof agony and helped himself out again. This would never do. The leatherfelt like hot iron. A consultation. The cook's blankets were broughtout, folded and cinched on the saddle, the stirrups shortened. AgainWhitey mounted. The torture was somewhat less. Painfully he gallopedaway. A last look back showed the lantern on the ground, the cookkneeling beside it, with both arms around Sitting Bull, restraining thatwarrior from following.

  When the Bar O men and Lampson and Cooley were joined by the contingentfrom the Junction, about forty determined vigilantes dashed over theprairie. Their horses were fresh and they made good speed. The cloudydarkness had given way to starlight that dimly illumined the stillnight. Mr. Sherwood had aimed at a sufficient force to overawe thethreshers, if possible. There was little talk.

  They had made perhaps ten miles when there was a distraction. A horsecame galloping toward them. A dozen rifles were drawn from theirgunboats. When the horse drew near, it made a detour, avoiding them, andeyes accustomed to the darkness could see that it was riderless. With nopause, but commenting on this, they rode on.

  About two miles farther on, from the surface of the plain came a flashof flame and the short bark of a forty-five, followed by another andanother. The men reined in, but the shots were directed the other way.The marksman was evidently too occupied with his invisible target tonotice them. But on their nearer approach he rose to his feet andstarted to run. A shot over his head, a sharp command, and he halted andwas surrounded by the vigilantes, but not before he had slily droppedsome object in the grass. One of the men dismounted and struck a match.

  "Why, it's Henry Dorgan!" exclaimed Mart Cooley.

  Dorgan appeared to be greatly flustered and in pain. His left arm washelpless from a wound in the shoulder, and from the fleshy part of it anarrow protruded. It probably had been less painful to leave it therethan to pull it out. It was a home-made arrow.

  "What you shootin' at?" demanded Bill Jordan.

  "That infernal Injun," whined Dorgan. "He's bin pesterin' me; follerin'me like a shadow."

  The vigilantes peered into the darkness, and made out a hummock on theprairie. It was a dead horse, and from behind it Injun rose and cametoward the group. He had been reassured by the sound of Bill's voice.

  "Lemme go!" cried Dorgan. "I don't want no more truck with him," and hestarted as if to run, but was roughly held back.

  "What's all this rumpus about, Injun?" Bill Jordan demanded, when theboy was within hearing.

  Injun indicated Dorgan. "Him steal Monty," he said.

  "Is that Monty lying dead over there?" Mr.
Sherwood inquired anxiously.

  "No. Him run away," Injun replied.

  "Then it musta bin Monty that passed us," said Bill Jordan.

  Through short, sharp questioning it was developed that Injun had seenDorgan take Monty from the Hanley Ranch corral, had borrowed a mount forhimself, and followed; that he had winged Dorgan with an arrow, theshock of which had jarred him so that he had fallen from the pony. Theother arrow in Dorgan's arm was the result of another lucky shot byInjun. When the vigilantes arrived, Dorgan was striving to return thecompliment. He had succeeded in killing Injun's borrowed horse, behindwhich that expert young person had barricaded himself. It took but aminute to tell this story. Again Injun indicated Dorgan and said:

  "Him drop something." Running back in the course Dorgan had taken, Injunreturned with a small but heavy canvas bag. It was filled with gold andsilver coins, the principal currency of the West in those days. Thispromised interesting developments, but Dorgan, who had fallen into asullen silence, refused to answer when questioned about the bag.

  "What's going on at the Hanley Ranch, Injun?" Mr. Sherwood asked. "Havethose threshers killed Gil Steele?"

  "Dunno, Make heap noise. Much fire-wa--whiskey," said Injun, suddenlyremembering his education. His object had been to "get" Dorgan. His planhad been to watch Monty. The plan had worked. That was all he knew.

  "Come, we've lost time enough," said Mr. Sherwood. "Two of you fellowswill have to ride double. One take Injun, the other Dorgan. Injun, youtake Dorgan's gun, and if he makes a break, plug him."

  But Dorgan didn't want to go back to the Hanley Ranch, and suddenly hebecame very talkative. He could explain about the money and Monty andeverything.

  "No time for chinning," Bill Jordan said. "Boost him up."

  "Would you b'lieve a Injun 'stead o' me?" Dorgan wailed, as he was beingboosted onto the horse of a disgusted cowboy.

  "Sure--a rattlesnake," declared Bill. And the party started, Injunproudly carrying Dorgan's reloaded six-gun.

  Except for the horses bearing double the rest of the ride was made atbreakneck speed. When the vigilantes approached the Hanley Ranch house,a noise was heard such as is supposed to come from Donnybrook Fair. Theyheaded for the sounds, but as they arrived the racket had ceased. It wasfollowed by an ominous stillness. This, in turn, was broken by a woman'sscream.

  Over a score of men, most of them half drunk, were gathered in front ofa large barn. From the ridge of this projected a derrick-beam with apulley through which a rope was roved. One end of the rope was in thehands of several threshers, the other was in a noose around Gil Steele'sneck. Mrs. Steele was being bound and gagged by other men. The action ofthe group came to an abrupt standstill as the vigilantes dismounted andcrowded into the foreground.

  "Unloose that rope," said Mr. Sherwood. He released Mrs. Steele himself.

  The man who seemed to be the thresher's leader glanced around at thevigilantes, their number, their rifles, and their Colt guns. He unloosedthe rope.

  "Now, what's all this about?" demanded Mr. Sherwood, seeing that dangerwas averted.

  In an instant Babel broke loose. The sober and half-drunken men and GilSteele began loud and angry explanations. Steele was interrupted by hiswife, who staggered and almost fell as she threw herself on his breastand fainted. Thus was the step from tragedy to comedy taken, but no onethought of laughing. The tragedy was too close.

  Then came another interruption: the arrival of the double-laden horseswith Injun and Dorgan. When the latter was dragged into the group, andthe bag of money thrown on the ground in front of him, there was anotherominous silence. Gil Steele released himself from his wife, who hadrecovered. He knelt and with trembling fingers undid the neck of thebag, and displayed its contents of gold and silver. That bag of moneywas the key to the whole situation. Again Babel broke loose.

  In time, out of the yells, curses, threats, and other sounds, this storywas extracted: Gil Steele's closeness, not to say meanness, had made himmore than unpopular. The threshers who owned the machine worked apercentage of the grain which they carted away to the railroad. Gil hadtried to reduce this percentage. The threshers, abetted by Henry Dorgan,had tried to increase it. Dorgan also had told the hired hands thatSteele intended to reduce their wages. Steele had become angry andrefused to talk to any of the men. In some mysterious way Dorgan hadintroduced a keg of whiskey into the situation.

  The hands had demanded their money, and none was forthcoming. They hadattacked Gil Steele, who had wounded one of them and fled. It was thenthat Mrs. Steele had sent Whitey for aid, as it was certain that theinfuriated mob would hang Steele if they found him. Gil was hidden in amost unromantic place; a sort of dugout, one-third dirt, one-thirdboards, and one-third stone, in which hams were smoked. You know hownear he came to going from that place to his death.

  And Henry Dorgan had created the disturbance so that under cover of ithe might steal the bag containing the money for the men.

  When this fact was apparent to the minds of the excited hands, they andGil Steele made a rush for the cowering Dorgan, but Mr. Sherwood andsome of the vigilantes intervened with drawn weapons and forced themback. The vigilantes would see that the law punished Dorgan. There wasloud-voiced protest against this, but the attackers were outnumbered andwere helpless.

  During this Walt Lampson and Mart Cooley had been talking apart, and nowWalt stepped forward. "This law business is all well enough," he said,"but I got somethin' t' say about Dorgan." He faced the crowd. "Lots o'you fellers are cowmen, ain't you?" he asked. Most of the men were."When the Star Circle herd was stampeded by them white-caps," Lampsonwent on, "an' we got them sheepmen for doin' it, Donald Spellman cashedin, but before doin' so he told me who put up the job. It was thisfeller Dorgan. Him a cowman, an' he turned ag'in' his kind for money.Are we goin' t' let him get away?"

  Henry Dorgan's feeling of relief was gone, and he crouched behind Mr.Sherwood and Bill Jordan, white-faced with fear, as a loud "No!" camefrom a majority of the men. This turn of events caused a breach in thevigilantes' ranks. The Bar O men stood by Mr. Sherwood, but some of thecattlemen from the Junction hated sheepmen more than they loved the law.

  "Better give Dorgan up," Walt Lampson advised Mr. Sherwood.

  "No," replied Mr. Sherwood.

  A movement began in the crowd. Men ranged themselves on one side or theother. With the Bar O men and those left from the Junction crowd, Mr.Sherwood now headed about twenty vigilantes; they were outnumbered. Theold cowpuncher, he of the Custer story, came and stood by Bill Jordan.It being evident that it would take a fight to get Dorgan, Walt Lampsonstepped back and Mart Cooley took his place.

  "Mart's a bad hombre, boss," Bill Jordan whispered to Mr. Sherwood. "Youain't got no call t' get killed. You better get out o' this."

  "Are you going to get out, Bill?" Mr. Sherwood asked, and Bill grinned.

  As this Western bad man and this Eastern business man faced each other,they represented not only violence against law, but something else--theold order against the new: the old order that survives only on theprinted page and in the memory of man.

  "Better give in," Walt Lampson shouted from the crowd. "That skunkDorgan ain't worth sheddin' blood for."

  "The law is," Mr. Sherwood replied determinedly.

  His courage seemed to make an impression on the mutineers, as moralcourage usually does, but not on Mart Cooley, who was regarding Mr.Sherwood coldly. Mart did not reach for a gun. Your bad man neverdid--until the gun was to go into action. And there was this silentpause between the two factions, when a word would have meant bloodshed.

  Whitey had ridden into the outskirts of the scene, unnoticed, and hadseen his father facing Mart Cooley, the man who handed out death soeasily and unerringly. As Whitey dismounted and staggered toward thecenter of the crowd, he was joined by Injun, who was standing near.Whitey's face was ashen and his teeth clenched. He was not going to seehis father killed if he could help it, though he had not the slightestidea how he could help it. Mr. Sherwood exclai
med angrily when he sawhis son approach with Injun.

  Near by stood Mrs. Steele, with clasped hands and staring eyes, helplesswith fear. The boys' coming caused a moment's irresolution in the crowd.Mrs. Steele saw her chance, and fear left her. She boldly forced her wayto where Injun and Whitey stood, and turned to her husband, who wasforemost among the lynchers.

  "Gil!" she cried, pointing at Whitey. "You ain't goin' to kill this boy?He saved your life!" She saw a change come in her husband's face and wasquick to follow up her advantage. She grasped Injun by the arm. "Andthis Injun," she called. "See what he did for you. You ain't goin' tofire on him?"

  "No, by----, I ain't!" said Steele.

  In his thirst for revenge he had been willing enough to oppose hisrescuers; indeed, some of them would have been fighting with him; but tofight against the boys was different. He drew his gun from its holster,threw it on the ground, went over to Whitey, and grasped him by thehand.

  It would be hard to say what turned the tide of that mob's feelings.Whether it was Whitey's standing by his father, Mrs. Steele's quick wit,or Gil's throwing down his gun, or all three. But the tide was turned.The desire to kill was gone, and no one knew this better than MartCooley. As he and Walt Lampson moved toward the horses, he paused andspoke to Mr. Sherwood.

  "You got good nerve, all right," he said, "and so has the kid."

  Mr. Sherwood smiled, and Mart Cooley went on into the shadows, fromwhich he never came again, as far as the father and son's lives went.And it must be admitted that Whitey's nerves were rather shaken by now,with the excitement of the ride and the fear for his father and all. Butit was something to have been the first messenger boy in the West--evenif you were started off as a joke--and to help bring about the new orderof things.