by B. M. Bower
CHAPTER THREE: SOME INDIAN LORE
Buddy knew Indians as he knew cattle, horses, rattlesnakes andstorms--by having them mixed in with his everyday life. He couldn't tellyou where or when he had learned that Indians are tricky. Perhaps hisfirst ideas on that subject were gleaned from the friendly tribes wholived along the Chisolm Trail and used to visit the chuck-wagon, theirblankets held close around them and their eyes glancing everywhere whilethey grinned and talked and pointed--and ate. Buddy used to sit in thechuck-wagon, out of harm's way, and watch them eat.
Step-and-a-Half had a way of entertaining Indians which never failedto interest Buddy, however often he witnessed it. When Step-and-a-Halfglimpsed Indians coming afar off, he would take his dishpan and dumpinto it whatever scraps of food were left over from the preceding meal.He used to say that Indians could smell grub as far as a buzzard cansmell a dead carcase, and Buddy believed it, for they always arrived atmeal time or shortly afterwards. Step-and-a-Half would make a stew, ifthere were scraps enough. If the gleanings were small, he would use thedishwater--he was a frugal man--and with that for the start-off he wouldmake soup, which the Indians gulped down with great relish and manygurgly sounds.
Buddy watched them eat what he called pig-dinner. When Step-and-a-Halfwas not looking he saw them steal whatever their dirty brown hands couldreadily snatch and hide under their blankets. So he knew from very earlyexperience that Indians were not to be trusted.
Once, when he had again strayed too far from camp, some Indians ridingthat way saw him, and one leaned and lifted him from the ground and rodeoff with him. Buddy did not struggle much. He saved his breath for thelong, shrill yell of cow-country. Twice he yodled before the Indianclapped a hand over his mouth.
Father and some of the cowboys heard and came after, riding hard andshooting as they came. Buddy's pink apron fluttered a signal flag in thearms of his captor, and so it happened that the bullets whistled closeto that particular Indian. He gathered a handful of calico betweenBuddy's shoulders, held him aloft like a puppy, leaned far over anddeposited him on the ground.
Buddy rolled over twice and got up, a little dizzy and very indignant,and shouted to father, "Shoot a sunsyguns!"
From that time Buddy added hatred to his distrust of Indians.
From the time when he was four until he was thirteen Buddy's lifecontained enough thrills to keep a movie-mad boy of to-day sitting onthe edge of his seat gasping enviously through many a reel, but to Buddyit was all rather humdrum and monotonous.
What he wanted to do was to get out and hunt buffalo. Just herdinghorses, and watching out for Indians, and killing rattlesnakes was whatany boy in the country would be doing. Still, Buddy himself achieved nowand then a thrill.
There was one day, when he stood heedlessly on a ridge looking for adozen head of lost horses in the draws below. It was all very well toexplain missing horses by the conjecture that the Injuns must have gotthem, but Buddy happened to miss old Rattler with the others. Rattlerhad come north with the trail herd, and he was wise beyond the wisdom ofmost horses. He would drive cattle out of the brush without a rider toguide him, if only you put a saddle on him. He had helped Buddy to mounthis back--when Buddy was much smaller than now--by lowering his headuntil Buddy straddled it, and then lifting it so that Buddy slid downhis neck and over his withers to his back. Even now Buddy sometimesmounted that way when no one was looking. Many other lovable traits hadRattler, and to lose him would be a tragedy to the family.
So Buddy was on the ridge, scanning all the deep little washes anddraws, when a bullet PING-G-GED over his head. Buddy caught the bridlereins and pulled his horse into the shelter of rocks, untied his riflefrom the saddle and crept back to reconnoitre. It was the first time hehad ever been shot at--except in the army posts, when the Indianshad "broken out",--and the aim then was generally directed toward hisvicinity rather than his person.
An Indian on a horse presently appeared cautiously from cover, andBuddy, trembling with excitement, shot wild; but not so wild that theIndian could afford to scoff and ride closer. After another ineffectualshot at Buddy, he whipped his horse down the ridge, and made for Bannockcreek.
Buddy at thirteen knew more of the wiles of Indians than does thehardiest Indian fighter on the screen to-day. Father had warned himnever to chase an Indian into cover, where others would probably bewaiting for him. So he stayed where he was, pretty well hidden in therocks, and let the bullets he himself had "run" in father's bullet-moldfollow the enemy to the fringe of bushes. His last shot knocked theIndian off his horse--or so it looked to Buddy. He waited for a longtime, watching the brush and thinking what a fool that Indian was toimagine Buddy would follow him down there. After a while he saw theIndian's horse climbing the slope across the creek. There was no rider.
Buddy rode home without the missing horses, and did not tell anyoneabout the Indian, though his thoughts would not leave the subject.
He wondered what mother would think of it. Mother's interests seemedmostly confined to teaching Buddy and Dulcie what they were deprived oflearning in schools, and to play the piano--a wonderful old square pianothat had come all the way from Scotland to the Tomahawk ranch, the veryfrontier of the West.
Mother was a wonderful woman, with a soft voice and a slight Scotchaccent, and wit; and a knowledge of things which were little known inthe wilderness. Buddy never dreamed then how strangely culture was mixedwith pure savagery in his life. To him the secret regret that he had notdared ride into the bushes to scalp the Indian he believed he had shot,and the fact that his hands were straining at the full chords ofthe ANVIL CHORUS on that very evening, was not even to be consideredunusual. Still, certain strains of that classic were always afterwardassociated in his mind with the shooting of the Indian--if he had reallyshot him.
While he counted the time with a conscientious regard for the rests, hedebated the wisdom of telling mother, and decided that perhaps he hadbetter keep that matter to himself, like a man.