Kitabı oku: «Frank Merriwell's Athletes: or, The Boys Who Won», sayfa 8

CHAPTER XVII – OFF FOR PUEBLO

Frank was astonished, but his face showed not the least sign of surprise. Carver was a Western sport and “bad man.” It was said that, when aroused, he was more dangerous than a hundred rattlesnakes.

“Well, Mr. Carver,” said Frank, “I have heard that it is your custom to do your shooting first and your palavering afterward; but I trust you will break the rule in this case. I have heard that you claim to be a gentleman, and, as a gentleman, I ask you not to do any shooting here in the presence of these ladies, who are already badly frightened, and would be horrified at the sight of blood.”

“Oh, if you put it that way,” said the man, slowly, “I presume I shall have to throw up my hand, although I feel it a duty to shoot some holes in that drunken redskin.”

“As a favor to the ladies you will not shoot him?”

“As a favor to the ladies, I will not shoot him – here.”

Merry instantly let go of Dan Carver’s wrist, saying:

“I thank you, sir.”

The Indian who had been knocked down had regained his feet by this time. He paused, swaying a bit unsteadily, and glared in a drunken way at Inza and her rescuer, then he turned and staggered away, disappearing around the station.

“The horrid beast!” exclaimed Miss Abigail, who had lifted her parasol, as if to strike him, while she stiffly stood her ground. “Indians are not good for anything anyway. You never can make anything decent out of them, no matter how hard you try.”

“I believe that is what all white folks think,” said the young man who had knocked the drunken savage down. “They may be right.”

There was a trace of bitterness in the words and the tone in which they were spoken.

Frank stared hard at the rescuer, and then, stepping forward, cried:

“I believe I know you! I am sure I do! Why, you are John Swiftwing, and I have played football against you!”

The youth with the swarthy face looked at Frank, and then bowed gravely.

“I am John Swiftwing,” he acknowledged; “and I remember you. You are a Yale man, and your name is Merriwell.”

Frank held out his hand.

“Shake, Swiftwing!” he cried. “I am delighted to see you, although you nearly killed me once on a tackle. Without question, you are the fiercest tackler and the best football player Carlisle has on her team. If she had ten more men like you, she’d wipe up the earth with every Eastern college.”

A gleam shot from the eyes of the other, and he accepted Frank’s hand.

“You speak as if you mean it,” he said, “and I thank you.”

“I do mean it,” declared Frank. “Why, all the Eastern papers said so! You showed yourself a wonder. You play football as if your life depended on it.”

“Yes. It is the only white man’s game worth playing.”

“I can’t agree with you there. I consider baseball superior.”

Swiftwing shook his head.

“No,” he said; “it is too tame. Football is like a battle, and it makes one’s blood tingle.”

“Well, I wish to thank you for your ready intervention in behalf of this young lady, who is a friend of mine. Permit me to introduce you. Miss Burrage, this is Mr. Swiftwing, a Carlisle student.”

The young man bowed with a grace that was natural and pleasing, lifting his hat as he did so.

Impulsively Inza held out her gloved hand.

“Mr. Swiftwing,” she said, “I am awfully glad to know you, and, oh! I want to thank you so much for what you just did! That – that drunken – man nearly scared me to death.”

“Why didn’t you say that drunken Indian, as you started to, Miss Burrage?” asked Swiftwing, with something like a bitter smile. “White men never get drunk, I believe!”

“Goodness, yes they do!” exclaimed Miss Abigail; “but not all of them get drunk. All Indians get drunk.”

“Not all of them, madam – I beg your pardon. I have never tasted a drop of liquor in my life.”

“You – you? Why – why – you are – are not – ”

“Miss Gale,” said Frank, “allow me to introduce Mr. Swiftwing, who is a full-blooded Indian and a student at the school in Carlisle, Pennsylvania.”

The spinster looked astonished, nearly dropping her parasol.

“Gracious me!” she fluttered. “Him an Indian? Why, he’s dressed decent, and I’d never suspected it if you hadn’t said so. My, my! what a surprise!”

She did not offer to shake hands, but Swiftwing bowed to her quite as courteously as he had to Inza.

The other boys crowded around, and Frank introduced them all to the Carlisle student, to whom he explained that they were on their way to the Pueblo of Taos.

“But how do you happen to be away out here, Swiftwing?” asked Frank. “Is your home near here?”

“My home is at the Pueblo of Taos, and I am on my way thither.”

“That is remarkable! You are not done at Carlisle?”

“No, I have another year there. I became hungry for a sight of home, and that is how I happen to be here.”

“How do you travel from here?”

“By horse. I suppose you will go by stage. Ramon Griego will carry you.”

“Yes, we go that way; but we’ll see you again at the Pueblo. I wish to have a talk with you.”

“And so do I,” declared Inza, sincerely, regarding the Indian with admiration. “I want to thank you again for what you did. It was splendid of you.”

She held out her hand once more. John took it, bowed low, and, to her surprise, lifted it to his lips. It was an act that astonished Frank more than any one else, for, despite what he knew of Swiftwing, he had felt that the Indian was incapable of such a thing.

With a wave of his hand to Frank and the others, Swiftwing turned and walked away.

“He is a splendid fellow!” said Inza, a flush on her cheeks. “I did not suppose there could be such a difference between two Indians.”

“Look out, Frankie, me b’y!” chuckled Barney. “It’s a rid roival ye’ll have th’ firrust thing ye know.”

Miss Abigail gave a contemptuous sniff.

“He appeared all right,” she said “but even he is an Indian, and no Indian can ever be like a white man.”

It seemed that John Swiftwing’s ears were remarkably keen, for he seemed to hear those words, and he paused suddenly, turning about with a proud gesture. He was at the corner of the station, and not one of that group ever forgot how he looked as he stood there, looking back at them with all the haughtiness of his nature aroused. With something like a gesture of anger and disdain, he turned again and vanished around the corner.

A moment later he was seen galloping away on the back of a tough little pony, going like the wind and riding like a Centaur.

“How could you have said that so he could hear you, aunt!” pouted Inza, her eyes following the retreating figure of Swiftwing. “It was too bad, after all he did for – for me!”

Barney nudged Frank in the ribs, whispering:

“Didn’t Oi tell yez! It’s shtuck she is alriddy.”

Frank laughed carelessly.

“I didn’t think he could hear me,” said the spinster; “but it was true, anyhow. He’s got on a white man’s clothes, but that don’t make him like a white man.”

“Yaw!” put in Hans Dunnerwust, getting nearer Miss Abigail; “dot peen so, you pet.”

The old maid gave him a scornful look.

“What do you know about it!” she exclaimed.

“Oxcuse me,” said the Dutch boy. “You took mein vord for dot.”

“I wouldn’t take your word for anything,” sniffed Miss Abigail, as she turned away.

Barney and Ephraim chuckled, and Hans looked rather crestfallen, shaking his head and muttering:

“Vale, she vos a pird!”

The train pulled out of the station, and the party crossed the footbridge to the adobe building.

In front of the building stood two light platform wagons, to each of which were attached two of those diminutive broncho ponies whose endurance has so many surprises.

These were the stages of Ramon Griego & Co.

Curiously enough, the firm with this imposing name was composed of two Mexican boys, who were brothers, and who carried a long star route into the mountains, gathering and delivering mail pouches at a number of little settlements on the way.

Ramon proved to be a bright, well-dressed young man, and could speak English fluently, a fact worthy of note in a land where the inhabitants of the isolated hamlets are three hundred years behind the times.

He had been expecting a large number of passengers, and was prepared for them.

Frank’s party took up one entire wagon, and it was a big load for the little bronchos. If Frank had not known what sort of stuff there was in the little animals, he might have hesitated about starting out with a wagon load of twelve persons, to say nothing of several mail pouches.

The driver, a Mexican lad, occupied a seat with Toots. He cracked his long whip and uttered a yell. The little bronchos started slowly, broke into a run, and away they went, with the boys waving their hats and cheering, while Inza fluttered her handkerchief to the Mexican postmaster, who was standing in the open doorway.

The first turn of the road around a jutting rock hid the railroad from view, and it seemed that the party immediately plunged one hundred years into antiquity.

Each seat was wide enough for three ordinary persons, but Hans had been determined to secure a position beside Miss Abigail, and had succeeded, much to the old maid’s discomfort. The Dutch boy looked supremely satisfied with himself, and it was plain he thought he was making progress.

The boys sang, Frank starting it. There were some musical voices in the party, and they formed a decidedly jolly “glee club.” The songs of Yale were popular with them, and they awoke the echoes with “Here to Good Old Yale,” “Bingo,” “Solomon Levi,” and so forth.

At two or three points the canyon widened enough to permit a few acres of river bottom, and there several Mexican families lived, managing to keep soul and body together in some mysterious manner that defies a Northern understanding.

About the driver’s waist was a cartridge belt that bore two Colt revolvers of .44 caliber, and the boy had a significant way of fingering those guns occasionally that made Miss Abigail very nervous.

“If he tries to murder the whole of us – Well, let him try it!” she said, with a significant hardening of the jaws. “He’ll get all he’s bargained for.”

“Dot vos right,” nodded Hans. “He don’d done dot murderin’ mitout troubles.”

Miss Abigail was silent. Encouraged by this, the Dutch boy added:

“Shust you trust myself to you und you vos all right. I vill peen your brotector all der times.”

“You!” sniffed Miss Abigail. “Why, if you saw your own shadow you’d think an elephant was after you and run away.”

Ephraim snickered, and Hans looked disgusted.

The scenery proved very monotonous, and the party subsided into silence after a time.

The only event to arouse them from the lethargy into which they had fallen was a sudden movement on the part of Miss Abigail that unceremoniously dumped Hans off the seat to the ground, where he was fortunate enough to bounce like a rubber ball out of the way of the rear wheel.

“There!” the spinster was heard to mutter; “perhaps he’ll stop squeezing up to me now. He’s the most uncomfortable person I ever sat beside.”

“Shimminy Gristmas!” Hans gurgled, as he sat up beside the trail and stared at the stage, which had stopped almost immediately. “Vot dot vomans got mit her elpow in, ain’d id? Id vas a recular pattering rams!”

Ephraim Gallup laughed in his hearty manner.

“Darn my punkins! but yeou do look funny, Hans!” he cried. “Whut happened to ye, anyhaow?”

“You toldt me.”

“Begobs! it’s yersilf thot’s a moighty foine ground tumbler,” said Barney, with a chuckle.

“I dond’t toldt you so!” returned the Dutch boy, with attempted sarcasm. “Don’t you pelief mineself!”

“Come, Hans,” laughed Frank, who with Inza, had been watching the Dutch lad’s efforts to make an impression on Miss Abigail. “Pick yourself up and get aboard. We can’t wait all day for you.”

Hans got up with an effort and started to return to his seat; but he stopped, regarding the spinster doubtingly. She gave him a look, and he dodged, as if she had thrown something at him.

“Oxcuse me!” he exclaimed. “Uf id don’t make some difference to nobody, I vill valk der rest uf der vays.”

This was said in such a doleful manner that every one of the boys laughed.

“Here,” said Frank, “I think there is more room on this seat, and I will take your seat. Hurry up, now.”

Frank took the seat beside Miss Abigail, while, with a sigh of relief, the Dutch boy climbed up beside Inza. He looked very doleful and crestfallen during the rest of the journey to the Pueblo, where they arrived at nine o’clock that evening.

CHAPTER XVIII – CARVER’S OPINION

Pom! pom! pom!

“Pwhat’s that?” grunted Barney Mulloy, sleepily rubbing his eyes.

Pom! pom! pom!

“Come in, und stop dot knockin’ der door on!” gurgled Hans Dunnerwust from beneath an Indian blanket.

“That ain’t nobody knockin’,” declared Ephraim Gallup, with a yawn. “It saounds like – ”

Pom-per-pom! pom-per-pom! pom-per-pom!

“Thunder!” snorted the Vermonter, sitting up and giving his blanket a fling. “Where be we, anyhaow?”

“I don’d told you!” exclaimed Hans, in sudden alarm. “You explain dot to mineself!”

“Here!” came from beneath another blanket that was spread on the floor; “what are you chaps raking such a mow about – I mean making such a row about?”

Then Harry lifted his head and peered around in the semi-darkness.

In all directions heads were lifted, and the voice of Bruce Browning growled:

“Talk about your hard beds! I have stopped in all sorts of hotels, but I never struck a bed like this before! What sort of a ranch is this, anyhow?”

Pom-pom! pom-pom! pom-pom!

“Heavens!” gurgled Diamond, popping bolt upright and holding his hands over his ears. “What infernal noise is that?”

Then all the boys sat up, staring at each other questioningly.

“Where is Frank?”

“He’s not here!”

Merriwell was gone, but his blanket was rolled in the corner where he had been sleeping.

By this time the boys began to realize where they were.

“We are at the Pueblo,” said Hodge. “We arrived here last night, and it must be morning. That sound is the beating of a drum, which means the exercises of the day have begun.”

Then there was a hustling, and every one, with the exception of Browning, moved in a hurry. Browning would not have hurried if the adobe hut had been falling down about his ears.

The blanket which served as a door was flung back, and it was seen that the sun was just peeping over the eastern mountains, shooting lances of golden light toward the zenith.

Already the world at the Pueblo of Taos was astir and mass was being said in the little whitewashed chapel, at the door of which stood an idiot boy, who, now and then, pounded spasmodically on a drum. This drumming was answered in a similar manner by another drummer, who stood on the highest terrace of the higher of the two community buildings.

These buildings were made of sundried mud, from a distance looking like two great pyramids. On a nearer approach, it could be seen they were built in terraces, like steps for a mountain-tall giant, each terrace being a story. One was six stories in height, and the other was four.

There were no doors, and the entrances were through the tops of the terraces, which were reached by ladders.

In those two buildings three hundred Pueblo Indians lived.

On the plain near the buildings spectators were already gathering, and the boys were surprised to see they were nearly all white men.

“Merry has stolen a march on us!” cried Hodge. “There he is with Inza now! He got up without awakening us, the rascal!”

“I’m glad he did,” yawned Browning. “I could sleep ten hours longer.”

“Well, you’d better do it!” came from Diamond. “Pretty soon you’ll want to sleep all the time.”

Indeed, Frank had arisen at the first hint of coming day and gone forth from the hut.

A little later, as day was breaking, Inza arose and saw him, whereupon she lost little time in preparing to come out and join him.

Frank and Inza had walked out toward a distant encampment, the picturesque tepees being of great interest to them. On their way they met a man who was strolling about with his hands in his pockets, seemingly enjoying the morning air. A silk hat was set upon the back of his head.

It was Dan Carver.

“Good-morning,” said Carver, lifting his hat. “We meet again.”

Inza was impulsive.

“Oh, Mr. Carver!” she exclaimed; “I want to thank you.”

The man looked surprised.

“What for?” he asked.

“Frank – er – Mr. Merriwell says you would have protected me from that horrid Indian at the station yesterday, and he says you were determined to shoot the Indian afterward, but refrained because you did not care to shock ladies.”

“Mr. Merriwell is very kind to put it that way,” said Dan Carver.

“I was so agitated that I could not tell what was taking place. I am sure you were very kind.”

“In not shooting the Injun? Yes, I reckon I was. Ordinarily I’d filled him full of lead. That’s the only way to let the devilment out of them dogs.”

“Oh, but it is awful!” exclaimed the girl. “I suppose there are some real bad Indians.”

“Some! Well, I should warble! Excuse me, miss. They are all bad – every one of them!”

Inza shook her head.

“No! no!” she cried. “I know you are mistaken! There are some good Indians.”

“They’re all dead ones.”

“I can’t think so, sir.”

“That’s because you don’t know ’em, miss. If you had seen the things I have – Well, you wouldn’t think there could be such a thing as a good Injun alive.”

Still the girl could not be convinced.

“Why,” she exclaimed, “you saw the one who saved me from the drunken fellow. He was an Indian.”

“Yes.”

“Surely he is a good Indian.”

“You may think so.”

“I know it!” she cried, her cheeks beginning to glow, as she warmed to the defense of her red champion. “He showed it in his face. Mr. Merriwell knows him. He has been East to the Indian school at Carlisle, and he is educated. He had the manners of a gentleman, and I believe he has a true and good heart.”

“That shows how little you Eastern people know of Indians. All the education they may have will not make them anything but what they are – and that is bad all the way through.”

“I will not believe that, sir!”

Carver smiled.

“I do not expect you to believe it. Eastern people seldom do.”

“John Swiftwing has the making of a splendid man in him. He plays on the Carlisle football team, and Frank says he is one of their best players. He is like a tiger in a game.”

“I don’t doubt it. Football is a savage’s game at best, and it allows him to work off some of his savage traits. He goes into the struggle as he would go into a battle, and he rejoices in beating down and trampling on all who oppose him. His heart at such a time is a perfect inferno of fury, and, give him a deadly weapon, he would not hesitate to murder. With his bare hands he has little chance to kill. Oh, yes, football is a splendid game for savages!”

It was Merriwell’s turn to smile.

“Mr. Carver,” he said, quite calmly, “you are showing how very ignorant you are about football. It’s a man’s game, and only men of nerve, as well as skill and strength, can play it.”

Carver’s brow darkened for a moment and then cleared.

“It is natural you should think so,” he nodded. “You are a college football player. Never mind that; we’ll not discuss it. But it is certain that all the education John Swiftwing may receive will not change him from a savage. It may seem to make a change in his exterior, but inwardly he will remain the same. All efforts to educate and change him are wasted, as such efforts are wasted on all Indians.”

By this time Inza was so aroused that she was growing angry, and she could not hold herself in check.

“You couldn’t make me believe that if you were to talk forever!” she cried. “I am sure there is as much difference between Indians as there is between white men. John Swiftwing is a noble fellow, and I know it – so there!”

Carver bowed, again lifting his silk hat.

“‘A woman convinced against her will is of the same opinion still’,” he said.

“But I’m not convinced.”

“Then I shall not try to convince you, miss; but I do wish to warn you to keep away from that gang out there.”

He motioned toward the distant tepees, where figures could be seen moving about and blue smoke was rising.

“Those are Apaches,” he said; “the worst Indians on the face of God’s footstool. They are utterly without conscience or anything else that is not vile, and it might not be safe for you to approach too near them, even though they are supposed to be quite peaceable just now.”

“How do they happen to be here?” asked Frank.

“They have come to trade baskets, buckskin shirts, moccasins, almost anything, for liquor. It is probable there will be two thousand visitors there to-day, and the Apaches will get all the rum they want. To-morrow they may start out murdering and torturing.”

Inza shuddered.

“It seems to me that the white men are to blame for letting them have liquor,” she said.

“Perhaps so, but you know there are fools and rascals among the white men. Remember my warning; keep away from the Apache camp. Good-morning.”

Again lifting his hat, he walked onward.