Injun and Whitey to the Rescue

by William S. Hart

  CHAPTER XVI

  "MEDICINE"

  The sun was shining on the Star Circle Ranch. Whitey sat in the doorwayof the bunk house, and listened to the talk and laughter of two or threeidle punchers inside. Two days had passed since the tragedy. Though thelaughing cowboys had not forgotten it, it was already a thing of thepast; "all in a day's work." For it was like that in the West, in thosetimes--death one day, laughter the next.

  Another being sat in the sunshine near the distant Bar O Ranch house;squat, bow-legged, his face wrinkled with anxiety and expectancy, helooked longingly off at the dusty road along which Whitey had gone,waiting and hoping for his friend's return. Thus sat Sitting Bull,forgotten but not forgetting.

  Injun approached Whitey, from the direction of the Star Circle Ranchhouse. In his hand was an object which he regarded gravely as he walked.Two grunted words at a time he used in telling Whitey the meaning ofthis object.

  The ranchmen had thought that Injun's services on the night of thefight deserved some reward. A messenger had been sent to Jimtown, andhad returned with the reward, which had just been presented to Injun. Itwas a stickpin, a large imitation emerald, in a solid gold setting, tobe inserted in one's necktie, the latest thing in fashion in a countrywhere few men wore ties. Whitey looked at the pin, and, glad of thechance, he laughed and laughed. Injun did not laugh. He liked thestickpin. He was proud of it.

  Louder sounds of merriment in the bunk house attracted Whitey, and,leaving Injun to gloat over his treasure, Whitey joined the men inside.It may have been that they, too, were glad to have laughter help them toforget the dangers and tragedies of the times. One of them had just tolda story--which might have been a story in both senses of the word.Knowing that a yarn usually comes with a cowboy, or a cowboy usuallycomes with a yarn, Whitey sat down and waited.

  I have written that most of the mirth on the Star Circle was aroused bythe troubles of others, but that was not true of all of it. On acracker box sat a dreamy-eyed, short, fat puncher; almost too fat forhis job. His nickname was "Single." He had been married five times. Soyou can see that Single was a man of experiences. Furthermore, he wasalways willing to talk about them. He gazed thoughtfully at Injun, who,out in the sunlight, was still admiring his stickpin.

  "The two funniest things in th' world t' me is mules an' Injuns," Singlesaid.

  "Injuns don't never say or do nothin' funny," retorted a sour-lookingpuncher.

  "I mean queer, odd," Single replied.

  "What do you know 'bout Injuns?" demanded the other.

  "What do I know 'bout 'em!" snorted Single. "My third wife was ahalf-breed."

  "Gosh, Single!" another puncher broke in. "I knew you'd had plenty o'wives, but I never knew you'd had no half wives."

  "Th' wa'n't nothin' halfway 'bout her," Single replied bitterly, "'ceptth' breed." He seemed lost in gloomy thought, and fearing that he wouldnot talk at all, Whitey spoke.

  "That was an inappropriate present to give Injun," he said.

  "An inawhat?" asked Single, whose education had been neglected.

  "Inappropriate. I mean it was something you wouldn't think he'd like,"Whitey explained hastily.

  "I dunno," Single answered. "You can't never tell 'bout a Injun. Helooks stuck on that there present now," and he nodded toward Injun, whowas devouring the stickpin with his eyes. "Mebbe he thinks it'smed'cine," Single went on.

  "Medicine!" exclaimed Whitey.

  "Sure--good luck," said Single. "An' if he does, you couldn't pry itoff'n him with a steam dredge."

  It had not occurred to Whitey that Injun was superstitious. He never hadtalked about it--but he never talked much about anything. And anIndian's "medicine" is superstition, pure and simple. He cherishes someobject that he has come upon under conditions that make him think itlucky. Sometimes the medicine man of his tribe performs a rite over thisobject, and that gives a sort of religious flavor to it, making italmost sacred in the owner's view. His belief in it is tribal; has comedown from his forefathers. It is very hard to shake an Indian's faith inhis medicine.

  While Whitey was recalling these facts, which he had heard about,Single's eyes were narrowing--looking inside his head, one might say, tofind there a story that fitted in with Injun's interest in his gift.

  "Speakin' o' my third wife's half brother," Single broke out, at last.

  "What kind o' fambly was that?" interrupted the sour puncher. "Thirds,an' halfs, an' things. Sounds more like 'rithmetic than a fambly."

  "It was harder'n 'rithmetic," Single replied darkly. "This here halfbrother o' my wife's was a Cognowaga" (Caughnawaga).

  "Gee, what a fambly!" groaned the other, but Single did not heed him.

  "An' his name was Sam Sharp," Single went on. "'Course that wasn't hisreal name. He was a sportin' gent, an' that was his sportin' name. Hewas one o' them all-round fellers. Run! Say, he c'd make a jack-rabbitlook like a fly in a tub o' butter. He c'd jump higher'n this here roof,an' vault twic't as high. An' them big shots an' weights that theyput--I'd hate t' tell you how far he c'd put 'em. You wouldn't b'lieveme."

  "We don't b'lieve you, anyhow," muttered one of the boys, but Singledidn't seem to hear. He was wrapped up in his story.

  "He'd throw th' discus from here down t' th' corral."

  "What's a discus?" asked a puncher.

  "It doesn't matter, but he c'd throw it," said Single. "An' he waschampeen of America; not only that, but champeen of th' whole world."

  Now, it didn't make much difference whether Single's story was true ornot. One didn't have to believe it to enjoy it. He aimed to astonish,rather than to be truthful. But these statements were too much for theimagination of his hearers--or rather for their lack of it. He wasgreeted by a chorus of hoots and yells of disbelief, that developed intoa volley of boots and spurs and cans and anything that could be thrown,and he was fairly driven from the room.

  And the odd part of it was that Single was only a little ahead of histime. For there was an Indian boy living then who afterwards did thingsas hard to believe, so marvelous that I must tell about him.

  His name is Jim Thorpe, and he is a Sac and Fox Indian. His runningrecord for one hundred yards is ten seconds. For one hundred and twentyyards, with three-feet-six-inch hurdles, fifteen seconds; running broadjump, over twenty-three feet; running high jump, over six feet. He put asixteen-pound shot over forty-three feet, and a fifty-six pound weightin the neighborhood of twenty-eight feet, and made a pole-vault of overtwelve feet. He ran a half-mile and a mile at great speed.

  When the Olympian Games were held in Sweden, and all the championathletes of the world took part, it was the ambition of each to win oneevent, or even to run one-two-three in it. There were five events in thePentathlon and ten in the Decathlon. _Jim Thorpe won them all_.

  He won the all-round championship of America a couple of times, a featpaled by those he accomplished in the Olympian Games. He is the greatestfootball player that ever lived, and one of the greatest Major Leaguebaseball players, drawing a large salary from one of the clubs, andplaying yet. And if you don't believe me, all you have to do is to lookat the sporting-records.

  Whitey was greatly disappointed when Single was driven out of the bunkhouse. He wanted to hear the rest of that story about the third wife'shalf brother. So Whitey went after Single, and tried to coax him to comeback.

  And the other punchers were sorry that they had been so hasty, for theywanted to see how far Single's imagination would carry him.

  Whitey had heard an old yarn about a parrot in a mining camp. A magicianwas giving a performance at the camp, and after every trick the minerswould say, "I wonder what he's going to do next?" One of them wassmoking, a spark fell in a keg of powder, and blew the camp away fromthat place. The parrot landed a quarter of a mile off, most of hisfeathers gone, his cage was a wreck. And, peering out, he asked, "Iwonder what he's going to do next?"

  That was the way it was with those cowpunchers, and they joined Whitey,and finally smoothed over Single's feelings, and coaxe
d him to continuehis story--which he wanted to do, anyway.

  "Well, this here Sam Sharp had his faults," Single continued, when hewas settled again in his seat. "For a feller that c'd move so quick hewas s'prisin' lazy; so lazy he'd trip over his feet gettin' out o' hisown way. An' drinkin', an' gamblin'!--say, I won't take your timetellin' you all th' things he liked. All you had t' do was t' astyourself was a thing wrong. If it was, Sam liked it.

  "Bein' a champeen, o' course Sam had a manager what made money out o'Sam's stunts, for both o' 'em. This manager was a white man namedGallager, an' his life was made a burden, for he had t' train Sam forthem there stunts, an' Sam didn't cotton to trainin' nonesoever. When heoughta be doin' it, he'd be off dancin', or drinkin', or pokerin', orsomethin'. An' Gallager got sicker an' sicker of such doin's.

  "Well, bein' a Injun, Sam had a med'cine. It was a twig. Where he gotit I don't know, but it was firm fixed in Sam's nut that he couldn't runwithout that there twig was tucked inside his shirt. An' that twig wass'posed t' work both ways. For when Sam was runnin' 'gainst anotherfeller, he'd put th' twig down in one of th' other feller's footprints,an' Sam thought that kept th' other feller back.

  "Now, this here twig was one o' Gallager's greatest troubles. For Samwas always losin' it, or leavin' it behind, an' him or Gallager havin't' go after it, an' races was havin' t' be held back, or put off, forSam wouldn't run without that twig. So Gallager hated it.

  "Along comes a time when Sam is stacked up t' meet a corkin' goodrunner. An' Sam was off gallivantin' 'round at dances, an' worse things,an' not trainin' none whatever. An' Gallager says t' himself, 'Here'swhere I cure that Injun of th' twig habit.' You see, Sam was that softfrom loafin', he couldn't have beat a mud turtle up a hill, so Gallagerfiggers Sam'll likely lose th' race, anyway, an' it'll be worth it t'get clear o' that infernal twig. So Gallager lets Sam stay soft.

  "Along comes th' day o' th' race, an' Gallager hadn't done nothin' orsaid nothin', an' Sam runs an' loses, an' after it's all over Gallagergoes t' him.

  "'Got your twig?' he says.

  "'Uh,' grunts Sam.

  "'Stick it in th' other feller's footprints?'

  "'Uh.'

  "'Got it in your shirt?'

  "'Uh huh,' says Sam, an' pulls out th' twig.

  "'Well, you didn't win, did you?' says Gallager.

  "'Um, um,' says Sam, lookin' at th' twig.

  "'Then th' twig's no good, is it?' asks Gallager, lookin' Sam firmly inth' eye, an' Sam returnin' th' look.

  "'NO!' says Sam, an' he throws th' twig away."

  The cowpunchers did not believe this story. They did not think that anIndian can be cured of his medicine. But I know it is true, for I knewthe Indian.

  It might not be amiss to state here that there is another Indian aliveto-day, who was a baby in arms when Sam Sharp lived, who ran in and wonthirty-eight Marathon races, when no one else in the world ever finishedfirst, second, or third in over three. His name is Tom Longboat.