Frank Merriwell's Athletes: or, The Boys Who Won

With a sad smile, the Indian youth shook his head.

“I shall not be there,” he said.

“No? Why, how is that? I do not understand!”

“I shall not go back to the white man’s school.”

“You won’t? What is the meaning of that? Why won’t you go back?”

“Because it is useless. They are right when they say the Indian can never become like the white man. I shall try no more.”

“But – but you are different! Think what you have done this day! By Jove! you have shown yourself all right! Think what a hero you would be at school if they knew the story! You are the lion of the football team anyhow. They can’t get along without you.”

“They must, for they will have me no more. You say I am different from the Indians. Perhaps I am to-day; but to-morrow and ever after that I shall be an Indian in everything! I shall forget that I was at the white man’s school. I shall forget that I can read and write and make the white man’s figures. I shall go back to be the same as I was before I learned such things, and my people will despise me, for they will say I am neither a white man nor an Indian.”

Frank used all his eloquence to influence the Indian to change his mind, but it was useless. Then Inza tried, but with no better success.

“Farewell,” said John again. “Take the horse to the Pueblo. It is owned there. Farewell forever!”

Inza’s eyes were full of tears.

“It’s too bad!” she sobbed. “I am so sorry!”

John Swiftwing said not another word, but, turning his face toward the mountains, walked swiftly away. Not once did he turn about and look back.

Frank and Inza rode to meet the white men, who were seen in the distance, coming madly along the trail. When they had traveled for a time they turned to look for John Swiftwing.

He was near the foot of the mountains, and, as they looked, he was swallowed from view by the deep shadows at the base of the Taos Range.

“Oh, Frank, it was noble of him, after all,” said Inza, half tearfully. “But – but I hope we don’t meet again.”

“It is not likely,” returned Frank.

“And, Frank – ”

“Well?”

“Can you forgive me?”

“Willingly,” he cried, and gave her a gentle hug that meant a great deal.

When they reached the other horsemen Frank sprang a surprise on them.

“It was only a bit of fun,” he said. “But Swiftwing thought best not to come back for fear there would be trouble.”

But in secret he told his companions the truth, and it was decided to leave the Pueblo of Taos early the next morning.

“Sure, an’ it was great sport, that contist,” said Barney.

“We’ll never see anything galf as hood – no, half as good,” came from Harry.

“Don’t be too sure of that,” put in Diamond. “We are not home yet by a jugful. Lots may happen before we get there.”

CHAPTER XXVI – MORNING AT RODNEY’S RANCH

Boo-oo-oo-ng!

“Horn ob Gabrul! what am dat?”

Toots gasped the words, as he sat up and stared about him in the semi-darkness.

Boo-oo-oo-ng! boo-oo-oo-ng!

“Wek up, chilluns!” gurgled the colored boy. “De crack ob doom hab come, an’ ole Gabrul am tootin’ ob his horn fo’ suah!”

“Shimminy Gristmas!” grunted Hans, as he sat up. “Vos dot a Dexas cyclones vot you hear?”

“Gol darned if it don’t saound like a kaow bellein’!” said Ephraim Gallup; “only a heap laouder.”

“Is it a stameboat we’re on, Oi dunno!” murmured Barney, sleepily. “It’s th’ foghorn Oi hear.”

Rap! rap! rap! Rapp-er-ty-bang!

Some one was hammering on the door, and a voice called:

“Turn out – turn out for breakfast!”

“That was the breakfast horn, boys!” laughed Frank. “We must get a hustle on, for this is the day of the great tournament on Rodney’s Ranch, and we are here for sport. Ye have been promised dead loads of fun. Up, fellows – up!”

The boys scrambled to their feet. None of them had fully undressed, and they had been sleeping in blankets spread on the floor of a large room in the ranch house.

Through the open window, which was on the eastern side of the house, a pink glow could be seen in the sky. In a moment, as it seemed, the rim of the sun came into view, and morning had dawned with startling suddenness.

“Oh, thunder!” grumbled Bruce. “The night was not half long enough. I’d like to sleep about five hours longer.”

“That’s natural with you,” chuckled Harry, as he drew on his shoes. “You are always tired.”

“Can’t help it,” admitted the big fellow. “I was born that way. This sporting tour is killing me. How’d we happen to know anything about this cowboy racket, anyway?”

“Oh, I’m onto all that’s going,” smiled Frank.

“That’s right enough,” agreed Bruce; “but you didn’t know a thing about it at noon yesterday, and we were on our way eastward over the Texas and Pacific. None of us expected to stop short of Fort Worth, but, of a sudden, you yank us off the train at Stanton and run us out here to this ranch, without a word of explanation. When we arrive here we are received with open arms and made to feel as if we had been expected. I’ll acknowledge that I don’t understand it.”

“Your eyes were not sharp, old fellow,” said Frank. “Had they been, you would have seen that we were invited here.”

“By whom?”

“The daughter of the man who owns this ranch.”

“Not the girl Miss Burrage met on the train?”

“Yes.”

“How did Miss Burrage happen to know her?”

“The rancher’s daughter went abroad last winter, and they became acquainted in Italy.”

“And so she invited Inza here when they met by accident on the train. Is that the way of it?”

“Sure. Inza told her she and Miss Gale were traveling with us, and Miss Rodney made the invitation include the whole of us. I was glad enough to accept it when I learned there was to be a regular cowboy tournament here to-day, to end to-night with a dance.”

“That’s all right,” said Bruce, “if you’ll let us be spectators. I don’t see any sense in getting out and trying to beat the punchers at their own tricks.”

“Don’t let that worry you. I am not chump enough to try to do any trick we’ll not have an even show at. We’ll see a bit of cowboy sport here, and our tour eastward would not have been complete without it.”

“That’s so! That’s so!”

The others of the party were very enthusiastic over the prospect of a day of sport on a Texas cattle ranch.

“All right,” grunted Bruce. “You fellows may hoe in and have all the sport you like. I’ll keep still and look on.”

It did not take the boys long to dress and prepare for breakfast.

Bill Rodney, the rancher, greeted the boys heartily, his free and easy manner making them feel that they were quite welcome.

“Sorry I had to stow you chaps the way I did, but every room in the old ranch was filled,” he said. “If I’d known in advance that you were comin’, I’d had better accommerdations for yer.”

“We couldn’t have asked for anything better,” declared Frank, pleasantly. “I didn’t know but you might think it an imposition for us to come the way we did, as – ”

“My little gal asked ye, didn’t she? Well, that settled it. What Sadie does goes on this ranch, you bet! If she invited the whole of Texas here, I’d do my best to entertain ’em. There’ll be a few people here before night, and I want you chaps to sail right in and have the best time you can. Come on to breakfast.”

They entered the big, low dining-room, trooping in after their host.

There were seats at the long table for twelve persons, and Toots had asked the privilege of showing them how a real “cullud ge’man” could wait on the party. This privilege had been granted, and he had disappeared to the kitchen.

Inza and Miss Abigail Gale were on hand to greet the boys, and then, one by one, the lads were introduced to a very pretty girl in a morning gown.

This was Sadie Rodney, the rancher’s daughter, with whom Inza had become acquainted in Italy.

“Goodness!” exclaimed Miss Abigail; “what a crowd of men! It really makes me feel timid!”

She did not look at all timid, for she had a face that was almost masculine in its sternness, and she never seemed flustered.

The rancher sat at the head of the table, with Miss Rodney at the foot, having Miss Abigail and Inza on either hand.

Frank had a seat near Inza, while Hans was placed beside the spinster.

Then Toots appeared in a white apron, and breakfast began, with the morning sunshine streaming into the windows and lighting a pleasant scene.

“Now I want you to make yourselves right at home,” said the rancher, sincerely. “We ain’t able to put on so much style here as my gal has been accustomed to away at boarding school and travelin’ abroad, but we have fodder that’s fit to eat. Now, don’t blush and shake your head at me, Sadie. It’s all right. The boys don’t expect me to put on frills, and I’d make a mess of it if I did.”

He laughed heartily, and the girl blushed all the more.

“Oh, father!” she exclaimed, reprovingly.

“Ha! ha!” laughed Rodney, in his rough, hearty manner. “I know it’s rude of me, but it’s hard to learn an old dog new tricks.”

Then he leaned over to Diamond, who sat near him, and whispered loud enough for every one present to hear him:

“Don’t you think I’ve a mighty fine gal? She’s cost me a heap of money, but I don’t care. I’d spend all I’ve got on her. Look at her! Have you got any handsomer gals than that in the East?”

“If so I have not had the pleasure of seeing them,” said Jack, gallantly.

Quite naturally, this confused the girl still more, and Frank hastened to crack a joke and tell a bit of a story to turn attention from her.

Merry saw that she was really ladylike and refined, for all of her honest father’s good-natured coarseness, and her position had distressed her not a little.

Hans tried to be very attentive to Miss Abigail, but she repulsed him, so that he was very crestfallen after that, not a little to the amusement of the others.

The breakfast progressed merrily.

While it was going on a horseman came dashing up to the house, walked up to the dining-room window, leaned on the sill, and looked in.

“Howdy, Rodney,” he said, in a familiar manner.

Then he lifted the broad-brimmed hat from his dark curls and bowed to Sadie. After that he held the hat under his arm while he stood by the window.

He was a handsome fellow in his way, having a drooping black mustache and an imperial, while his dark eyes were keen and piercing. There was about his face a devil-may-care look, as if he feared nothing that walked on the face of the earth.

He was puffing carelessly at a Spanish cigarette, held by his full red lips, which showed beneath the mustache.

“Morning Charlie,” said the rancher. “Glad to see you on hand so early. Are the boys from the Lone Star comin’ up?”

“The whole of Concho Valley will be here to-day,” returned the man at the window. “It is bound to be a big time, Rodney.”

“That’s whatever. Bill Rodney don’t do anything by halves. When did ye start?”

“Midnight.”

“Wal, it’s a right smart ride. Give yer horse to Kemble and come in to breakfast. You can have my chance here.”

“Thank you; but I’ll wait till you are through.”

Then he strolled away, his handsome horse following him like a well-trained dog.

“Who is he?” asked Frank.

“That’s Indian Charlie, foreman of the Lone Star Ranch,” answered Rodney. “He’s the best shot and roper in Texas, and the most reckless rider I ever saw. He was born in the East, and went to college, but skipped after shootin’ another chap in a duel over a girl. Lucky for Charlie, t’other chap didn’t die; but Charlie never went back, and now he has the most remarkable aversion for all tenderfeet of any man I ever saw. You all want to be right careful not to git him r’iled, for he is worse than a wild steer on the rampage when he’s mad. He has a way of shootin’ first and talkin’ it over afterward.”

“Such a fellow as that needs to be taught a lesson,” said Frank. “Some one should take the trouble to teach him, too.”

“No one who knows him dares take the trouble to try.”

“That’s strange. I had an idea cowboys were not afraid of anything.”

“It is plain you do not understand what a dangerous man Indian Charlie is, Mr. Merriwell,” said the rancher’s daughter. “You must be sure to keep away from him, as you cannot be sure he will not take offense at some trivial thing and force you to apologize.”

“Indeed!” smiled Merriwell, lifting his eyebrows. “This man grows more and more interesting to me.”

“Yaw, he peen very inderestin mit me,” broke in Hans. “I vos goin’ to kept meinself a goot vays near off from him.”

“Miss Rodney,” said Harry, “you have said just enough to arouse Frank Merriwell’s curiosity, and now he will not be able to keep away from this Indian Charlie. He is certain to do something to stir Charlie up at the first opportunity.”

The girl turned pale.

“Don’t do it, Mr. Merriwell, I beg of you!” she cried. “You will simply humiliate yourself, for you will be forced to apologize to save yourself from being shot.”

Frank laughed.

“Don’t let that worry you, Miss Rodney,” he said. “I assure you there is no cause of alarm. I am not going to chase him with a chip on my shoulder.”

But those who knew Frank best were certain he would not seek to avoid trouble with the foreman of the Lone Star, and they felt a foreboding of coming trouble.

CHAPTER XXVII – COWBOY PECULIARITIES

After breakfast the little party went out upon the broad veranda.

The sun was still red, but it was growing smaller and hotter as it mounted into the sky.

Its slanting rays lighted up a rolling prairie, illimitable in expanse and stretching away till its irregular, wavy outline was marked against the sky.

Now and then, miles away, small clumps of stunted jack-oaks or mesquite made dark green polka dot spots on the lighter color of the grass, while far away lay a genuine chaparral thicket.

Between the ranch and the chaparral a herd of several hundred cattle were feeding.

Near the ranch house were outbuildings and corrals.

In the vicinity of these a number of cowboys could be seen moving about.

Still urging the boys to make themselves at home, Rodney left them. Before he departed, he sighted a body of horsemen riding down rapidly from the northeast.

“Here come the boys from Tilford’s ranch,” he said. “I knew they’d be the first ones to show up.”

The boys watched the approaching riders with interest. Before long they could be plainly seen, and, as they came near the ranch, they broke into a mad gallop and came tearing across the prairie.

Anything wilder in appearance than those leather-clad “punchers” the imagination could not conceive. They yelled and cracked their quirts, spreading out into a long line, mounted on tough little ponies, which tore over the ground with a twinkling movement of the legs which was bewildering to one accustomed to the movements of an ordinary galloping horse.

Upon the heads of the riders were broad-brimmed hats, some of them being of stiff rawhide and some being the well-known Stetson sombrero, which cost anywhere from eighteen to eighty dollars.

Every man had a handkerchief knotted about his neck, and a cartridge belt, bearing heavy revolvers in open holsters, about his waist.

Their hair was long and unkempt, and their faces were weather-tanned.

Some had on long-legged, high-heeled boots, and some wore leather leggins, while at the heels of every man were heavy, murderous-looking spurs.

With their jangling spurs, flapping ropes and buckskin strings, broad-brimmed hats, bright-colored handkerchiefs, they certainly were a most impressive cavalcade of prairie scamperers.

As they swept toward the corrals near the ranch, Rodney’s men ran out and greeted them with a yell.

In return the Tilford men suddenly jerked out their “guns,” and sent twenty shots into the air. Then they flung the little ponies on their haunches, stopping in an instant with such suddenness that almost any fairly expert rider must have been sent flying headlong over the animal’s ears to the ground.

“There, fellows,” smiled Frank, with a wave of his hand toward the arrivals, “there is a band of genuine wild and woolly cow-punchers. Take a good look at them, for the real cowboy is disappearing, and, in a very few years you will not be able to see a sight like that anywhere on this continent.”

“I suppose they are all right,” said Diamond, “but it is plain enough that they are great bluffers.”

“In what way?” asked Frank, quickly.

“In their get up. There is no reason why they should look so extremely tough beyond their own personal desire to appear like bad men.”

“I think you are wrong, old fellow. Name something about them that they might discard.”

“Their long hair, to begin with. That is pure affectation.”

“Not at all. Long hair is a necessity with them.”

“Get out! How?”

“Well, you know they are exposed to all kinds of weather. Their business is out of doors, rain or shine, and in many changes of climate. They have found by experience that long hair protects their eyes and ears. If they were to keep their hair cut short, many of them would be troubled with sore eyes, pains in the head and loud ringing in the ears.”

“That may be true,” acknowledged Jack; “but just look at those outrageous hats.”

“That is the only sort of hat suitable for cowboys to wear, as it protects from from the sun and from the rain. The very fact that it has been used for generation after generation without changing fashion is enough to indicate that necessity, not vanity, dictated its origin.”

“But see those wretched rawhide affairs.”

“I see them. Those are the cheap hats, and they are made by the cowboys themselves. Years ago every cowboy made his own hat, as manufacturers had not discovered that there was money in making hats for the punchers. An old cattleman once told me how they made their hats.”

“How it peen done, Vrankie? You toldt us dot,” urged Hans.

“When a cowboy wanted to make a hat for himself, he went out and dug in the ground a hole as near the size and shape of his head as he could make it. Then a large, circular piece of rawhide, soft, wet and pliable, was spread over the hole. Next, with a bunch of grass or buckskin, the center of the rawhide was pressed down into the hole till it assumed its size and shape. The surrounding circle of hide, which was to be the brim, was kept flat on the ground by constant patting and pressing with the hands. When the hat was molded, it was left till it was well dried by the sun. Then it was taken to a place where smoke and heat scorched it till it was perfectly waterproof. When it was trimmed with strings and straps, it was ready for use.”

“How about those bright handkerchiefs the men use about their necks? Surely those are worn to attract attention. They might be carried in the pocket quite as well.”

“Wrong again, Jack. Very often when riding at full speed the eyes of the cowboy are filled with mud or sand, and then the handkerchief is ready for use. The man can catch up a corner and wipe out his eyes without pulling in his horse. In sand storms the handkerchief is sometimes called into use as a veil. Having it tied about his neck, the owner of the handkerchief knows it is secure. If he had to take it out and restore it to his pocket every time he used it, he would lose it frequently. Sometimes he uses the handkerchief when his horse is racing along, and the animal stumbles. The handkerchief must be dropped instantly. He could not fail to lose it if it were not tied about his neck.”

“Well, look at those outrageous leather leggins. What are they for?”

“To protect their clothes from the wear and tear of the saddles, from being torn by thorns, mesquite or cactus, and sometimes to protect them from rattlesnakes.”

“Hush! Well, how about the high heels on their boots? I have you there! That is a pure case of vanity, and you must acknowledge it.”

Frank smiled.

“Not at all, my boy. Those boots cost from eighteen to forty dollars a pair, and are made to order. The heels are long and sloping toward the sole of the foot not to make the foot look small, but to keep it from slipping out of the stirrup in a time of danger, when the cowboy’s horse may be tearing along at breakneck speed. Those boots are made to ride in, not to walk in.”

“But the spurs – the spurs!” cried Diamond, triumphantly. “They are outrageous and cruel. Surely those huge implements of torture are made thus to look savage and attract attention.”

“Not a bit of it. Singular as it may seem, the smaller spurs used in the East are much more cruel. They cut the horse; these big spurs do not. They are made big and strong that they may not wear out. Sometimes the only way a cowboy can save his horse from being run down by a mad steer is by using the spur sharply. At such a time it is far better for a horse to be prodded with a steel spur than to have a foot or more of horns run into him, which might result in the throwing of the rider to be trampled to death, and the loss of several hundred cattle. See?”

Diamond looked discomfited.

“At least, on one point I have you,” he cried. “You can’t get around it.”

“Name the point.”

“The fringe – the fringe on their suits. There is pure vanity, you will admit.”

“Quite the contrary. The fringe comes along the outside seam of their trousers and sleeves. There is no sewing there, but the buckskin is slashed in narrow strip and knotted together. That is the purpose the fringe plays. The ends are left to hide the knots and any holes that might be seen gaping between them.”

“Begobs!” cried Barney, in admiration, “it’s yersilf, Frankie, thot knows all about it, but pwhere yez got yer infermation is pwhat Oi dunno.”

“This is not the first time I have been among the cowboys, and I always keep eyes and ears open wherever I am. I have managed to pick up such knowledge as I possess concerning them by watching and listening. They have ever been very interesting to me.”

“Mr. Merriwell, I congratulate you!” cried Sadie Rodney. “I am surprised to find a ‘tenderfoot’ knows so much about cow-punchers.”

“I’d never faound aout half that if I’d lived right with them a year,” declared Ephraim Gallup. “They’re darned pecooler critters, an’ I guess this one comin’ this way is one of the most pecooler ’mongst ’em.”

Indian Charlie had left the others, and was sauntering toward the little party on the veranda.

Sadie Rodney looked serious, and shrank close to Inza, in whose ear she murmured:

“I am afraid of that man. He has asked me to marry him. I have refused him a dozen times, but he persists, and he says he will have me in spite of myself. I do not dare anger him, for there is no telling what he might do.”

Frank heard her words.

“The fellow deserves a good thumping!” he mentally exclaimed.

CHAPTER XXVIII – INDIAN CHARLIE IS SURPRISED

Indian Charlie came swaggering up. He regarded the boys with a glance of supreme contempt.

“Permit me to compliment you on your thoughtfulness, Miss Rodney,” he said, in a most insinuating manner.

The rancher’s daughter looked puzzled and perturbed.

“I do not think I understand you,” she said, slowly.

“Surely you have done your best to make sport for us to-day. You have brought us some rare curiosities.”

Now Bart Hodge had a temper of his own, and he did not fancy being insulted, even though the person who offered the insult was a fire-eating cow-puncher. So Bart murmured:

“Oh, I don’t know! There are others!”

The foreman of the Lone Star looked astonished, and then scowled blackly.

“Were you referring to me, sir?”

Although the words came from his lips like the cut of a whip through the air, Hodge began to whistle in the most unconcerned manner possible, without even looking toward Indian Charlie.

Frank, who was keeping watch of everything, saw the red tide of anger surge into the face of the cowboy, and he knew Charlie was in a most dangerous mood.

Sadie Rodney, rancher’s daughter though she was, showed signs of alarm. She shrank close to Inza, murmuring:

“How did he dare say anything like that? Charlie has been known to shoot a man for less provocation.”

To her astonishment, Inza did not seem at all alarmed, but confidently returned:

“It will be a good thing for him if he tries to shoot any one in this crowd. Those boys can take care of themselves.”