The Heritage of the Sioux, B. M. Bower [feel good fiction books TXT] 📗
- Author: B. M. Bower
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“We-ell, dang it, we had t' ride som'ers, didn't we?” Applehead, safe behind a bowlder, pulled off his greasy, gray Stetson and polished his bald head disconcertedly. “Had a bunch uh Navvies hangin' t' our heels like tumbleweed—'n' we been doin' some RIDIN', now, I'm a tellin' ye! 'F Lite, here, hadn't kep' droppin' one now an' then fur the rest t' devour, I calc'late we'd bin et up, a mile er two back!”
Lite looked up from shoving more cartridges into his rifle-magazine. “If we hadn't had a real, simon-pure go-getter to boss the job,” he drawled, “I reckon all the shooting I did wouldn't have cut any ice. Ain't that right, boys?”
Pink, resting his rifle in a niche of the boulder and moving it here and there trying to fix his sights on a certain green sweater back in the woods that he had glimpsed a minute before, nodded assent. “You're durn tootin' it's right!” he testified.
Weary looked shining-eyed at Applehead's purple face. “Sure, that's right!” he emphasized. “And I don't care how much of a trap you call this, it isn't a patching to the one Applehead busted us out of. He's what I call a Real One, boys.”
“Aw, shet yore dang head 'n' git yore rifles workin'!” Applehead blurted. “This yere ain't no time fer kiddin', 'n' I'm tellin' yuh straight. What's them fellers acrost the Fryin'-pan think they're tryin' t' do? luck le's you'n me make a few remarks over that way, 'n' leave the boys t' do some gun-talk with these here babies behind us. Dang it, if I knowed of a better place 'n' what this is fer holdin' 'em off, I'd say make a run fer it. But I don't 'n' that's fact. Yuh musta sprung the trap 'fore yuh got inside, 'cause they shore aimed t' occupy this nest uh rocks theirselves, with you fellers down there in the Fryin'-pan where they could git at yuh.
“Thar's one of 'em up on the rim-rock—see 'im?—standin' thar, by granny, like he was darin' somebody t' cut loose! Here, Lite, you spill some lead up thar. We'll learn 'im t' act up smart—”
“Hey, hold on!” Luck grabbed Lite's arm as he was raising his rifle for a close shot at the fellow. “Don't shoot! Don't you see? Thaf's the peace-sign he's making!”
“Well, now, dang it, he better be makin' peace-signs!” growled Applehead querulously, and sat down heavily on a shelf of the rock. “'Cause Lite, here, shore woulda tuk an ear off'n him in another minute, now I'm tellin' ye!”
CHAPTER XIX. PEACE TALK
Across the Frying-pan an Indian stood boldly out upon a jutting point of rock and raised a hand in the sweeping upward motion of the peace-sign. The questing bullets that came seeking for bone and flesh among the rocks and bushes came no more when the signal was passed from those who saw to those farther back who could not see the figure silhouetted against the brilliant blue of the sky. A moment he stood, made the sign again, and waited.
“That's peace-sign, sure as you're born!” Luck cried breathlessly, and went scrambling through the bushes to where he might stand in the open, on the very rim of the basin. Applehead yelled to him to come back and not make a dang fool of himself, but luck gave no heed to the warning. He stood out in the blazing sunshine and gave the peace-sign in reply.
On the-rim rock the Indian stood motionless while he might have taken three or four breaths. Then with his hand he gave the sign for “pow-wow” and waited again.
Luck, his pulse thrilling at the once familiar gesture which his tribal “father,” old chief Big Turkey, used to give when he came stalking up for his daily confab with his adopted son, gave back the sign with a hand that trembled noticeably. Whereupon the Indian on the farther rim turned and began dignifiedly to climb through a rift in the ledge down into the Frying-pan.
“He wants a pow-wow,” Luck called back to the bunch. “You fellows stay where you're at I'm going out there in the middle and talk to him.”
“Now, Luck, don't let 'em make a dang monkey outa ye,” Applehead protested anxiously. “Injuns is tricky—”
“That's all right. You can keep a couple of rifles sighted on that old chief—that's what he is, I take it, from his actions and his talking 'sign' and then if they pot me, you can pot him. But they won't. I know Injuns better than you do, Applehead. He just wants to talk things over—and I'm certainly willing that he should!”
“Well, Lite, you keep your sights lined up on that Injun, then. 'N' if they's a crooked move made towards Luck, you cut loose—'n' say! You shoot to kill, this time!” He shook his finger in Lite's face admonishingly. “'S all right t' nip “em here 'n' take a hunk out there jest t' kinda take their minds off'n us—-'s all right enough so fur, 'n' I ain't kickin' none 'cause yuh ain't killed off yuh hit. But if this here's a trick t' git Luck, you KILL that Injun. 'N' if you don't do it I'll go out there m'self 'n' choke the dang skunk t' death!”
“I'll kill him—don't worry about that,” Lite promised—and the look in his eyes told them that the Indian was doomed at the first sign of treachery.
“You fellers wanta keep an eye peeled fer them in the grove,” Applehead warned. “We ain't goin' t' give 'em no chanst t' sneak up 'n' skulp us whilst we're watchin' Luck 'n' his dang-fool pow-wowin' out there in the middle.”
“Aw, gwan! They wouldn't DAST skelp white folks!” There was a wail in the voice of Happy Jack.
“They dast if they git the chanst,” Applehead retorted fretfully. “'N' if you don't wanta loose that there red mop uh yourn ye better keep yer eyes open, now I'm tellin' yuh!” He refilled his rifle magazine and took up his station beside Lite Avery where he could watch the Frying-pan through the bushes without exposing himself to a treacherous shot from the rim-rock.
At the foot of the sandstone ledge the Indian stood with his bright red blanket wrapped around him watching Luck. On his own side Luck stood just clear of the rock huddle and watched the Indian. Presently he of the red blanket lifted his hand in the gesture of peace, and started deliberately out across the bare little basin. From his own side, Luck, returning again the gesture, went out to meet him. In the center they met, and eyed each other frankly. Still eyeing Luck, the old Indian put out his hand Indian fashion, and Luck grave it one downward shake and let go.
“How?” he grunted; and in the Indian custom of preparing for a leisurely pow-wow as he had been taught by the Sioux, he squatted upon his boot heels and reached for his cigarette papers and tobacco.
“How?” replied the Navajo, a flicker of interest in his eyes at these
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