Good Indian by B. M. Bower (best beach reads of all time .txt) 📗

suggested languidly, wrapping the pork in a piece of brown paper and reaching for the string which dangled from the ball hung over his head.

“Saunders is asleep, very likely. If he isn't in his room, never mind hunting him. The horse is in the stable, I suppose. I can saddle better than Saunders.”

Pete tied the package, wiped his hands, and went heavily out. He returned immediately, said that Saunders must be up at the stable, and turned his attention to weighing out five pounds of white beans.

Miss Georgie helped herself to a large bag of mixed candy, and put the money in the drawer, laid her key upon the desk for safe-keeping, repinned her white sailor hat so that the hot wind which blew should not take it off her head, and went cheerfully away to the stable.

She did not saddle the horse at once. She first searched the pile of sweet-smelling clover in the far end, made sure that no man was there, assured herself in the same manner of the fact that she was absolutely alone in the stable so far as humans were concerned, and continued her search; not for Saunders now, but for sagebrush. She went outside, and looked carefully at her immediate surroundings.

“There's hardly a root of it anywhere around close,” she said to herself. “Nor around the store, either—nor any place where one would be apt to go ordinarily.”

She stood there meditatively for a few minutes, remembered that two hours do not last long, and saddled hurriedly. Then, mounting awkwardly because of the large, lumpy bag of candy which she must carry in her hands for want of a pocket large enough to hold it, she rode away to the Indian camp.

The camp was merely a litter of refuse and the ashes of various campfires, with one wikiup standing forlorn in the midst. Miss Georgie never wasted precious time on empty ceremony, and she would have gone into that tent unannounced and stated her errand without any compunction whatever. Put Peppajee was lying outside, smoking in the shade, with his foot bandaged and disposed comfortably upon a folded blanket. She tossed him the bag of candy, and stayed upon her horse.

“Howdy, Peppajee? How your foot? Pretty well, mebbyso?”

“Mebbyso bueno. Sun come two time, mebbyso walk all same no snake biteum.” Peppajee's eyes gloated over the gift as he laid it down beside him.

“That's good. Say, Peppajee,” Miss Georgie reached up to feel her hatpins and to pat her hair, “I wish you'd watch Saunders. Him no good. I think him bad. I can't keep an eye on him. Can you?”

“No can walk far.” Peppajee looked meaningly at his bandages. “No can watchum.”

“Well, but you could tell somebody else to watch him. I think he do bad thing to the Harts. You like Harts. You tell somebody to watch Saunders.”

“Indians pikeway—ketchum fish. Come back, mebbyso tellum watchum.”

Miss Georgie drew in her breath for further argument, decided that it was not worth while, and touched up her horse with the whip. “Good-by,” she called back, and saw that Peppajee was looking after her with his eyes, while his face was turned impassively to the front.

“You're just about as satisfying to talk to as a stump,” she paid tribute to his unassailable calm. “There's four bits wasted,” she sighed, “to say nothing of the trouble I had packing that candy to you—you ungrateful old devil.” With which unladylike remark she dismissed him from her mind as a possible ally.

At the ranch, the boys were enthusiastically blistering palms and stiffening the muscles of their backs, turning the water away from the ditches that crossed the disputed tracts so that the trespassers there should have none in which to pan gold—or to pretend that they were panning gold. Since the whole ranch was irrigated by springs running out here and there from under the bluff, and all the ditches ran to meadow and orchard and patches of small fruit, and since the springs could not well be stopped from flowing, the thing was not to be done in a minute.

And since there were four boys with decided ideas upon the subject—ideas which harmonized only in the fundamental desire to harry the interlopers, the thing was not to be done without much time being wasted in fruitless argument.

Wally insisted upon running the water all into a sandy hollow where much of it would seep away and a lake would do no harm, the main objection to that being that it required digging at least a hundred yards of new ditch, mostly through rocky soil.

Jack wanted to close all the headgates and just let the water go where it wanted to—which was easy enough, but ineffective, because most of it found its way into the ditches farther down the slope.

Gene and Clark did not much care how the thing was done—so long as it was done their way. At least, that is what they said.

It was Good Indian who at length settled the matter. There were five springs altogether; he proposed that each one make himself responsible for a certain spring, and see to it that no water reached the jumpers.

“And I don't care a tinker's dam how you do it,” he said. “Drink it all, if you want to. I'll take the biggest—that one under the milk-house.” Whereat they jeered at him for wanting to be close to Evadna.

“Well, who has a better right?” he challenged, and then inconsiderately left them before they could think of a sufficiently biting retort.

So they went to work, each in his own way, agreeing mostly in untiring industry. That is how Miss Georgie found them occupied—except that Good Indian had stopped long enough to soothe Evadna and her aunt, and to explain that the water would really not rise much higher in the milk-house, and that he didn't believe Evadna's pet bench at the head of the pond would be inaccessible because of his efforts.

Phoebe was sloshing around upon the flooded floor of her milk-house, with her skirts tucked up and her indignation growing greater as she gave it utterance, rescuing her pans of milk and her jars of cream. Evadna, upon the top step, sat with her feet tucked up under her as if she feared an instant inundation. She, also, was giving utterance to her feminine irritation at the discomfort—of her aunt presumably, since she herself was high and dry.

“And it won't do a BIT of good. They'll just knock that dam business all to pieces to-night—” She was scolding Grant.

“Swearing, chicken? Things must be in a great state!”

Grant grinned at Miss Georgie, forgetting for the moment his rebuff that morning. “She did swear, didn't she?” he confirmed wickedly. “And she's been working overtime, trying to reform me. Wanted to pin me down to 'my goodness!' and 'oh, dear!'—with all this excitement taking place on the ranch!”

“I wasn't swearing at all. Grant has been shoveling sand all afternoon, building a dam over by the fence, and the water has been rising and rising till—” She waved her hand gloomily at her bedraggled Aunt Phoebe working like a motherly sort of gnome in its shadowy grotto. “Oh, if I