Hart The Golden West Boys, Injun and Whitey, A Story of Adventure

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-3-98744-778-5
Verlag: OTB eBook publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 133 Seiten

Reihe: Classics To Go

Excerpt: The first fifteen years of my life were spent in the Dakota Territory. The great West mothered me during the shaping of my boyhood ambitions and ideals. Therefore, I know by personal experience much of the actual life of our frontier days. Let me relate a few unusual stories of early environment which will show why a man brought up in the West never forgets its history, traditions and life. While boys of my age in the East were playing baseball, football and the various school games, I was forced through environment to play the more primitive games of the Indian. I lived on the frontier. White settlers were scarce. Naturally, I had but a few boy companions of my own race. A boy is a boy no matter what race or country; therefore, we played with the Indian youths. In this way, I learned to ride Indian-style as well as with the saddle; I learned to shoot accurately with rifle or six-gun; I learned to hunt and track with the wisdom of my red friends; and I learned to play the rugged, body-building games of the native Americans, which called for the greatest endurance and best sportsmanship. In short, I was a Western boy.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Hart, William S.

Leseproben

CHAPTER I
NEWS FROM THE WEST
"Hooray! Hooray!" shouted Alan Sherwood,—better known as "Whitey" to the boys in school. "Ooo-lu-lulu-loo-lulu!" he called, making the sound by putting his hand over his mouth and rapidly pulling it away and putting it back. He considered this a very good imitation of an Indian war-whoop. Mr. Sherwood, "Whitey's" father, had just finished reading aloud a letter from a firm of lawyers in Montana which stated that Uncle Robert Granville, who died some weeks before, had left a will bequeathing his large ranch and everything on it to Mr. Sherwood; and that, as the ranch was a profitable one, it would be necessary for him to come to Montana and either carry on the business or see to its disposal. "Hooray! Hooray!" yelled "Whitey," executing a very wild dance, and letting out a series of whoops that almost deafened the other members of the family. "What are you 'hooraying' about?" asked Mr. Sherwood, while his wife and his two small sisters held their hands over their ears. "I hope," said Mr. Sherwood, with a quizzical smile, "it is not because your poor uncle Robert is dead?" "Why, of course not, Father," said "Whitey," somewhat abashed; "I'm very sorry that Uncle Robert is dead—but—I'm just glad that I'm going out West and can go hunting and be a cowboy, and maybe shoot a few grizzly bears and Indians!" "Who told you that you were going?" asked his father, pretending to be very serious, but having hard work to keep back a smile. "Well, I'd just like to see myself staying here if we owned a ranch out West!" said "Whitey," with fine scorn. "I've heard you say, lots of times, that the West is the place for a young man!" Whitey had just attained the age of fourteen, and Mr. Sherwood had to conceal a smile behind his hand, as he glanced at his wife, who was an interested listener. "And what do you want to kill Indians for—they never did anything to you, did they?" asked Mr. Sherwood. "No," said Whitey, hesitating about making such an admission, "I don't know as they ever did anything to me—but everybody kills 'em, don't they? In all the Western books I read, people always kill 'em—'wipe 'em out' is what the scouts call it in the books—make 'em 'bite the dust!' I thought that was the proper thing to do," he said, in defense of his position. "Well," said Mr. Sherwood, "I think I'd give the matter a little consideration before I started the slaughter. It isn't open season for Indians just now, and besides, if the Indians should happen to hear that you were coming, they might all leave, while there is yet time to escape the White Avenger! And as for the grizzlies—did you ever see a grizzly bear, Son?" "Sure," said Whitey, disdainfully, "up at the Bronx Zoo. He was a terribly moth-eaten looking affair—no life in him at all! He just went sniffing around and all he cared about was to eat peanuts. And when the keeper went into the cage, he ran like he was scared to death!" "Maybe he'd act a little different if he were in his native Rockies, and you might not have any peanuts with you," said Mr. Sherwood, shaking his head. "Would you believe it, if I told you that a grizzly can run almost as fast as the fastest horse? And in the brush and over the rough ground, a great deal faster?" "I'd believe it, if you say so; but it doesn't seem possible," said Whitey, doubtfully. "If he can run that fast, it would make him mighty hard to catch, wouldn't it?" he asked, after some thought. "It would," laughed Mr. Sherwood, "if he always ran the other way—but he doesn't! Sometimes it's harder to let him go than it is to catch him! Sometimes he runs after you—and then you'd have to 'go some'—as you say." "If he ever came at me," said Whitey, belligerently, "I'd put a bullet in his heart!" "Even that doesn't always stop a grizzly, right away," said Mr. Sherwood. "They have very surprising vitality. I think that, for the time being, I'd let the Indians and grizzlies alone—let the poor things live! At any rate, you're not out West, yet, and it may be that I shall decide not to go at all—though I suppose I shall," and Mr. Sherwood proceeded to ponder over the matter. Nevertheless, it was plain to be seen that he, too, felt the call of the mountain and the prairie almost as much as did his son. Although a prosperous merchant in New York he had spent several years of his early life in the great West; and once a man gets the lure of the wilds in his blood, he is seldom able to shake it off altogether. But he felt that there were too many things to be considered—his business, his family and their welfare and the schooling of his children—to make a hasty decision, pack up, bag and baggage, and leave a comfortable home for a new and untried one. No one, not even grown-ups, can always do just as he likes. Everybody has obligations to others; and there are many things that we all must forego to fulfill those obligations—as a matter of duty. For duty is, after all, nothing but fulfilling obligations, and the sooner a boy learns this, the sooner he becomes a man! Alan Sherwood, although he was only fourteen years old, was getting to be a good deal of a man. The nickname "Whitey" had been given him by his companions at school on account of his light blonde hair. He had resented it, at first; but after he found out that he couldn't "lick the whole school,"—although he came pretty near doing it—he gradually became resigned to it, and answered to it readily. Whitey was large for his age, and was far stronger than the average boy of fifteen or sixteen. This had been brought about by the fact that he had been a weakling up to the time he was seven or eight, and had been humiliated and imposed upon by the other boys until he determined to remedy his physical defects, if hard work and systematic exercise would do it. He consulted his father and found out that the first thing for an athlete to do was to breathe properly, for "wind" is a most important thing in all contests of strength and endurance. "No matter how fast a boy can run," said Mr. Sherwood who had been a famous college athlete in his day, "if he hasn't good wind, he won't last in a long race; and even if he is far stronger than his opponent in a boxing or a wrestling bout, he will be beaten by the boy who has good wind." Whitey began by taking a long, deep breath, as soon as he came out of doors in the morning, and holding it while he walked ten steps; and this he repeated ten times. It made him a little dizzy, at first, but he found that he could soon increase it to twenty and thirty times without discomfort. He was careful to make the increase very gradually, stopping the deep breathing as soon as he felt the slightest dizziness. Then he began to take up systematic and regular running, jogging around the block at a slow pace, and slowing down to a walk as soon as he felt his heart beating fast. He soon found that he could negotiate this without breathing hard, and then he began to increase the distance. He had been assured by his father that many boys, and men, too, who think they are training are really hurting themselves by over-doing it, and are surprised to find that they do not get into condition, being ignorant of the fact that moderation is the basis of all success. Mr. Sherwood pointed out to Whitey that shrewd baseball managers do not allow their men to exert themselves to the utmost in the early days of spring training, but compel them to "lob 'em over" until their arm-muscles become flexible. And they will not allow a player to run bases at top speed for fear that he may strain a tendon in his leg and impair his speed for a large part of the playing season. "It is a hard thing for a young and ambitious athlete to keep himself in check when he is brimming over with health and strength and enthusiasm," said Mr. Sherwood, "but it is the real way to train. Many a young athlete ruins his chances for future success by going at it too violently at first." Of course, there were many other things that Mr. Sherwood showed Whitey, one of the most important being regular hours—regular hours for sleep and for play; in short, to be systematic. And another thing of great importance was cleanliness—both of mind and body—for no boy or man can, or ever did, become a really great athlete without the aid of both of these. And as for smoking—"Well," said Mr. Sherwood, "I can't say that there is anything really wrong about a man smoking, but for a boy to smoke means that he is willing to sacrifice almost everything to that. It not only is apt to stunt his growth, but one cigarette may destroy all the good effects of a week's training. And not only that, it affects the eye and the nerves—takes away accuracy from the eye, and makes the hand unsteady. I don't believe it pays—I don't believe there is enough fun in smoking to make up for what it costs a boy in a physical way, even if there were no other reasons." And so Whitey really went into training without seeming to have done so—any boy can do it; he doesn't need any dumb-bells or gymnasium apparatus—and the result was, that by the time he was thirteen, he was the strongest boy in the school; and what is more important, he had learned to control himself. He wasn't nearly so anxious to fight as he had been, although, when he did get into a fight, he was able to render a good account of himself. It is always found that the boy who really can fight isn't nearly so quarrelsome as the one who is always ready to start a fight—and let some other fellow finish it! Long after Whitey had gone to bed, and was dreaming of picking up a grizzly bear by the...