CHAPTER XXIV.

TWO INDIAN FRIENDS.

True enough, the newcomers were Dick’s childhood friend Shangowah, and his grandson, young Joe Crowfoot, Dick’s college friend. The young Indian’s keen eyes had discovered Dick already, and there was a smiling look of joyous astonishment on his handsome bronzed face. Both redskins reined toward the hotel steps as the group of young men came charging down from the veranda.

Then the guests lounging on that veranda beheld a singular spectacle. They saw the young Indian leap from his horse and shake hands with one after another of those delighted youthful palefaces. They saw the old Indian let himself down slowly and painfully from the saddle to stand half bent and seemingly tottering, with arms extended, to give Dick Merriwell an affectionate embrace. This was a sight that caused many of the wondering ladies, and not a few spick and span gentlemen, to gasp and turn up their noses.

“Of all surprising things,” young Joe was saying, “this is the greatest. Merriwell, Buckhart, Tucker, Bigelow--here in Colorado Springs!”

“Right here, chief,” chirped Tommy, “and ready at sight of your beaming, dusky mug to execute a war dance, a ghost dance, a waltz, or an Irish jig of joy. Tell us, how doth it happen thou art gallivanting around these parts?”

“Shangowah, my grandfather, sent a message requesting me to meet him here,” explained the youthful redskin.

Old Joe having released Dick, nodded his head slowly.

“The long trail,” he said, “has led Shangowah’s feet near to the place where he must lie down for the big sleep that has no end. Shangowah him mighty near polished off, finished up, cooked, done for. He think he like once more to put him blinkers on Wind-that-roars-in-the-night, his grandson; so he get white man to write talking letter that say for young Joe to come.”

“Now, Crowfoot,” protested Dick, “I’ve heard you sing this same song before, but I notice that you invariably come out of these spells with colors flying.”

Nevertheless, in his heart Merriwell was pained to note positive signs of declining strength and vitality in the old redskin.

“Mebbe sometime old Joe he make bluff ’bout it,” confessed Shangowah; “but no can keep up bluff always. Bimeby, pretty soon, time come when bluff is real thing, and old man he have to croak. He no think when he get paleface friend to write talking letter that mebbe he meet you, too, Injun Heart. He much happy.”

“Come up onto the veranda out of this sun,” urged Dick. “There are some chairs yonder, and you can rest while we talk a little.”

“Sun him feel good to old Crowfoot,” mumbled the bowed and aged chief. “Blood get thin in old man’s body; sun he warm it up some. All same, Crowfoot like little powwow with Injun Heart and friends.”

Pride would not permit him to allow Dick to assist him up the steps. With an effort he mounted them in a certain slow and dignified manner.

Surprised and not at all pleased, some of the guests upon the veranda stared at the aged redskin and the presuming young fellows who had brought him thither. The two saddled horses had been turned over to the care of a boy.

McGregor placed the easiest chair for old Crowfoot, but the chief declined to take it.

“No like-um chair,” he said, as he slowly let himself down to a sitting posture upon the floor of the veranda, placing his back against the hotel wall. “When Shangowah get so he can’t sit this fashion, he stand up till he flop over for good. He take little smoke now.”

The old rank, black pipe was produced, crumbed tobacco jammed into the bowl with a soiled thumb, and Crowfoot lighted up. As the breeze carried the tobacco smoke from his lips toward some of the near-by guests they turned up their noses still further and moved away, making some low, uncomplimentary remarks.

“Dear me!” chuckled Tommy Tucker. “The dukes and duchesses seem disturbed by the fragrant aroma of the chief’s calumet.”

“Never mind them,” said Dick. “Let’s mind our own business and pay no attention to people whose delicate sensibilities are so easily disturbed. Tell me, Shangowah, how has the world been using you?”

“Ugh!” grunted Crowfoot, pulling slowly at the pipe. “Same old way. Knock-um Injun ’round like young palefaces kick football. Sometime old Joe he be up; sometime he be down in mud. No can seem to settle nowhere. Injun have no home now. Palefaces take it all; pretty soon, bimeby, he own the earth.”

“That’s practically his now,” grinned Tucker, “and with flying machines he’s preparing to set forth for the conquering of other worlds.”

“I was doing well guiding this summer,” said young Joe, “when I received my grandfather’s letter asking me to meet him here. I need all the money I can earn to help me through college, but----”

“Shangowah he have little dough in his kick,” interrupted the old man. “He have ’nough to pay bills for his grandson one whole year at white man’s big school. He no take chances to send it by mails; he want to hand it over himself, so he send for young Joe.”

“You must have made a lucky strike of some sort, chief,” said Dick.

“Oh, old Joe he manage to scrape along. He play little poke’ now and then. He get together some mon’ ’bout time big fight come off in Reno. Never see big fight like that, so he think he take it in. He go to Reno. Ugh! Everybody there. Town plumb full, swelled up, run over; but old Joe he got ’long--he sleep anywhere, he eat anyhow.”

“Well, what do you think of the old sport,” cried Tucker delightedly, “taking in a big prize fight? Did you see it, Crowfoot?”

The aged Indian gave the little chap a look of pained reproof.

“You bet-um your boots,” he grunted. “Old Joe he buy ring-side seat. He meet up with heap much fight men before scrap come off. He look-um John Jack over; he look-um Jim Jeff over. He like-um Jim Jeff, but when he hear how Jim go by, when he see John Jack in prime, he think mebbe Jim no come back good enough to whip Jack. He have little talk with Jim Cob, too. He hold small powwow with John Sul.”

“Waugh!” laughed Buckhart. “You certainly got in with high society at Reno.”

“Jim Cob,” continued Crowfoot, “he tell old Joe, Jim Jeff sure to win. Him fine feller that Jim Cob, but he make big mistake. Old Joe he listen heap much, say nothing, think all the time. When he see big odds on Jim Jeff he think mebbe it is good chance to make fancy clean-up, so he bet last dollar on John Jack. He win fourteen hundred plunk, United States cash, clean dough.”

“Well, what do you know about that!” gasped Gregory McGregor, in profound admiration. “But what would you have done if you had lost every cent you had in the world, chief?”

Old Crowfoot looked at him wisely.

“If so,” he replied, “it not be first time Shangowah get skinned to him teeth. He take chance more than once. He go busted more than once. He always find some way to get on feet again.”

“You blessed old soldier of fortune!” chuckled Tucker. “How I admire you! If I was not fearful you would rise up and take my scalp, I would slap you familiarly on the back.”

“Back ’gainst wall,” reminded old Joe, sucking at the gurgling pipe. “Rheumatiz in back. Anybody slap-um Shangowah on back, he get in heap much trouble.”

“We’re stopping at a small hotel called the Sunset House,” said young Joe. “I knew some of the big hotels might object--or the guests might--if my grandfather should seek accommodations in them.”

“The Sunset House?” said Dick. “Why, that’s where Harrison’s ball team is putting up.”

“Yes,” nodded young Joe, “they’re there. To-morrow they play with the Springs’ nine, and my grandfather wishes to see the game.”

“They will not play with the Springs’ nine to-morrow.”

“Why not? That’s what brought them here.”

“But that game has been called off.”

“Too bad,” mumbled old Crowfoot. “Joe he get so he like-um baseball heap much. He like-um to see one more game.”

“Well, you’ll have the chance,” smiled Dick, “for to-morrow Harrison’s Outlaws will play a team picked up by yours truly, Richard Merriwell, and your grandson is going to be in that game as a member of my nine.”

A light of joy leaped into the old redskin’s beady black eyes.

“The Great Spirit is good!” he said. “Shangowah he like to see young Joe and Injun Heart play again, but he no expect to have the chance.”

After a time the two Indians departed, young Joe having delightedly agreed to take part in the baseball game.

Even as the redskins were departing a tall, lank, insipid-looking young man in flannels detached himself from a group of guests and approached Merriwell’s party.

“I--I say, m’friends,” he drawled, “don’t you really think it’s rawther _outré_--rawther bad taste, you understand? You should realize that there are ladies and gentlemen here. You should understand that bringing such offensive persons onto this veranda is deucedly distasteful.”

Dick smilingly faced the fellow and took his measure.

“I don’t think,” he said, “I’ve ever been introduced to you.”

“Quite unnecessary--quite. My name is Archie Ling.”

“Ting-a-ling-ling,” chirped Tommy.

Mr. Ling gave the little chap a look intended to be crushing.

“I’m addressing this young man here,” he said haughtily. “I’m remonstrating against bringing common, dirty, foul-smelling creatures like those Indians onto the veranda of this hotel, and I hope my remonstrance will be heeded. If it occurs again, the guests will feel it their duty to protest to the management.”

“They may file their protests as soon as they please,” said Dick quietly. “Those Indians are friends of mine.”

“Aw, really, you ought to be ashamed to make such an acknowledgement. If circumstances of any sort made it necessary for me to know such characters, I’d certainly do my best to hide the fact from the general public. I’d never acknowledge that I was friendly with an Indian, never.”

“Don’t worry,” returned Dick; “you would never have the chance, for I don’t know an Indian who would care to be friendly with you. Look here, Mr. Ling, you’re poking your nose into a crack where it’s liable to get pinched.”

“Or twisted,” growled Buckhart. “Back up, Ling. Chase yourself, before somebody is tempted to put their paws on you and toss you over the rail.”

“Such insolence!” sniffed Ling. “I don’t understand how such cheap, common people ever could find accommodations here.”

“Judging by appearances, your understanding is very limited,” said Merriwell. “Really, I think it is dangerous for you to strain your meagre intellect to understand things beyond your narrow scope.”

“Now, say, that’s insulting--actually insulting! I shall hold myself in restraint, however. In behalf of the ladies and gentlemen who were offended, I protest again against a repetition of your recent behavior.”

“Go away and play with your dolls,” begged Tucker. “If you annoy people, somebody will give you a spanking.”

Mr. Ling gasped and choked.

“How dare you talk to me like that, you little----”

Tommy was on his toes in a twinkling.

“Cut it out, Ting-a-ling-ling,” he interrupted, “or I’ll hand you the spanking myself, and I’ll guarantee that I can do the job to the queen’s taste.”

“Sic him, Tommy,” gurgled Bigelow delightedly. “For once in my life I’ll bet on you.”

But the lanky young man backed away.

“It’s evident,” he spluttered, “that you’re a set of young ruffians. I shall inform the management what I think of you.”

“If you try to think too hard you may get a pain in that upper story vacuum of yours.”

Ling retired, still muttering, and reported to the watching guests, some of whom seemed amused, while others betrayed sympathetic indignation. Neither Dick nor his friends, however, gave any one of them further attention.

“I’ll have to get suits for the bunch,” said Merriwell. “Brad, Tommy, and I have ours, which we brought along with us on the tour. I’ll find Loring and see if he can fit the rest of the crowd out with uniforms.”

In this he was successful, and ere the dinner hour he had procured uniforms enough for ten men, one of which, according to Loring’s statement, was fully large enough for Bouncer Bigelow. He likewise learned that Loring had set about advertising the game in a manner which promised to leave no one at the Springs uninformed concerning it.

An hour after dinner, Dick found Chester and June Arlington chatting on the veranda. Mrs. Arlington had retired to her room.

“Just in time to entertain sis, old fellow,” laughed Chet. “I have a little business that I should look after. Make yourselves sociable.”

He left them together, whistling on his way down the street.

For a time they spoke somewhat constrainedly of commonplace things. Finally June put out a hand and touched Dick’s sleeve lightly.

“Dick,” she murmured, “I have something that I want to say. I want to tell you just what’s in my heart, but I can’t. Perhaps you understand how happy I am. Perhaps you know that I appreciate all you have done for my brother.”

“I never did much for Chester, June. It was impossible; he wouldn’t let me.”

“You did everything for him. He knows it, and he has spoken of it many times. It was you who made him what he is.”

“Hardly that, June. If there had not been the making of a man in him, I could have done nothing. Really, I did nothing but----”

“Many a time you had it in your power to punish him as he justly deserved, and yet you held your hand.”

“For your sake, June, not his,” whispered Dick as his fingers found hers in the soft darkness.

Again it was impossible for her to find the words she sought, and their hands clung together.

“It’s so strange,” she said, in a low tone; “so strange that my mother should speak of you with such deep friendliness. She told me about meeting you this afternoon. She told me how glad she was that Chester had such a staunch and worthy friend. She’s wonderfully changed, Dick.”

“She is indeed.”

“The doctors have given some encouragement that her memory might be restored, but I almost think it is better as it is. The recollection of the past would be bitter to her now.”

“To all of us the past holds both sweet and bitter memories.”

“I’m very glad fortune brought us together here at the Springs, if only for a few days. We must take mother back home soon, for father is ill and lonely. Poor father! In his heart he always admired you, Dick.”

Thus drawn into reminiscences and memories of the past, they chatted until Chester finally returned.

Five minutes after the reappearance of Arlington, a tall, quick-stepping young man ascended from the street, and by the light over the entrance of the hotel Dick recognized young Joe Crowfoot.

Joe turned and came forward quickly at Merriwell’s call.

“Looking for you, Dick,” he said. “You can handle my grandfather better than I. He will listen to you when he won’t hear a word from me. Unfortunately, he’s started to celebrate the pleasure of our meeting here. You know what that means. He’s found liquor. I’ve locked him in a room at the Sunset, but I can’t get the whisky away from him. I wish you would come over with me and see what you can do.”

“I will,” said Dick. “I’ll come, Joe.”