Chapter 6 BOOTS

The green of the prairie had given way to brown, and the brown to white, which rolled off to the sky-line and the hills in dazzling billows, in the cold light of the sun. For winter had the Bar O in its grip. And though winter was no gentle thing in Montana, there was a tingle in the cold, sharp air that made a boy want to whoop and to get on his snowshoes and go after rabbits, which wise old Nature had also turned white, so that they could blend in with the color of the landscape and the better avoid their enemies. Not that Injun ever whooped; he never did.

His people always had reserved that form of expression for warlike purposes.

There were many things the boys could do in winter, but these were forgotten for a time by Whitey, for a great event was about to take place. His father was to return to the ranch from New York, stopping over at St. Paul, on his way, to buy supplies. And as the snow was not too deep for sleighing, Whitey drove down to the Junction, with Bill Jordan, to meet Mr. Sherwood. And outside Whitey was all wrapped up in a buffalo coat, and inside he was so warm with excitement that the coat seemed hardly necessary.

Now, of course, Whitey was awfully glad to see his father, and to hear the news about his mother and sisters, and about Tom Johnson, and George and Bobby Smith, and others of his boy friends. But after he had heard all this there was another thing that naturally came to his mind. Mr. Sherwood would not come back to the ranch without bringing Whitey some sort of present, and his father was singularly silent about what this was. In fact, he had not said anything about it at all. And it was after supper, and Mr. Sherwood was unpacking his trunk, when he rather carelessly said, "Oh, here's something I brought for you," and gave Whitey a parcel.

Whitey thanked his father, and undid the parcel, and he dropped the things that were in it, and his eyes popped out, and for a moment he could hardly breathe, he was so excited, for they were Boots!

And when Whitey recovered a bit he rushed over and actually hugged his father.

Perhaps you would like to know why a pair of boots would cause all this feeling in Whitey. For one thing, it was because he never had owned any. In New York all the boys wore shoes, and when Whitey had come to the ranch he had worn them, too, until the soles of his feet had become hard enough, like Injun's, for him to go barefoot, which he delighted in doing.

But in the late fall, and the spring, when it was colder, he again followed Injun's lead, and wore moccasins. Buckskin moccasins, with little bead decorations. In the cold of winter, when the snow was deep, and when the big thaws came, Whitey wore heavy, moccasin-like muck-lucks, made of buckskin, which laced high, nearly to his knees, and over the tops of which hung the tops of heavy, woolen socks.

These comprised Injun and Whitey's footwear for the seasons. But there was one thing that Whitey envied the cowboys on the ranch their boots. For you must know that there are two things on which a puncher spends his money extravagantly-his boots and his saddle. Unless he happens to be a Mexican-then he spends it on his hat, too.

So the dream of Whitey's life, the pinnacle of his ambition, the idea of the tip-top of ecstatic happiness that lived in his brain was-Boots. And now he had them. And they were beauties; with tops of soft leather with fancy stitching, inlaid with white enameled leather, and high heels, that a fellow could dig into the ground when he was roping a horse. In short, they were regular boots, that any one might be proud of. And they had been made to order for Whitey!

It would be useless to attempt a description of how Whitey felt about those boots. Shakespeare would have to come back to life to do that, and I doubt if he could have done it. I know that Bacon could not. Whitey's first impulse was to put the boots on, and go out and show them to all the men in the bunk house. His next impulse was to save the surprise till morning, when the decorations on the boots would show better.

But he put them on. And after his father had finished unpacking, Whitey sat in the living-room with him, and it is to be feared that he listened rather absent-mindedly to his father's talk. He would stretch out his legs and admire the boots. Then he would twist his feet about so that he could get a good view of the high heels. Then he would double up his knees, and fairly hug the boots. And if Mr. Sherwood noticed all this he gave no sign. Probably he remembered the day he had his first pair of boots. And that night, though Whitey did not sleep in the boots, he took them to bed with him.

In the morning Whitey restrained his impatience until breakfast-time, then strolled down to the bunk house, wearing the boots. Several of the men were there, just finishing the meal, and rolling their after-breakfast cigarettes. Whitey sat down, sort of offhand and careless-like, and to his pained surprise, no one noticed the boots. Then he crossed his legs and leaned back, with his hands clasped behind his head-and Buck Higgins noticed them.

And Whitey certainly was gratified, for they attracted a great deal of admiration and praise, and there was much discussion about them, and feeling of the leather, and estimating how much they cost. After a while Injun arrived. Now, Injun did not care about boots, though he might have liked a pair had they been made of pink leather. But even Injun was moved to admiration by these boots.

Then Whitey strutted around the ranch buildings and corrals for a while, and the milch cows, and the horses and the pigs-all the stock, in fact-had a good look at the boots. And Sitting Bull admired them so much that he wanted to lick them, but of course that wouldn't do.

Bill Jordan had an errand at the Junction and he drove Whitey and Injun over with him. Al Strong's store was also the postoffice, and every man, woman, and child that happened to be there at mail-time had a fine view of Whitey's boots. That night, when Whitey went to bed, he was quite tired from exhibiting them.

The next day Whitey figured that about every human being and animal in the neighborhood had seen his boots. Then he happened to think of the Indians fishing on the river. I say on the river, for it was frozen over, with its first solid covering of ice. Now, the Indians never fish in the summer-time. Few white people know about it, but the Indians don't like to fish. They only eat fish when they can't hunt much. When the Indian goes into camp for the winter, he has his provisions all stacked to carry him through, but to be sure that these provisions will hold out, he will eat just a little fish.

And this is the Indian's mode of fishing. He puts up a tepee right out on the ice, and puts a blanket inside the tepee. Then he cuts a hole in the ice, and lies down on the blanket and industriously watches the hole. You know that fish are very inquisitive, and when Mr. Inquiring Fish comes along to see about that hole, Mr. Indian spears him just back of the head, pulls him out, and has fried fish for supper.

When Whitey beat it down to the river, to show his boots to a new audience, he was followed by Injun and Sitting Bull. Trouble was following, too,-Harrowing Trouble,-but Whitey didn't know it. On the frozen river were about a dozen tepees, standing up something like big stacks of cornstalks on a field of frosted glass. So there probably were about a dozen Indians, lying on their stomachs, watching as many holes in the ice.

There was not one of those Indians that Whitey thought should miss seeing those boots. In the first tepee his reception was very gratifying. Little Eagle was the owner's name, and he didn't care much about boots, but the decorations on these pleased his taste for the gaudy, and his eyes sparkled as he grunted his praise.

So it went around the little fishing village, until Whitey entered about the eighth tepee, and that was where Trouble was right next to him. Inside the tent it was dark. And Whitey didn't fall into the hole in the ice-he walked into it. His life was not in danger, because he didn't mind a little cold water, and the Indian lying there on his stomach, with his eyes accustomed to the darkness, could see, and he quickly grabbed Whitey by the shoulders and yanked him out-but, oh! the boots!

They were crinkled and soaked and water-logged and shrunken. And it took six Indians to get them off, two pulling on each boot, and two to hold Whitey. And when they were off, Whitey borrowed a pair of moccasins, and raced to the ranch house, with Injun and Sitting Bull.

Now, in the living-room of the Bar O ranch house in winter-and in every other ranch house in that part of the country-was a big stove that held a stick of cordwood three feet long. In fact, it held four or five such sticks of cordwood, which, you can imagine, made a good fire. And straight to this fire went Whitey. He was wet, and he was ashamed. And he put the boots under the stove to dry, without anybody's seeing him. And he didn't say anything to his father about it, because he was ashamed. And he went to bed without saying anything about it.

In the morning Whitey was up with the sun, and went to get his boots. And, oh, ye gods! Why didn't the heavens fall? What once was a pair of proud boots, looked like two little, brown wrinkled apples! It was a tragedy in six acts. It was worse than that, for one can find words for a tragedy. But why dwell on it?

And while Whitey was getting the worst of the first, horrible shock, his father came into the living-room, and not knowing why, Whitey ran, and his father, not knowing why, I suspect, ran after him. Whitey was fleet of foot, and much smaller than his father, so he could make the stairs better. And he ran up and down and around, now slamming this door, and now slamming that one.

And Whitey's father began to get angry. But Whitey had become a frontier boy, and accustomed to standing his ground in the face of a superior enemy-at least, when he couldn't run any farther. When he was finally run down, he backed into a corner, lifted his fists to the proper angle, and, in this boyish fighting attitude, said to his big, strong, wonderful dad, "Don't you hit me!"

If it hadn't been for his father's strong sense of humor, Whitey probably would have been in for a sound trimming. As it was, his father paused and looked at him sternly; then his piercing blue eyes began to soften, and signs of his sense of humor began to appear about his mouth. And he turned on his heel, and walked away, leaving Whitey to his grief.

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