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Updated: June 26, 2025
A full minute, priceless though it was, passed; then, satisfied that the room was empty, he drew his head back from the keyhole, and those slim, tapering fingers, that in their tips seemed to embody all the human senses, felt over the lock. Apparently it had been undisturbed; but that was no proof that Whitey Mack had not been there after finding the metal case.
A volley from the cattlemen penetrated the walls of the house. Whitey trembled for Injun, out there in No Man's Land. He need not have trembled, for that young person was safely crouching behind a boulder. For the first time Whitey noticed that a breeze was stirring.
When Injun and Whitey arrived on the spot, the woman had nothing more to say. She possibly felt that she had talked enough. Besides, she was busy smoking a pipe and waiting for the clever dogs to gather the scattered flock.
This that he might not whinney a greeting to Monty. Then Injun had crept up on the camper-thief, and waited patiently until "him snore heap." Then Injun had quietly extracted Monty from that camp, and silently faded away into the night. He was now on his way to the Bar O. "Didn't you see who the thief was?" asked Whitey. "Him fire out.
Smith had no right to let old Whitey run at large. Paul was not easily frightened when he had right on his side. The people in the stores and at the tavern had a hearty laugh when they heard how old Whitey went to Fairview. Mr. Cipher taught the village school. He was tall, slim, thin-faced, with black eyes deeply set in his head, and a long, hooked nose like an eagle's bill.
It was Sitting Bull, who had crawled into the bunk after Whitey had fallen asleep, and crowded in between the boy and the wall. At the sound of String Beans' voice Whitey felt the hair along Bull's neck rise. He remembered the dog's dislike for the two men, and put his hand over Bull's mouth to keep him from growling. Whitey was glad he did not snore.
You c'n find out a lot by fightin' him. That's how I got my feelin' for Injuns, an' it's th' kind you have for a good fighter." The incident with Dorgan seemed to have passed from his mind, though Whitey had lived long enough in the West to know that tragedy had lurked near. The old puncher leaned back, his hands behind his head, and puffed clouds of smoke into the air.
"Good-by, Tommy, old boy; hope the tin fish don't get you going back!" "Hurry up back and bring some more over, Whitey!" "Bon voyage!" "Au revoir!" "Give my regards to Broadway, Whitey." "Cheer up, Whitey, old pal. Kaiser Bill'll be worse off than you are when we get at him." "N'importe, Whitey." "I'll be there," called Tom. "Venez donc!" some one answered, amid much laughter.
He seemed to have enjoyed going to them greatly, and described each individual one at length. Never before had Whitey known what a subject for conversation funerals could make. Little dwelled on the burial of each one of his immediate family, then passed on to his distant relatives, then to his friends, then to his acquaintances.
"But this method would be so thoroughly cold-blooded, heartless," protests Mr. Robert. "Wouldn't stop Whitey, though," says I. "Then we must do our best to find Penrhyn," says he. "Sure!" says I. "Sleuth stuff. How about startin' at his rooms and interviewin' his man?" "Good!" says Mr. Robert. "We will go there at once." We did.
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