Central High School - Mirror Yearbook (Birmingham, AL)

Page 25 text:

THE WINNER Little Chief Tom Tom's ancestors were not very different from other good, straightforward Indians. They wore butcher knives, collected scalps at regular and frequent intervals and had astounding capacities for firewater. Xow when circumstance forced Little Chief Tom 'Pom to deprive himself of many of these little joys wherein his predecessors had found innocent enjoyment, he submitted with easy grace. Not so his noble brother. White Sachem did not mind discarding the butcher knife, and peace with the pale face troubled him not. Hut touching the third aforementioned essential he could not find it in his heart to forsake the ways of his forefathers. Indeed, his inability to look John barleycorn nonchalantly in the eye gave him much worry; so much, in fact, that he was frequently seen making gallant effort to banish his sorrows with the aid of the bubbling bottle. here he got the stuff was no mystery. Kyerybody knew that, and several there were who turned their knowledge to good account. In the dingy little building which stood next to the sheriff's office one John O'Shea dispensed booze with a lavish hand. Grocer by trade and bootlegger by inclination. he pursued his calling without fear or favor. It is even said that he made the sheriff await his turn. At any rate, he helped White Sachem to be happy. Indeed, sometimes the Indian would grow a trifle hilarious and it would take the local vigilance committee to convince him that the time was not ripe for the noble Shawnees to resume the Warpath. On these occasions it became the duty of his older brother to play the role of the good Samaritan. Little Chief Tom Tom never stopped to question. Am I my brother’s keeper? hut would ride to the sheriff's office and endeavor to loosen the grip of the law, gently chiding, perhaps. Tonight. Little Chief Tom Tom departed on this errand of mercy for the hundredth time. White Sachem had been in trouble so much of late that it had become almost a habit for his brother to he in the neighborhood of the blind tiger at 11 o’clock. There was no light in the place when Tom Tom arrived. The Indian tied his pony to the banister and then opened the door. The room was deathly still. A ray of moonlight entered over his shoulder and softly flooded the place. At a table sat a man. his head pillowed in his arms. By his hand lay a pistol. Save for this and the unnatural stillness of the form, one would have thought he was sleeping. A few playing cards were scattered about and on the other side of the table was an overturned chair. The Indian crossed swiftly over and knelt by a figure which lay face to the floor. For a long time he was motionless. Dimly he became aware of the ticking of a clock and slowly raised his head. A door in the hack of the room had been opened and in the lamp-light that came from within stood Johnny O’Shea, a jeer on his face. The Indian spoke. Page Tweii ty-1 liter

Page 27 text:

“Johnny, why did you kill White Sachem?” It was a minute before the man deigned to answer. ‘•He killed Charlie,” pointing to the figure at the table, “and I killed him.” • ♦ “The Shawnee fired twice.” the sheriff said the next morning as he recruited a posse, “and both bullets took effect.” Little Chief Tom Tom softly closed the door on the room and its occupants and walked out into the open air. Slowly he realized what he had done, lie had killed a “big” man of the neighborhood and among these people—he glanced at their houses—he, an Indian, would have the same chance of living as a coyote when a hunter finds him in his steel trap. He mounted his pony and turned its head toward the mountains, black in the distance. For hours the Indian rode, seeing nothing but the white road before him and listening to the frogs in the ponds along the wayside and the pounding of his pony’s hoofs. The hour before dawn found him high in the hills which overlook the town of Susanville. lie had dismounted to rest his pony and stood looking down through the darkness at the valley below. The morning breeze rustled the leaves over his head and numerous small sounds came thru the solemn stillness, the bark of watch-dogs anti now and then the voice of some one talking. After a while lights appeared in scattered places and twinkled like stars. The new day was beginning. In the valley below lay the village of Susanville. Chief 'Pom Tom was almost as well informed about happenings there as if it were his own town, lie knew that a racing tournament was in progress and that today the final race was to be run—the grand sweepstakes with two thousand dollars as prize. He thought of what lie could do with that much money, hirst, he would secure the services of Covey Hooper, the. best lawyer in seven counties—a man who could prove the moon was made of cheese. That man could save—even an Indian. It he could but enter his pony in the races. But no. Tepee was old; his last race was probably run. Never again would she flash over the line at the head of a flying body of horses. Besides, Tepee was tired. But there was yet a chance. In the town below there was a great Arabian stallion who had not been entered in the race. According to his master, no one could ride him with sufficient ease. Little Chief Tom Tom could ride him. Tom Tom, Shawnee brave, the Indian who could ride a horse where a horse could not be ridden. Yes, there was still a chance. He would make a fifty-fifty proposition to the owner, sell Tepee for money with which to pay the entrance fee and then ride, ride. ride. A pale light in the east cut short the Indian’s thoughts. He gathered Page Twenty-five