Westwood High School - Chipmunk Yearbook (Westwood, CA)

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Page Twenty-Six THE CHIPMUNK A CURIOUS ADVENTURE Prize Story for the Senior High School Tommy Collins was the five-year old son of Sergeant Collins and his wife, Molly. The Sergeant was attached to the Thirty-first infantry at a frontier military post. Shortly after reveille one piping hot August morning, Tommy Collins was playing officer of the guard; a pair of second lieutenant’s shoulder straps were sewed on his blue flannel shirt, an old cap adorned his mass of brown curls, while a wooden sword dangled from an old cartridge belt, found on the target range. He was carefully inspecting his sentries, a row of hitching-posts, when he was suddenly interrupted. “I’m sorry you’re on guard. Lieutenant.” said old Flannigan, the head packer of the pack-mule train, gravely saluting the boy. “Well, if it’s anything very particular, Mike. I’ll play I’m just marching off,” whereupon the child went through the proper cere- monies without a mistake, old Mike chuckling as he watched him. “Shoulder straps just suit that boy, and some day he’ll be wearing a pair of his own.” When the guard mount was over, Flannigan delivered his invi- tation. Tom was to ask his mother to allow him to ride out with the herd, which was to graze over on Indian Creek for the day; they would take their rods, and after dinner they would go fishing. Tom was wild with delight, but Mrs. Collins thought it was a long, hot ride for a little fellow. Mike, however, promised to take the best of care of the boy; he wouldn’t let him get a bit tired. “We’ll be resting all the way over and back. Ma’am” was the way he put it, so Molly gave in and made up an extra nice lunch for the two. Tom, with his small hands clasped in Flannigan’s, trotted beside him over to the corral. Soon the long mule train was in motion on its slow way across the prairie, Mike on Jenny, the big gray mule, the pride of every teamster, with Tommy riding in front of the saddle. Some little distance behind them trotted the horses of B troop, with two or three troopers in charge. “What a big herd guard you’ve got today, Mike,” observed Tom- my presently. Nothing ever escaped him. “Yes, son, and great nonsense it is, too.” Mike wiped his brow. Had Mrs. Collins had any idea of the extra state of affairs that morning, Master Tom would not have been perched on the pommel of Mike’s saddle. An extra guard had been ordered out because of the holding up of the stage some three days before and the reported presence of an outlaw and his gang in the vicinity of the post. Flannigan did not believe the report, for nothing would have convinced him that anyone would dare meddle with a herd that Mike Flannigan had charge of. “Why is it nonsense, Mike,” asked Tom, “and who ordered it?” “It’s K. O.’s orders, Tom”, he said answering the last question first, “and the reason why is that some of these scary settlers around here have been telling the old man tales of horse thieves and stage robbers and that stuff.”

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THE CHIPMUNK Page Twenty-Five

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THE CHIPMUNK Page Twenty-Seven Flannigan’s tone was very scornful and Tom was at once deeply interested. “Is it Pete Newell that’s around, Mike?“ he wispered, casting a glance backward. “Yes, that’s what they claim.” Tommy felt a thrill of pleasure at the sound of the dreaded name; he knew it well; it was used as a bugbear to frighten naughty children throughout the settlement. Resting frequently, they reached Indian Creek about ten and there they spent a most delightful day. After the noon dinner Mike and Tommy went fishing, having such good luck that they only returned in time for a hasty supper. Shortly after five o’clock the herd was on its way back to the post. B troon passed the mule train on a wild run and the young troopers called back a jolly “Good night, fellows, see you all by reveille.” Flannigan and Tom on Jenny set a good smart pace, half trot, for the mule train, and they were making excellent time. “Are you tired. Tommy, lad?” Old Flannigan asked of the small figure sitting his saddle, or rather the pommel, as steady and straight as any cavalry man. “Not one bit,” he answered, “but please sing ‘Aileen Aroon’ for me, Mike, will you?” “Wait till I finish my pipe, and I will.” “May I stand up and look around, Mike?” “You may. Hold on to my shoulder tight, and if you see Pete Newell, give me warning.” Flannigan laughed at his little joke, and Tommy did too. Suddenly, Tommy said: “Hold on, Mike, there’s a whole lot of cowboys just coming over the trail. See, I think they’re waving to us to stop.” The old teamster turned quickly, gave one look and then his weatherbeaten face grew quite white, while a grim stern look settled down like iron over his countenance. “Pete Newell and those scoundrels of his! I’d know him and that ugly looking roan any day. They mean mischief, too!” “Tommy.” he said suddenly, “you’re no baby, are you? I’ve got a job for you that will show your grit. That’s Pete Newell, sure enough; he’ll run off this mule team and disgrace me forever. But if you’ve got the pluck, you can save me, and if you do the best cow pony in Wyoming shall be yours.” “I’ll do it, Mike; try me.” “Here, pop into this grain bag before they see you. Can you breathe? Now listen while I tell you; hold up the flap so that you can peep out.” Tommy’s white, terror-stricken face peered out from the saddle bag which hung from Jenny’s side. “Our men haven’t seen these scoundrels yet, and Pete doesn’t know that we’ve seen him. I’ll pretend to jump off Jenny, and as I