The Border Boys on the Trail

by John Henry Goldfrap

  CHAPTER II.

  THE BOYS FIND TROUBLE.

  "No shootee! No shootee!"

  The blue-overalled Chinaman plumped down on his knees in the thickdust, with his hands clasped in entreaty. Above him, threatening thecowering wretch with his pistol, stood the figure of the man who hademerged so suddenly from the restaurant door. The crowd doing nothingstood stoically looking on.

  The tormentor of the Mongolian was a tall, swarthy figure of a man,crowned with a high-peaked, silver-braided sombrero, the huge brim ofwhich almost obscured the repulsive details of his swarthy face. Theremainder of his garb was a short jacket, beneath which a broad redsash upheld the most peculiar nether garments Ralph had ever seen.They were tight about their wearer's thin legs as far as the knees,when the black velvet of which they were made suddenly became as fulland baggy as the trousers of a sailor. High-heeled boots and a pairof jingling silver spurs completed his fantastic costume--the typicalholiday garb of a Mexican, including the revolver.

  "By Sam Hooker, I know that chink!" cried Jack, as the boys ran up andjoined the crowd. "It's Hop Lee. He used to cook on my father's ranch.I remember hearing now that he had started some kind of a restaurant intown. Here, Hop Lee, what's the matter?"

  "Oh, Misser Mellill, you helpee me! No let Misser De Ballios shooteeme! I do no halm. Me catch um----"

  "What are you boys interfering here for?" demanded the Mexicansuddenly, wheeling angrily. He spoke in good English, but with a traceof accent. Jack, despite his brown face and the keen, resourcefullook which comes from a plainsman's life, wore Eastern-cut clothes.The Mexican had promptly sized him up for a tenderfoot. "You just runalong, or you'll get hurt," he continued menacingly.

  He leveled his gun, and brusquely ordered the Chinaman, who had by thistime arisen, to kneel once more in the dust.

  "Don't do it, Hop Lee. Get back to your cook stove," cried Jack.

  "He _will_ kneel!" declared the Mexican, facing about, "or----"

  "Well, or what?" demanded Jack, looking the silver-braided bravadostraight in the eyes.

  "Or you will!"

  Question and answer came sharp as pistol shots.

  The Mexican raised his pistol menacingly. But at the same instant afoot suddenly projected between the Spanish-American's slender legs andtwisted about one limb. The next instant the gaudily garbed bully layprostrate in the dust, the pungent stuff filling his eyes, mouth andnose.

  It was Ralph Stetson's foot which had tripped the man. The boy hadacted in a sudden excess of fear that the Mexican was about to shoothis chum. As a matter of fact, the fellow had had no such intention.But now he had shared the fate of many another man who has made abluff, only to have it promptly taken at its full value.

  A sort of murmur of alarm went through the crowd as the Mexicanmeasured his length in the dust.

  "Say, pard," said a short, chunky little cowboy behind Ralph, "you'vedone it now; that's Black Ramon De Barrios."

  "Well, he's white now!" laughed the boy, as the Mexican rose to hisfeet with his features smothered with white dust.

  "Looks as if he'd been taking a dive in the flour barrel!" laughedJack. He turned to Ralph with a quick, "Thanks, old fellow. I see thatyou're as much on the job here as on the football field. But I don'tthink he meant to shoot----"

  "No, he _did_ not, but he _does_ now!"

  De Barrios approached the boys, his pistol leveled and his black,serpent-like eyes glinting wickedly. "I'll show you what Black Ramoncan do! He never forgets an insult nor forgives an injury!"

  Aghast at the threatened tragedy, the crowd did nothing, and the boysstood rooted to one spot. Closer and closer, like a snake, the Mexicancrept, determined, it seemed, to get the full measure of anticipationout of his revenge for his tumble. Jack never flinched, but his heartbeat unpleasantly fast.

  The Mexican's brown, cigarette-stained forefinger trembled on thetrigger. He was quite close now.

  The fat little cowboy gave a yell of alarm, and sprang suddenly forward.

  "Look out! The varmint's going to shoot!"

  But at the same instant a strange thing happened A snaky loop whizzedthrough the air and settled about the bully's neck. The vengefulMexican was suddenly jerked off his feet as it tightened, his long legsthreshing the air like those of a swimming frog.

  "Roped, by ginger!" yelled some one in the crowd, as De Barrios, at theend of a lariat, went ploughing through the dust on his face for thesecond time.

  And roped, Ramon De Barrios was. So absorbed had the crowd been inwatching the tense scene before them that few of them had noticed acowboy mounted on a small calico pony who had ridden slowly up froma point behind the boys. This cow-puncher, a long-legged, rangy,sun-burned fellow, in typical stockman's garb, had watched everythingattentively till the critical moment. Then, with a quick twist, he hadroped the Mexican as neatly as he would have tied a calf on brandingday.

  "Well done, and thank you, Bud!" shouted Jack, running up and shakingthe cowboy's hand.

  The latter had halted his pony a short distance from them. But thedistance had been quite far enough for De Barrios, whose method oftraveling had been far from comfortable.

  "Where did you spring from, old fellow?" Jack went on.

  "From the corral up the street," said Bud, displaying no more emotionthan if he and the boys had had an appointment to meet at that spotunder quite ordinary circumstances. "Just wait till I get this heresidewinder of a greaser cut loose, and I'll talk to you."

  All this time De Barrios had lain prone in the dust, with the ropestretched tight, just as the trained cow pony had kept it. Bud nowcast loose the end which he had wound about his saddle horn, and theMexican, with a sulky look, rose to his feet and threw off the rawhideloop.

  "Here's your gun," said Bud Wilson, leaning from his saddle and pickingup the fallen weapon from the dust.

  "Hold on, though," he said suddenly. Breaking the weapon open, he"sprung" the shells out of it. This done, he handed it to the Mexican,who took it with a sinister look.

  "To our next meeting!" he grated, as he turned away.

  "Well, stay on your feet next time!" rejoined Bud composedly, amid aroar from the crowd.

  "Now, Hop Lee," demanded Jack Merrill of the Chinaman, as De Barriosstrode off without a word, but with a black look on his swarthy face,"what was the trouble in there?"

  "Why, the Chink spilled a spot of grease on the brim of the Mexican'ssombrero," volunteered somebody, "and when he wouldn't wipe it offagain, De Barrios got mad."

  "Well, I don't know as I blame the greaser so very much, those beingthe circumstances," remarked Bud dryly. "These Chinks has got to bekep' in order some way. Now get back to your chuck wagon, Hop, anddon't give no more dissatisfaction to your customers."

  Ralph now learned who Bud Wilson was--a cow-puncher who had worked forJack's father for many years, and had practically brought Jack up onthe range. Bud had two strong dislikes, Mexicans and Apaches, and hisservices against the latter had given him his nickname of Apache Bud.For tenderfeet, Bud had merely pity.

  "Poor critters," he would say, when at his ease in the bunkhouse, orwhen sweeping across the range on his favorite calico pony, "I s'poseit ain't their fault--being raised unnatural--but the most of 'em isdumb as a locoed coyote."

  "What ponies have you brought for us, Bud?" asked Jack, as, with thetwo boys walking beside him, the cowboy rode slowly back to the stable,from the door of which he had first espied their difficulty.

  "Waal, I brought Firewater fer you," said Bud, "and Petticoats, thebuckskin, for your tenderfoot friend here."

  "Petticoats!" said Jack in a tone of vexation. "Why, Petticoats is thetamest old plug on the ranch."

  "That's all right, Jack," said Ralph, bravely choking back a feeling ofmortification. "I guess, when I've shown I can ride, I'll get a chanceat a better animal."

  Bud Wilson gazed at him with a kindlier expression than he had yetbestowed on the rather pale-faced young Easterner. Although an athleteand a boxer, Ralph had h
ad some slight bronchial trouble of late, andhad been recommended to spend his vacation in New Mexico as a means ofeffecting a complete cure.

  "So you kin ride?" Bud asked.

  "A little," said Ralph modestly.

  As a matter of fact, Mr. Stetson, the railroad magnate, owned severalgood horses, and had always encouraged his son Ralph in using them.In this way Ralph had had plenty of experience with one or two of theEastern "drag hunts," and had played polo a little. Jack Merrill knewthis. It mortified him, therefore, to think that old Petticoats hadbeen brought for his guest.

  "I tell you, Ralph," he said generously, "you take Firewater and seehow you like him."

  "Not much, Jack," exclaimed Ralph. "He's your own pet particular pony.I've often heard you speak of him. No; I'll take old Petticoats. Iguess we'll get on all right together."

  Both ponies were saddled and ready for them when the party reached thestable. De Barrios, who had had his heavy black horse in the corral,was riding out as they came up. The Mexican gave them a black look, towhich they paid no attention. The Mexican, whatever he may have lookedlike on foot, presented an impressive sight on his black horse--asuperb, long-tailed animal with a glossy coat and great, restless eyes.De Barrios's saddle and bridle and martingale were covered with silver,and both horse and rider were typical productions of the border.

  "Even you will admit that that's a good horse," said Jack to Bud, asthe Mexican loped off at an easy, swinging gait, and the boys startedinto the barn.

  "Oh, yes. He's all right; but give me my calico here for a traveler,"said Bud, patting the neck of his beloved Chappo.

  Poor Petticoats was certainly not an imposing-looking pony. She was asmall buckskin, and appeared to be a good enough traveler; but she hadan ewe neck, and a straggly tail, and a lack-lustre eye, very unlikeJack's glossy-coated, bright bay pony.

  "I thought you said she was a quiet old plug," said Ralph, as his eyesfell on the mare for the first time.

  "So she is, why?" asked Jack, who had been too busy tighteningFirewater's cinch to notice the really remarkable antics of Petticoat.

  "Well, look at that!" exclaimed Ralph, as Petticoats lashed out at him.

  For a quiet steed, Petticoats certainly was jumping about a good deal.There was a restless look in her eyes. She rolled them back till onlythe white showed. Her ears were pressed wickedly close to the side ofher not very shapely head.

  "Say, she's acting queerly, for fact," said Jack. "Maybe she's beeneating loco weed. Shall I ask Bud to look her over before you mount?"

  "No, don't. He'd only josh me about her. I guess she's only restless.Just come off pasture, maybe."

  So without a word to Bud, who had remained outside the barn while theboys were getting their ponies, Ralph swung himself easily into thesaddle.

  His body had hardly touched the leather before the placid--or, rather,supposedly placid--Petticoats leaped into the air with a spring whichwould have unseated a less-experienced rider, and then came down withall four feet stiffly braced together in a wicked buck.

  If Ralph had been a less plucky rider, he would have been unseated, andalmost to a certainty seriously hurt. As it was, however, he stuck tothe saddle.

  "Whoa, Petticoats, whoa!" shouted Jack, steadying his own pony, whichwas getting excited and prancing about as it saw the other's antics.

  "W-w-w-what's the m-m-matter with her?"

  The words were jerked out of Ralph's mouth, as Petticoats plunged andreared and gave a succession of stiff-legged bucks.

  Jack had no time to reply before the buckskin, with a squeal and aseries of running leaps, was out of the stable door.

  "What in the name of the great horn spoon!" yelled the startled Bud, asa buff-colored streak flashed past him. The next instant, with a rattleof hoofs and an alarming crackling and flapping of saddle leathers, thelittle pony was off in a cloud of dust, headed for the desert.

  "Locoed?" shouted Jack, as he and Bud Wilson dug their big,blunt-rowelled spurs into their mounts and started in pursuit.

  "I dunno," muttered Bud, shaking a big loop out of his "rope," as theytore along at break-neck speed, "but we've got to catch him."

  "Why? If he doesn't fall off he'll be all right. She'll soon runherself out."

  "No, she won't, either. Since you've been East they've put through abig irrigation canal out yonder. That cayuse is headed right for it,and if the kid can't stop her, they'll go sky-whooping over the edge."

  "Wow! We've got to get him."

  "That's what. Spur up now, and get your rope ready. Now's your chanceto show me you haven't forgot all I ever taught you about roping."

  Jack unslung the thirty feet of plaited rawhide from the right hand ofhis saddle horn, and shook out a similar loop to Bud's. Both ponieswere now going at the limit of their speed, and the distance betweenthem and the runaway seemed to be diminishing.

  "Will we get him in time?" gasped Jack.

  "Dunno. There's the canal yonder. It's a twenty-foot drop."

  The cowboy pointed dead ahead to where a dark, purplish streak cutacross the dun expanse of desert.

  "We've _got_ to beat him to it!" said Jack, gritting his teeth.