The Border Boys with the Texas Rangers
Page 2
CHAPTER I.
“IN TEXAS DOWN ON THE RIO GRANDE.”
“Yip! Yip! Y–e–e–e–e–ow!”
“Gracious! What’s coming, a band of circus Indians?”
“Not knowing, can’t say; but there is evidently something to the forein the strenuous line.”
“Well, I should say so. Hark, what’s that?”
“Shooting; maybe some of those Mestizos from over the Rio Grande areattacking the town.”
“Hardly likely. The last heard of them they were fifty miles from theBorder fighting hard with the Federals. But it’s something, all right.”
“Hullo! Look there. It’s—it’s the Rangers!”
The red–headed, sun–burned last speaker reined in his impetuous,plunging, gray broncho and, shielding his eyes with his hand, gazeddown the dusty main street of San Mercedes. Above the trio of lads whohad halted their cayuses at the sudden sound of distant uproar, the sunhung in the steely blue sky like a red hot copper ball. Jack Merrill,alert and good–looking, with his frank, bronzed face and easy seat inthe saddle, followed the direction of red–headed Walt Phelps’ gaze.Ralph Stetson, equally excited, studied the situation with equivalentinterest.
And now at the end of the street, which had suddenly become throngedas if by magic with slouching Mexicans, blue–bloused Chinese andswinging–gaited cow–punchers with jingling spurs on their high–heeledboots, a novel procession swept into view.
Out of a cloud of yellow dust, which hung like a saffron curtainagainst the burning cobalt of the sky, appeared the foremost of a groupof riders.
“Here they come! Look out, fellows! Let’s sidetrack ourselves and letthe Texas limited go by!”
As he shouted this advice Ralph Stetson, a lad of slightly moredelicate build than his youthful companions, swung his wiry little ponyin a pivotal sweep, and made as if to retreat.
“Hurry, boys!” he shouted.
But Jack Merrill stood his ground, and Walt Phelps, seeing that theleader of the three Border Boys did not swerve in the face of theonrush, did not budge an inch either. But on the street excitement wasrife. Cayuses, hitched to the long, strong hitching racks, or simplyleft to stand with the reins dropped to the ground over their heads,plunged and squealed. Men ran about and shouted, and even the usuallystolid Chinese restaurant keepers and laundry men seemed stirredout of their habitual state of supreme unconcern. As for the Mexicanresidents of San Mercedes, they merely drew their serapes closer aboutthem and from beneath their broad brimmed, cone–crowned sombrerosgazed with a haughty indifference at the group of galloping, shoutinghorsemen.
As Ralph Stetson cantered off, Jack Merrill backed his pony up to thevery edge of the raised wooden sidewalk. The little animal was wildlyexcited and plunged and whinnied as if it felt the bit and saddle forthe first time. But Jack maintained his easy, graceful seat as if hehad formed part of the lively little creature he bestrode. Walt Phelps,also undisturbed, controlled his equally restive mount.
“Why don’t we cut and run, too, Jack?” asked Walt, as the hind feet oftheir ponies rattled on the wooden walk. “Those fellows are taking upthe whole street. They’ll run us down.”
“Inasmuch as they are just the men that we are here to meet,” respondedJack, “I propose to stand my ground.”
The Border Boys had arrived in San Mercedes that morning, having riddenfrom El Chico, the nearest town on the Southern Pacific Railroad. Theyhad come almost directly from a short rest following their excitingadventures across the Mexican Border, as related in “The Border BoysWith the Mexican Rangers.” In this book, it will be recalled, they hadaided the picturesque mounted police of Mexico in running down a bandof desperadoes headed by Black Ramon, a famous Border character.
We first met the boys in the initial book of this series, “The BorderBoys on the Trail.” This volume set forth how Jack Merrill, the son ofan Arizona rancher, and Ralph Stetson, the rather delicate son of anEastern Railroad magnate and an old school chum, had shared with WaltPhelps, a cattleman’s son, some astonishing adventures, including muchtrouble with the hard characters who formed the nucleus of a band ofcattle rustlers. They assisted in putting them to rout, but not beforethey had encountered many stirring adventures in a ruined missionchurch in Chihuahua used as a gathering place by the band. The treasurethey discovered secreted in the catacombs under the ruined edifice hadgiven each boy a substantial little nest egg of his own.
In “The Border Boys Across the Frontier” they were found aidingUncle Sam. They happened to find a strange subterranean river bymeans of which arms and ammunition were being smuggled to Mexicanrevolutionists. In trying to put a stop to that work they werecaptured, and escaped only after a ride on a borrowed locomotive and afight in the stockade of the Esmeralda mine.
We now find them in San Mercedes awaiting the arrival of the TexasRangers, a detachment of whom had been ordered to the littlesettlement on the banks of the Rio Grande Del Norte to put down anydisturbances, and to keep the warring Mexicans from committing outrageson Uncle Sam’s soil. The boys, always anxious for anything that mightoffer in the way of adventure, had begged their fathers to allow themto see something of the work of the Rangers. At first this had beenabsolutely refused. But finally Mr. Stetson gave his permission, andthen Mr. Merrill fell in line, as did Walt Phelps’ parents. CaptainMoseby Atkinson of the Rangers being an old friend of Mr. Merrill’s,the rest was easy, and it had been arranged that the boys were to meetCaptain Atkinson at San Mercedes. Though they looked only for funand novel experiences, the Border Boys were destined, while with theRangers, to pass through adventures more thrilling, and hardships moresevere than they dreamed.
On dashed the Rangers, the hoofs of their mounts thundering likeartillery. It was a sight calculated to stir the heart and quicken thepulse of any wholesome, active lad. There were fully twenty of them,riding six abreast. Their sombreros, blue shirts, rough leather chapsand the rifles slung in each man’s saddle holster, showed them to bemen of action in the acutest sense of that word; men whose bronzedfaces and keen, steady eyes bespoke them of the best type of plainsman;worthy descendants of Fremont, Lewis and Clarke.
“Yip! Yip!” the foremost of the riders shouted as they saw the boys.
Jack’s fiery little pony began to show signs of frantic alarm. Itbucked and tried to throw itself backward, but each time the younghorseman’s skill checked it.
“Captain! Captain!” called Jack, as the Rangers swept by.
But above the thunder of hoofs, and in the midst of the yellow dustclouds, Captain Atkinson did not hear nor see the two boys.
But one of his men, a rather squat, dark–skinned, dark–haired littlefellow, did.
“Y—e—ow! Out of the way, you tenderfoot kid!” he exploded.
“I’m trying to get out of the way,” responded Jack good humoredly.
“What’s that, you long–legged cayuse,” bellowed the little chap, whosesleeves were tied round above the elbows with gorgeous pink ribbons,and whose black silk shirt was embroidered with pink rosebuds, “what’sthat? Can you ride, kid? Can you ride?”
At the same instant Jack’s pony swung around, presenting its flanktoward the little Ranger. As it did so the Texan brought down his quirtwith all its force on the startled little creature’s rump.
“Wow! now for fireworks!” he shouted, while his comrades checked theirponies to see the fun.
Jack said nothing. In truth, he had his hands full. Excited before,his pony was now half mad with frenzy. It bucked as if its insideshad been made of steel springs. But Jack stuck to it like a burr to amaverick’s tail.
“Wow! Wow!” shouted the Rangers, as the pony gathered its feettogether, sprung into the air, and came down with legs as stiff ashitching posts.
“Stick to him, kid! Don’t go to leather!” (meaning, “grab hold ofthe saddle”), encouraged some of the Rangers struck by Jack’s manfulriding. But the dark–skinned little chap seemed to wish nothing morethan to see the youthful leader of the Border Boys ign
ominiouslytoppled into the dust. He spurred his pony alongside Jack’s and whackedit again and again with his rawhide quirt.
“That’s enough!” shouted Jack. “Stop it!”
“You’re scared!” jeered the Ranger. “Mammy’s little pet!”
The taunt had hardly left his lips before something very unexpectedhappened. Jack, for a flash, managed to secure control of his pony.He swung it round on its hind legs and rode it right at the scornful,jeering Ranger. As he did so the other leaned out of his saddle to giveJack’s pony another blow with the quirt as it dashed by him. But hemiscalculated. Jack drove his pony right in alongside his tormentor’s,and the shock of the collision, added to the position the Ranger nowoccupied in the saddle—leaning far over—proved too much for hisequilibrium.
His animal plunged, as if shot from a catapult, halfway across thestreet from Jack’s pony. As it did so its rider made a vain attempt tosave himself by grabbing its withers. But quick as he was he could notregain his balance.
Off he shot, landing in the street and ploughing a furrow with his facein the soft dust. As for the pony, it dashed off, while a dozen Rangerspursued it, yelling and swinging lariats.
Those who remained set up a yell of delight. It tickled the fancy ofthese free and easy sons of the plains to see their companion unhorsedby a slip of a boy.
“Good for you, kid!” shouted some.
“Say, Shorty,” admonished others, “why don’t you pick a fellow your ownsize?”
In the meantime “Shorty,” as he had been addressed, scrambled tohis feet. He was a sorry object. His elaborate black silk shirt wastorn and dust covered, and one of his carefully tied ribbons wasmissing. His sombrero lay six feet away, and his black hair fell in atangle over his dark forehead. As he got to his legs again, crowninghumiliation of all, a Chinaman picked up his broad–brimmed hat andtendered it to him. Shorty aimed a blow and a curse at the well–meaningMongolian, who quickly dodged.
With a roar of rage he rushed at Jack. Then Jack and the others sawwhat they had not noticed before.
In his fall Shorty’s revolver had fallen from its holster into thedust. But he had recovered it, and now, with his lips set viciously,he was rushing at Jack, the weapon poised for a shot.
“You dern young coyote, I’ll do fer you!” he shouted hoarsely, besidehimself with fury, intensified by the taunts of his companions over hisdownfall.
As if in a trance Jack saw the revolver raised above the fellow’s head,and then brought down to the firing position.