THE BORDER BOYS ACROSS THE FRONTIER
by
FREMONT B. DEERING
Author of "The Border Boys on the Trail," "The Border Boys with the Mexican Rangers," "The Border Boys with the Texan Rangers," "The Border Boys in the Canadian Rockies," "The Border Boys Along the St. Lawrence."
[Frontispiece: "Right off there! Look! Look!" The lanky cow puncherpointed out beyond the shadow of the solitary mesa.]
A. L. Burt CompanyPublishers ---------- New YorkCopyright, 1911, byHurst & Company
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE TRAIL OF THE HAUNTED MESA II. THE SAND STORM III. A NIGHT ALARM IV. SOME QUEER TRACKS V. THE HOLLOW ALTAR VI. THE LEGEND OF A FORGOTTEN RACE VII. WHAT CAME ACROSS THE DESERT VIII. THE DARK FACE OF DANGER IX. IN THE MESA DWELLERS' BURIAL GROUND X. A NEW MEXICAN STYX XI. THE CAMP OF THE GUN-RUNNERS XII. MADERO'S FLYING COLUMN XIII. IN THE CAMP OF THE INSURRECTOS XIV. "DEATH TO THE GRINGOES!" XV. A RACE FOR LIFE XVI. WHAT HAPPENED TO COYOTE PETE XVII. BOB HARDING DOES "THE DECENT THING" XVIII. THE TABLES TURNED XIX. BUCK BRADLEY'S AUTOMOBILE XX. AT THE ESMERALDA MINE XXI. AN ACT OF TREACHERY XXII. AT ROSARIO STATION XXIII. JACK MERRILL'S "SPECIAL" XXIV. THE ATTACK ON THE MINE XXV. THE LAST STAND.--CONCLUSION
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Right off there! Look! Look!" The lanky cow puncher pointed outbeyond the shadow of the solitary mesa . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
As it flared up, all three recoiled with expressions of dismay. Attheir very feet was a deep chasm.
A tempest of lead rattled about the engine. Almost before theyrealized it, they had swung around the curve.
The Border Boys Across the Frontier.
CHAPTER I.
THE TRAIL OF THE HAUNTED MESA.
"Can you make out any sign of the mesa yet, Pete?"
The speaker, a sun-bronzed lad of about seventeen, mounted on a brightbay pony with a white-starred forehead, drew rein as he spoke. Shovingback his sombrero, he shielded his eyes from the shimmering desertglare with one hand and gazed intently off into the southwest.
"Nope; nary a speck, so fur. Queer, too; we ought to be seein' it bynow."
Coyote Pete, as angular, rangy and sinewy as ever, gazed as intently inthe same direction as the lad, Jack Merrill, himself. The pauseallowed the remainder of the party to ride up. There was RalphStetson, a good deal browner and sturdier-looking than when weencountered him last in "The Border Boys on the Trail"; Walt Phelps,the ranch boy, whose blazing hair outrivaled the glowing sun; and thebony, grotesque form of Professor Wintergreen, preceptor of Latin andthe kindred tongues at Stonefell College, and amateur archaeologist.Lest they might feel slighted, let us introduce also, One Spot, TwoSpot and Three Spot, the pack burros.
"I always had an idea that the Haunted Mesa formed quite a prominentobject in the landscape," put in Professor Wintergreen, referring to asmall leather-bound book, which he had just taken from one of hissaddle-bags.
"And I always had an idea," laughed Ralph Stetson, "that a landscapemeant something with brooks and green trees and cows and--and things,in it."
The young son of "King Pin" Stetson, the Eastern Railroad King, lookedabout him at the gray desert, above which the sun blazed mercilesslydown with all the intensity of a burning glass. Here and there wereisolated clumps of rank-odored mesquite, the dreariest lookinggray-green bush imaginable. The scanty specimens of this variety ofthe vegetable life of the desert were interspersed here and there bygroups of scraggly, prickly cacti. Across such country as this, theparty had been making its way for the past day and a half,--ever since,in fact, they had left behind them the foothills of the Hachetas,where, as we know, was located the ranch of Jack Merrill's father, andhad entered the dry, almost untravelled solitudes of the Playas.
Jack Merrill consulted a compass that was strapped to his wrist.
"Well, we're keeping steadily in the right direction," he said."Nothing for it but to keep on going; eh, Pete?"
"When yer cain't turn back, 'keep on goin's' a good word," assented thephilosophical cow-puncher of the Agua Caliente, stroking hissun-bleached yellow moustache and untangling a knot in his pony's mane.
"It's up to us to get somewhere where there is water pretty quick," putin Walt Phelps; "the last time I hit the little drinking canteen Inoticed that there wasn't an awful lot left in the others."
"No, and the stock's feelin' it, too," grunted Pete, digging his big,blunt-roweled spurs into his buckskin cayuse.
Followed by Jack on his Firewater, the professor on his queer, bonysteed as angular as himself, Ralph on Petticoats--of excitingmemory,--and Walt Phelps on his big gray, they pushed on.
The heat was blistering. In fact, to any one less accustomed to thearduous intensity of the sun's rays in this part of the country, itwould have proved almost insupportable. But our party was pretty wellseasoned by this time.
All of them wore the broad, leather-banded sombreros of the plainsmenexcept Professor Wintergreen, who had invested himself in a giganticpith sun-helmet, from beneath which his spectacled countenance peeredout, as Ralph said, "Like a toad peeking out from a mushroom." For therest, the boys wore leather "chaps," blue shirts open at the neck, withloosely knotted red handkerchiefs about their throats. The latter wereboth to keep the sun off the back of their necks and to serve asprotection for their mouths and nostrils against the dust in case ofnecessity,--as for example, when they struck a patch of burning, bitingalkali. Of this pungent stuff, they had already encountered one or twostretches, and had been glad to muffle up the lower part of their facesas they rode through it.
As for Coyote Pete, those who have followed his earlier experiences arepretty familiar with that redoubtable cow-puncher's appearance; sufficeit to say, therefore, that, as usual, he wore his battered leather"chaps," faded blue shirt, and his big sombrero with the silver starsaffixed to the stamped leather band. In a holster he carried a rifle,as did the rest of the party, as well as his well-worn revolver. Theothers had provided themselves with similar weapons, although theirsglittered in blatant newness beside Pete's battered, but well-cleanedand oiled, "shootin' iron."
While they are pressing onward, with the Hachetas lying like a dim,blue cloud far behind them, let us tell the reader something about thequest that brings our party into the midst of this inhospitable place.As readers of "The Border Boys on the Trail" know, ProfessorWintergreen had accompanied Jack Merrill and Ralph Stetson fromStonefell College, some weeks before, to spend a vacation on the AguaCaliente Ranch, belonging to Jack's father. The professor, as well asbeing on a vacation, was in a sense on a mission, for he bore with himthe commission of a well-known institute of science in the East toinvestigate some of the mesas of this part of the world, and also toprocure relics and trophies of the vanished race that once inhabitedthem, and accurate measurements of the strange formations.
Since their arrival at the ranch, some weeks before, events had soshaped themselves as to render the immediate undertaking of his missionimpossible. The descent of Black Ramon de Barros on the ranch, as wehave related, and the subsequent abduction of the boys to the oldMission across the border, had so fully occupied their attention, thatall thought of the professor's errand had been lost sight of.
With Black Ramon, thanks to the boys, forever banished from hiscattle-rustling raids, and the subsequent tranquility of routine life,had come a recollection of the professor's quest. Coyote Pete, a fewdays before this story opens, had volunteered to act as guide to theprofessor and his party to a mesa seldom visited except by wanderingIndians and occasional cow-punchers. This was the Haunted Mesa, thelocation of which was so difficult to reach that
previous relic-huntingexpeditions had not included it in their travels.
Mr. Merrill was the more willing to allow the boys to go along, as hehad been suddenly summoned into Chihuahua province, in Mexico, byreports of trouble at a mine--The Esmeralda--he owned there. Rumors ofan insurrection had reached him--an insurrection which meant greatperil to American interests. He had, therefore, lost no time insetting out to ascertain the true state of affairs at his mine, which,while a small one, was still likely to develop in time into anextremely valuable property.
Leaving the ranch in charge of Bud Wilson, he had started for theMexican country without waiting for the departure of the professor'sexpedition. A short time later, "Professor Wintergreen's HauntedMesans," as the boys insisted on calling themselves, had likewisestarted on their quest. With them, at Jack Merrill's invitation, wentWalter Phelps, the son of a ranching neighbor of Mr. Merrill. Walt, itwill be recalled, had shared the perils and adventures of the boysacross the border, as related in the previous volume, and had been theinstrument of piloting them out of the mysterious valley in which BlackRamon kept his plundered herds.
Mr. Merrill's last words had been ones of caution.
"Remember, boys, that if this trouble in Mexico attains realproportions, life and property along the border may be in great danger.In such a case, it will be your immediate duty to turn back."
"But, Dad," Jack had said, "you don't expect that plunderinginsurrectos would have the audacity to come northward into the Playas?"
Mr. Merrill laughed.
"I didn't say there was any danger even here, my boy. Least of all,out in that barren country. If there is an insurrection, it willdoubtless be put down without any trouble, but it is always well to beprepared."
Like his brother ranchers along the border, Mr. Merrill at that timehad no idea of the seriousness or extent of the insurrection. Had hehad, he would, of course, have prohibited the party leaving the ranch.As it was, he, in common with his neighbors, deemed the insurrectionsimply one of those little outbreaks that occur every now and again inMexico, and which hitherto had been promptly squashed by Diaz's army.And so, with no real misgivings, the party had bidden the bluff,good-natured rancher good-by, little dreaming under what circumstancesthey were to meet again.
But all this time we have been allowing our party to travel on withoutbestowing any attention upon them. As the afternoon wore on, CoyotePete began to feel real apprehension about reaching their destinationthat evening. Walt Phelps' fear about the water had been verified.The supply was getting low. Provided they could "pick up" the mesathey were in search of before sundown, however, this was not so seriousa matter as might have been supposed. Coyote Peter knew that there wasa well at the mesa, the handiwork of the ancient desert-dwellers.
The really serious thing was, that although they had apparently beentraveling in the right direction, they had not yet sighted it. Thecow-puncher knew, though he did not tell his young companions so, thatthey should long since have spied its outlines. Of the realseriousness which their position might shortly assume, the boys had asyet, little idea. Coyote Pete was not the one to alarm them unless hewas convinced it was really necessary.
Suddenly, Jack, who had been riding a little in advance of the rest,gave an exclamation and pointed upward at the sun.
"Say, what's the matter with the sun?" he exclaimed.
"Sun spots, I suppose," put in Ralph Stetson jokingly.
"I see what you mean," spoke up the professor; "it has turned quitered, and there seems to be a haze overcasting the sky."
"It's getting oppressive, too," put in Walt Phelps. "What's up, Pete?"
The cow-puncher had, indeed, for some time been noticing the samephenomenon which had just attracted their notice, but he had hesitatedto draw their attention to it. Now, however, he spoke, and his voicesounded grave for one of Pete's usually lively temperament.
"It means that ole Mar'm Desert is gettin' inter a tantrum," hegrunted, "and that we're in an almighty fix," he added to himself.
"Is it going to rain?" inquired Ralph Stetson, as it grew rapidlydarker.
"Rain?" grunted Pete. "Son, it don't rain here enough to cover theback uv a dime, even if you collect all the water that fell in a year.No, siree, what's comin' is a heap worse than rain."
"An electric storm?" queried the professor.
"No, sir--a sand storm," rejoined the cow-puncher bluntly.
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