Motor Matt's Submarine; or, The Strange Cruise of the Grampus

by Stanley R. Matthews

  The Chicken-hearted Tenderfoot.

  "Yah! Call yourself a cowpuncher? And you can't even rope a yearlingcolt, let alone do anything else! Take my tip, kid, and get back Eastby the quickest route; we don't want the like of you in Montana.There's too many good men round to make us have to keep you, doingnothing for your board. Get off the ranch!" The foreman of the Cup andSpur Ranch, never a man to spare the feelings of those under him, thistime surpassed himself in expressing his contempt for the youngster whohad earned his displeasure. The object of his scorn, a fresh-lookinglad of some eighteen years of age, returned the foreman's irate andwithering glance with one full of resentment, but entirely devoid offear.

  "I told you I'd never worked on the ranges before," he said angrily,"and you took me on under that knowledge. I never said I could rope acolt, and now I've found out I can't--yet. Do you expect a man to doeverything for a miserable fifteen dollars a month? Oh, all right; I'llget off the place, and be mighty glad to do so, too!" The foreman hadmade a threatening gesture, as though he meant to teach this striplingthat his reputation as the bully of the district was not unfounded.

  "So I've got the bounce, eh?" muttered Ted Macbain to his horse, as heslowly rode away from the scene. "Well, perhaps the foreman's right,and I'm no good on a ranch. Guess I'll have to get back to the old farmin Minnesota. Just at present town's the place for me to make." And heheaded for Elk Creek, some twenty miles away.

  "Wish I hadn't made such a fool of myself with that rope, just thesame," he told himself. "How the mischief do they make the beastlything go where they want it?" He unslung his lariat as he spoke tohimself, and, shaking its coils loose, swung the noose wide above hishead, fixing his eye on the stump of a tree he was passing. His horsewas traveling at a brisk canter, but he measured the distance with hiseye, and let the rope go on its way. It fell fair and true over thestump, but he forgot to pull the horse in. The result was that he felta great jerk at his saddle, and the horse, shying, threw him violentlyto the ground. He was half stunned by his fall, and he did not open hiseyes until a dim speck on the horizon was all that could be seen of theanimal he had been bestriding.

  To catch the brute looked impossible, but as it was heading for thetown, and as it was likely it would be caught there, Ted did not feelany anxiety on its behalf. The remaining ten miles would have to bewalked.

  He had time to think things over for the next two or three hours. Tobe candid, he had not been an absolute success in Montana, the landwhere daredevil horsemanship and an utter disregard for human life arethe main essentials. He would have been far better off to have stayedat home in Minnesota, where his father was a prosperous farmer. Butthe confinement of that life jarred on him to such an extent that hefelt himself compelled to strike out for fresh scenes. A passionatelove for horses caused him to go to the horse-ranching State, wherehe thought he would be able to give his passion full satisfaction.Oh, what a disillusionment! He found that to treat horses kindly onthe ranges, where the animals, for the most part, had never lookedon man as anything but a cruel enemy, did not serve to win theirlove. He could not bring himself to administer the brutal treatmenthe saw other cowboys deliver, and was not afraid of expressing hisdispleasure at their methods. This earned for him the sobriquet of "thechicken-hearted tenderfoot," which name became a byword on the plains.His most vehement denunciations of their behavior only served to createmirth among the others. The foreman of the Cup and Spur Ranch--thefifth ranch in six months on which Ted had tried his fortunes--wasloudest of all in his expressions of contempt, giving the youngster themost objectionable jobs to perform out of pure malice. When he was toldto throw a year-old colt that had quite won the young fellow's heart,as all colts did, he had had so little heart for the task that thescene which opens this story was the result.

  "Guess ranching isn't in my line," he told himself, as he trudged alongthe prairie under the blazing, withering sun of an exceptionally hotAugust. "It's all right to raise colts by hand, but to knock 'em aboutas they do here goes for me too strongly."

  It was very hot, as he soon began to discover, as the miles slowlypassed under his feet. He grew thirsty; the alkali dust, resultant ofa three weeks' drought, parched his throat until he decided that waterwas the only thing in his life he needed at that moment. There wasno stream at hand. The only habitation near was a shack. He made forthis, and as he came closer he saw a well and bucket. As is the custom,he did not trouble to inquire whether he might be allowed to partakeof the well's contents, but let down the bucket, and drew himself aquantity of the cheerful, refreshing fluid, and drank his fill.

  He poured the remainder of the pailful on the ground. As he did sosomething glittered at his feet, something that was not water. Hestooped and picked it up. It was an American ten-dollar gold piece.

  Perhaps it was none of his business, and perhaps he should have beencontent to take the coin to the house and leave it there, so that theowner would see it. But something recurred to him; he remembered thathe had felt a slight jerk as he hauled up the bucket, and his curiositywas aroused. He glanced down the well; he saw that a ladder was setthere. He climbed down until he was close to the surface of the water.There, set in a hole that had evidently been purposely cut out forthe purpose, was a bag full of coins similar to the one that he hadhauled up to the top. A slight rent in one corner, through which a coinwas peeping, showed him how his bucket had caused one to drop in. Hebanished all further idea of considering himself inquisitive.

  "There's something rocky about this," he said. "No one would hide golddown a well if there wasn't something up. There's a bank at Elk Creek;why wasn't it put there?"

  He climbed to the surface of the ground again. That there was no onearound was apparent; the noise he had made would have been sure toattract any one who had been in the house. His curiosity was now fullyaroused. He thought nothing of entering the shack, and of examining itscontents. He turned everything upside down in his search, but nothingthat would go to confirm any of his half-aroused suspicions could hesee. He was on the point of resuming his journey when a loose boardin the floor creaked under his foot. He lifted it, to expose a smallcavity, down which he felt with his hand. Something cold and hard methis fingers, which he withdrew. It was a branding iron. That would nothave struck him as being at all out of the way if a casual glance hadnot shown him that the iron bore a cup and spur--the brand of the ranchfrom which he had just been discharged. He was puzzled. He knew thatall the irons that belonged to that ranch were in the charge of theforeman, being delivered to the branders at each round-up. No man wasallowed to carry one except on these occasions, and the next round-upwould not take place for more than a month.

  "Can't make head or tail of it," muttered the lad. "Is it that---- Bythunder, I have it! There are horse thieves around here! They must havestarted their work since last round-up, and it hasn't been found outyet. They've been stealing unbranded colts, and been putting a mark on'em. But why should they use the cup and spur? It gets me, sure."

  And that was as far as he could get to a solution of the problem.

  * * * * *

  "I don't know whether there's anything in it, but I found this iron ina shack about five miles north of here," said Ted. "Seems to me there'ssomething fishy about it, though I might be mistaken."

  He was speaking to the sheriff at Elk Creek, who took the iron andexamined it closely. No light of understanding dawned on that worthy'sface for the moment.

  "Guess it must be an old one that's been thrown away," was all he couldsuggest.

  "It doesn't look too old," returned the lad. "It's new enough to makea pretty good brand yet, anyway. Looks to me as though it wasn't beingused fairly. Hobson, the foreman of the Cup and Spur, should have allthese locked up at this time of the year. Have there been any horsesshipped away from this district lately?"

  "Why, yes; the Cup and Spur outfit sent a bunch of spring colts Eastonly six weeks ago. Struck me as they were rather young to go, but Ididn't trouble ab
out it. 'Twas none of my business."

  "But Mr. Knowles, the boss of that ranch, doesn't believe in shippingaway so soon."

  The sheriff began to understand.

  "I see what you're driving at now, kid," he said, "and I'm beginningto agree with you. Those colts that were shipped away weren't Cupand Spur stock at all! They were rustled and branded with that mark,so's suspicion wouldn't fall on any one. No one would believe Knowlescapable of stealing, and no questions would be asked."

  "Well, that point's pretty well settled," went on Ted. "Next thing is,who's rustling 'em?"

  "Got me again," said the sheriff laconically.

  "Well, what do you say if we do a little work? I've got an idea thatmay be worth something. Let's go back to the Cup and Spur Ranch andmake inquiries."

  The sheriff complied with him. Together they rode southward, Ted havingfound his horse when he arrived at Elk Creek. The first man they met ontheir arrival at their destination was Hobson.

  "What?" shouted the foreman. "Back again already? Didn't I tell you toget out?"

  "You did," said Ted coolly. "Also, you said something about my being nogood on a ranch. What do you say to a foreman who leaves branding ironslying about when they ought to be safely put away?"

  Hobson started.

  "What are you getting at?" he asked with a grin, but with an uneasyglance at Sheriff Walton. "Who's leaving irons about?"

  Ted produced the article.

  "This should be in your care," he said, showing it. Hobson held out hishand eagerly. Ted drew the iron out of reach.

  "No," he said; "I think we'll keep it now. The sheriff wants it forevidence should anything crop up. It's my belief that next round-up'llshow a few things in the way of colts being missed."

  Hobson paled, his face working nervously.

  "Give it to me," he shouted, with a poor attempt at anger. Ted's lipscurled scornfully.

  "It's not mine to give," he said. "Ask Walton here; perhaps he will,though I don't think so. By the way, he says a carload of colts wereshipped off lately, bearing the brand of this ranch. Know anythingabout them?"

  A sound like a snarl burst from the foreman's lips. He whipped his handto his belt, but Ted had him covered with his own revolver first.

  "Don't get mad like that," he said. "I only asked you a question. Come,now! Put your hand away from your belt! You're not my boss now, I'llhave you know!"

  Hobson complied, and allowed Walton to relieve him of his weapon.

  "We won't do anything over this," said Ted, as he prepared to takehis departure. "But we'll watch things a bit for the next few weeks.Perhaps you'll see that the chicken-hearted tenderfoot isn't sucha fool as you take him for." He could not resist the temptation ofdealing this thrust.

  For the next few days a careful watch was kept on Jake Hobson. Thesheriff had come to share Ted's suspicions, which were briefly that theforeman had more than a little to do with horse thieving. But no proofcould be brought forward; the only thing to do was to wait for anotherhaul to be made, catch the thief or thieves, and drag them before ajudge.

  A visit was paid to the lonely shack where Ted had found the gold onthe occasion of his dismissal. No search could discover any evidence,and, though the money was seized by Walton, they had to return baffled.

  In spite of Ted's suspicions, the sheriff soon began to lose faith inthe idea that Hobson was the culprit, and, as nothing showed itself,Ted found himself wondering if he were not mistaken, after all.

  Inquiries told him, at the very commencement of the fall round-up, thatseveral mares that were known to have had colts in the earlier part ofthe spring, were now without. It was discovered that the Cup and SpurRanch had not lost any; a further proof, in Ted's mind, that Hobsonknew more than he would tell.

  But there was something else, of which Ted never dreamed. A plot was inthe making for a wholesale theft and stampede of colts and horses.

  It was by mere chance that Ted and Walton paid a visit to the Cup andSpur one evening, when all the stock of that ranch were rounded up andsafe in the corrals. Walton found out that Knowles was away at Butte,seeing about the sale of a bunch of four-year olds. This gave Ted anidea that something might happen, and, though they took pains to showthat they had left the ranch, they took good care not to let Hobson seethat they had returned on their tracks. They waited in the shelter of abluff until evening fell--waited for they hardly knew what.

  They did not wait long after dark. Soon they heard the rumble of hoofscoming from the ranch.

  "By gosh! He's done it, after all!" yelled the sheriff delightedly."Bully for you, kid! You've got brains!"

  "But what are we going to do about it?" asked the lad, who, afire ashe was with the excitement, had thought nothing of the difficulty thatfaced him. "Can we stop 'em?"

  "We'll have a try, you bet," replied Walton, drawing his revolver, andtwisting the cylinder to see that it was fully loaded.

  The sound of the stampede was drawing nearer and nearer. The two in thebluff mounted their horses, and rode straight for it. There was onlyone man driving the herd. Ted easily recognized him as the foreman ofthe ranch. Every suspicion he had formed was fully founded.

  Walton, as soon as the stampede came abreast, fired three shots fromhis revolver, hoping to check them. They half served the purpose,but there was a man urging them on who was worth more than a mereconsideration. As soon as Hobson saw that his plan was known to others,bullets began to whistle round Ted's and the sheriff's heads at analarming rate. One bullet caught the hindquarters of the boy's horse,inflicting a maddening, scorching wound that made the brute grip thebit fiercely in its teeth, swerve to the right, and bolt headlong, inspite of the lad's frantic efforts to check its flight. Another shotstruck the leader of the herd of bronchos, not seriously woundingit, but driving it crazy with rage, pain, and fear. It, too, wheeledhalf about, and followed close on the lad's tracks, the whole herdstampeding after it. Shrill neighs filled the air, making it hideouswith the tumult. More shots were fired between the sheriff and theforeman. Ted could not notice any of the events that were occurringnear him. His whole attention was centred on his efforts to hold hisanimal in and maintain his seat.

  Ted's horse was quite unmanageable. Straight ahead, never swerving,with a hundred more pounding behind him, man and horse rushed. It soonbecame apparent that it was more than a runaway for Ted; it was a racefor life. Those fear-consumed, mad, unreasoning brutes behind him wereheedless of the fact that a man was in front. Without heed of thedirection in which he was going, the lad spurred his horse, hoping tokeep safely ahead--not trying now to check its career. He knew that toturn aside was impossible. All he cared for was to keep ahead. And, inspite of the extra burden his beast was carrying, the pursuers gainednothing on him.

  Fear filled the lad's heart. If it had been an ordinary death thatthreatened him, he would have faced it bravely enough; but the thoughtof being ground to death beneath the hoofs of those equine fiendsbehind him terrorized him until he almost lost sense of everything buthis desire to escape.

  It would have frightened any man. The weird shrieks, the bellows-likebreathing of his own and of the other horses, the hollow, muffled,pounding of hoofs on the hard, sun-baked prairie, the whistle of thewind about his ears, all combined to make his brain reel. He thoughtnothing of what was ahead, until it was nearly too late.

  Nearly--not quite!

  He had a dim recollection of a feeling, a foreboding that all was notright in front. The pale glimmer of the moon made the earth appear asthough it suddenly dropped away into nothingness. Like a flash it camehome to him that he was close to the edge of Rushing Ca?on, a greatcleft, dropping to a depth of five hundred feet, sheer to the bottom,where a roaring torrent raged.

  Something like a moan passed his lips. He felt himself wondering whichwould be the better death: to have the life stamped out of him, or tobe dashed to pieces below.

  He had only a hundred yards to go--seventy-five--fifty! Thirty! Thestampede was not a hundred feet behind hi
m. Another minute, and hewould be falling. He tugged once again at the reins, but he might aswell have pulled at a stump. Another moan broke from him; he kickedhis feet free from the stirrups, gave a mad spring outward, and fellheadlong to the ground. His horse made a struggle to stop itself,failed, and went hurtling through space.

  Ted scrambled to his feet. Five yards ahead of him was the ca?on; tenyards behind him the stampede. He would die by the former!

  He ran, ran like the wind, toward the drop.

  He never could tell what happened in the next few moments. A horrid dinfilled his ears. He felt himself falling, and mechanically threw outhis hands. He caught something--he knew not what--and hung, suspendedbetween heaven and earth. Some dark shapes seemed to hurtle past hishead, overhead, all around him. Terrified, shrill snorts and neighswere all that he could hear, save the queer buzzing that was in hishead. But he gripped the support that had saved him, and hung on, halfunconsciously, his nerves and sinews strained nigh to breaking point.

  Then all was quiet overhead. He looked up, wondering dully that he wasstill alive, and not, as he had expected to be, a smashed, batteredmass, on the rocks five hundred feet below.

  Painfully, gaspingly, he drew himself upward. Though he thought hehad fallen a long distance before he saved himself, he really had notdropped more than his own length. What he had caught and held wasnothing more nor less than a sturdy weed, growing on the extreme edgeof the ca?on. He pulled himself to earth and safety again. His feetfelt solid ground. Then his head swam, his limbs tottered, he reeled,and fell heavily, his arms hanging over the edge, unconscious. Thereaction had set in, and he had fainted.

  He was found half an hour later by Sheriff Walton, who, partly guidedby the sound of the stampede, and partly through knowledge of thecountry, came close to the figure of the prostrate lad. He set aboutbringing him back to life, and his efforts were rewarded by seeingTed's eyes open. The lad stared, and then recollection came back tohim, for he shuddered violently, and pointed shakingly to the awfuldepths below.

  "They went over there!" he gasped, "and I nearly did so, too. I don'tknow what saved me."

  "But you are saved," was the reply, "and that's the main thing."

  "And about Hobson?" asked the lad, when his brain had sufficientlycleared to think of other things beyond his own awful narrow escapefrom a double danger.

  "Hobson won't steal any more horses," said the sheriff grimly.

  "Is he dead?"

  Walton nodded, but said nothing.

  "Did you kill him?" Ted shuddered at the thought. To take human lifewas terrible to him.

  "It was a fair fight, lad," said the sheriff. "If I hadn't done so,he'd have nailed me. In fact, I don't know how he missed me. I emptiedmy gun, and then closed with him. In the struggle his own gun went off,and the bullet went through his heart. A bad end for a bad man; butonly justice."

  It was discovered later that Walton needed an assistant. And so Ted didnot go back to Minnesota after all. He might not have been much good asa cowboy, but Walton now thinks he cannot do without him to help in hiswork of keeping law and order in the district.