The Border Boys with the Texas Rangers

by John Henry Goldfrap

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  THE HERMIT OF THE YUCCA.

  Late that same afternoon the three boy travelers found themselvesriding amidst a perfect forest of stiff–armed yucca plants. Herethey came upon a small shack where lived a strange character of theTexan wilds. This old man was known to the cowboys and ranchers whopassed that way as Mad Mat. He was supposed to have been driven to thesolitudes of the yucca desert by some unfortunate love affair, but ofthis he never talked, and all concerning his former life was merelyrumor.

  Hot and dusty as the boys were, they decided that it would be pleasantto stop in at the shack and see if they could obtain some fresh waterand a cooked meal, for, although they had plenty of cold grub, they hadneglected to bring any cooking appliances. Jack knocked at the door ofthe dilapidated shack and the boys, who had not been prepared for thestrange appearance of Mad Mat, almost shrank back as he appeared.

  The old hermit was dressed in a collection of filthy rags, apparentlysecured from all sources, for no two pieces matched. A long gray beardhung almost to his waist, and out of the hairy growth which halfcovered his face his eyes glowed like two coals of fire. However, hedid not appear half so formidable as he looked, and the boys concludedthat the old hermit of the yucca waste would be an interestingcharacter to study.

  Mad Mat invited them cordially enough into his shack, and opened thedoor to them with as consequential a flourish of his hand as if thishad been the dwelling place of an emperor. He lived, so he told them,by tending his little flock of sheep, most of which, so rumor in thatpart of the country had it, had been stolen from passing herds.

  However that might be, Mad Mat was able to set forth some excellentmutton before his hungry guests, and, although the surroundings werenot suited to the fastidious, the boys had roughed it too much in thesouthwest to be over–particular.

  They found Mad Mat talkative on every subject but himself. In fact,when Ralph asked him where he came from the old man became quite angryand glared at them out of his beard like an “owl in an ivy bush,” asRalph put it afterward.

  Jack found an opportunity to draw Ralph aside and warned him thatit was not good policy in that country to ask personal questions ofstrangers.

  “Most of these odd characters of the plains have a reason for being outhere which they don’t like to talk about,” he said.

  By way of changing the subject, Walt turned to that safe topic, theweather.

  “You evidently haven’t had much rain here lately?” he said.

  “Nope,” rejoined Mad Mat in his odd, jerky way of talking; “no rain. Norain for a year.”

  “No rain for a year!” echoed the boys.

  “That’s right. Maybe a drop now and then, but not to amount toanything.”

  “How do you get water then?” asked Ralph, for the ponies had beenwatered from a big tub filled from a wooden pipe.

  “Pipe it from a dry spring.”

  “That’s a funny sort of spring—a dry one,” exclaimed Walt.

  “It’s so, just the same,” replied the hermit, rather angrily. “We calla dry spring one that you have to dig out, one that doesn’t come to thesurface. We find ’em with divining rods.”

  “Well, it looks to me as if you might get some rain to–night,” saidJack, who had risen and looked out of the door.

  “I guess not,” said the hermit confidently. “The sheep ain’t baaing,and they mos’ gen’ally always do afore rain.”

  “Well, there’s something coming up then, or I’m no judge of weather.”

  At the same time a low, distant rumbling was heard.

  “Thunder!” cried Walt, springing to his feet.

  “That’s what,” agreed Ralph. “I guess we are in for a wetting.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said the hermit, shrugging his thin shoulders.

  He rose and accompanied by Walt and Ralph came to the door, where Jackwas already standing.

  “Goshen!” he exclaimed, “it is makin’ up its mind to suthin’, fer sure.”

  Far off to the southwest lightning was ripping and tearing in lividstreaks across the sky. It had grown almost as black as night, andthere was a distinctly sulphurous smell in the air.

  It was a magnificent sight as the storm swept down on them, although itwas also awe–inspiring. The sky grew like a black curtain spread abovethe earth. Across it riven fragments of white cloud were driven, likeflying steam. Through this sable canopy the lightning tore and crackledwith vicious emphasis.

  But, strangely enough, there was no rain. Instead, great clouds of dustheralded the coming of the storm. The air was stifling and heavy, too,like the breath from an open oven door.

  “There ain’t much rain up yonder,” said the old hermit, his long whitehair and beard blown about wildly by the wind.

  “No rain?” questioned Jack. “What is there, then?”

  “Lightning,” exclaimed the old man, his eyes glowing strangely as hespoke. It seemed that he rejoiced and triumphed in the advance of thestorm. He held his arms extended to the heavens like a prophet of oldendays.

  Suddenly with an ear–splitting crash a bolt tore its way across the skyand fell with a sizzling crash almost in front of the shanty. It boredinto the earth, throwing up a cloud of stones and dust on every side.So great was the force of the explosion when it struck that Jack wassent reeling back against the door post.

  “No more of that for me,” said the boy. “I’m going inside.”

  “A lot of good that will do you,” scoffed Walt Phelps. “It wouldn’tmuch surprise me if this house was hit next.”

  Ralph’s face turned pale as he heard. In truth the constant displayof heavenly artillery was discomposing. A green glare lit up thesurroundings, the yuccas standing out blackly against the constantflashes.

  The thunder, too, was terrific and incessant, shaking the earth as itreverberated. All at once came a crash that seemed as if it must havesplit the earth wide open. Balls of green and white fire spattered inevery direction. The boys were hurled helter–skelter all over the hut.It was almost pitch dark, and they called to each other nervously. Notone knew but that the other might have been killed or seriously injured.

  But although bruised and badly scared, they were all right, it wasfound. Yet as they scrambled to their feet the lightning outside showedthem a still form lying across the door of the hut.

  “It’s the hermit!” cried Jack.

  “He’s dead!” shouted Ralph.

  “Hold on a minute,” warned Jack.

  He went outside and Walt helped him drag the old man into the hut. Thelightning, by one of those freaks for which it is noted, had strippedhis miserable collection of rags right off him and there did not appearto be much life in him.

  The boys laid him on a table and then lighted a lantern, for it was toodark to see but by artificial light. All this time the storm raged andcrashed alarmingly about them, but they were too intent on discoveringa spark of life in the old hermit to pay any attention to it.

  “Get some water, quick!” ordered Jack.

  There was a tub in one corner of the hut and the boys dipped clothsinto it, which Jack applied to the base of the old man’s skull. Aftera time, to Jack’s great delight, the old hermit began to give signs ofrecovery. He opened his queer, bloodshot eyes and looked up at the boys.

  “How do you feel?” asked Jack.

  “As if I’d bin kicked by a blamed mule,” answered Mad Mat.

  The boys could not help laughing at his whimsical description of theeffects of the lightning.

  “It took all the—the————”—Jack hesitated as to what to call thehermit’s rags—“the clothes off you.”

  “Consarn it, so it did,” grunted the old man, sitting up. “The lasttime it hit me it did the same thing.”

  “What! Have you been hit before?” demanded the boys in astonishment.

  “Sure. This makes the third time, an’ I guess as I’ve got through thissafely, I’m all right now.”

  “Well, that’s one way o
f looking at it,” declared Walt with a grin,“but once would be quite enough for me.”

  “Anyhow, it didn’t rain,” said the hermit triumphantly. “I told yer itwouldn’t.”

  It was all the boys could do to keep from breaking out into heartylaughter at the strange old man who seemed to mind being hit bylightning no more than any ordinary occurrence.

  “Waal, now I’ve got to stitch all them rags together agin,” he saidpresently in a complaining tone, regarding the scattered collection ofstuff that had been torn off him by the lightning.

  “Gracious! I should think you’d get a new outfit,” declared Jack.

  The hermit glowered at him.

  “Git a new outfit? What’d I git a new outfit fer? Ain’t them clothes asgood as ever? All they want is stitching together agin and they’ll beas good as new.”

  So saying, he went outside, for the storm had passed over by this time,and began gathering his scattered raiment.

  “Hadn’t you better put on some clothes?” suggested Jack, trying tostifle his laughter.

  “Oh, that’s right!” exclaimed the hermit, who had apparently quiteforgotten that he was bereft of all garments. He returned to the shack,put on an old blanket, and with this wrapped about him he set aboutcollecting his rags once more, grumbling to himself all the time.

  “I s’pose that blame lightnin’ will hit one of my sheep next trip,” hegrunted, as if the fact that he had been struck was nothing comparedwith the loss of one of his sheep.

  “Speaking of sheep, we’d better go and see how the ponies are gettingalong,” said Jack presently.

  They ran to the rough shed where the ponies had been tied. Two of them,they found, had been knocked down by a bolt, while the other was halfwild from fright. The two that had been struck were just struggling totheir feet.

  The boys quieted their distressed animals and saddled them up ready todepart from the strange old hermit and his abode.

  “You can’t blame the ponies for being scared,” declared Jack with alaugh; “being knocked out twice in one day is pretty tough.”

  “Unless you’re a hermit,” laughed Walt, at which they all roared.

  Jack handed the hermit some money to pay for their entertainment asthey were leaving. The old man took it without a word, except to saythat he would have to hurry and stitch a pocket on his rags so as tohave some place to put it.

  Then, without a word of farewell, he continued picking up his scatteredraiment, and the last the boys saw of him he was still intent on hisodd task.