The Border Boys with the Texas Rangers

by John Henry Goldfrap

  CHAPTER XXV.

  THE GREAT STAMPEDE.

  “How is it going, Jack? All quiet?”

  Walt Phelps paused in his ride around the herd to address his chum.

  “Yes, everything is going splendidly, Walt. Dynamite’s a real cow–pony.”

  “No doubt about that. Well, I’ll ride on; we must keep circling theherd.”

  “You’re right. They seem a bit restless.”

  Walt rode off with a word of farewell, while Jack flicked Dynamite withthe quirt and proceeded in the opposite direction.

  The time was about midnight the night following Jack’s little argumentwith Dynamite. Since nine o’clock the Border Boys had been on duty withthe Reeves herd. Under the bright stars the cattle were visible only asa black, evershifting mass, round and round which the boys, Bud andtwo cow–punchers circled unceasingly. Some of the animals were feeding,others standing up or moving about. The air reeked of cattle. Theirwarm breaths ascended into the cool night in a nebulous cloud of steam.

  From far off came the sound of a voice singing, not unmusically, thatclassic old ballad of the Texas cowman:

  _“Lie quietly now, cattle, And please do not rattle, Or else we will ‘mill’ you, As sure as you’re born._

  _A long time ago, At Ranch Silver Bow, I’d a sweetheart and friends, On the River Big Horn“_

  Jack pulled up his pony for a minute and listened to the long drawn,melancholy cadence. It was the cow–puncher’s way of keeping the cattlequiet and easy–minded. Steers at night are about as panicky creaturesas can be imagined. The rustle of the night wind in the sagebrush, thesudden upspringing of a jackrabbit, the whinnying of a pony, all theseslight causes have been known to start uncontrollable “stampedes“ thathave been costly both to life and property.

  The night was intensely still. Hardly a breath of wind stirred. Exceptfor the occasional bellow of a restless steer or the never–endingrefrain of Bud’s song, the plains on the border of the Rio Grande wereas silent as a country churchyard.

  Jack resumed his ride. He began whistling. It was not a cheerful tunehe chose. “Massa’s in the Cold, Cold Ground,” was his selection.Somehow it seemed to the lad that such a tune was suited to the nightand to his task.

  Jack’s course led him to the south of the herd, between the main bodyof cattle and the Rio Grande. He kept a bright lookout as he passedalong the river banks. He knew that if trouble was coming, it was goingto come from that direction. Almost unconsciously he felt his holstersto see if his weapons were all right.

  Once he paused to listen. It was at a spot right on the river bank thathe made his halt. He was just about to ride on again, whistling hislugubrious tune, when something odd caught his eye and set his heart tothumping violently.

  A head covered with a white hood containing two eyeholes had suddenlyappeared above the river bank. The next instant a score more appeared.All wore the white hoods with the same ghastly eyeholes, giving themthe appearance of so many skulls.

  Greatly startled and alarmed, Jack yet realized that the figures thathad appeared so suddenly must be those of cattle–stealing Mexicanrebels and that they had adopted the hoods with the idea of scaring thesuperstitious cowboys. Hardly had he arrived at this conclusion beforethe hooded horsemen rushed up the bank. They aimed straight for the boy.

  Instantly Jack’s hand sought his holster.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  It was the three shots agreed upon as a signal of trouble. From farback on the eastern side of the herd came an answer. Jack had just timeto hear it when the hooded band swept down upon him. He felt bulletswhiz past his ear and then, without exactly knowing how it happened, hewas riding for his life, crouched low on Dynamite’s withers.

  Off to the north, east and west other six–shooters cracked and flashed.The signal of alarm was being passed around rapidly. Jack was ridingfor his life toward the west side of the herd. Behind him pressedone of the hooded horsemen. All the others had been distanced by thefleet–footed Dynamite. But this man behind him clung on like grimdeath.

  From time to time he fired, but at the pace they were going his aim wasnaturally poor and none of the bullets went near the fleeing boy on thebuckskin pony.

  The air roared in Jack’s ears as he dashed along. All at once he becameconscious of another roar, the roar of hundreds of terrified steers.Horns crashed and rattled. Startled bellows arose. Then off to the eastcame more firing. Jack judged by this that most of the hooded band hadgone off in that direction and were now engaged in fighting with Budand the rest of the cattle watchers.

  The next instant the lad became conscious of a thunderous sound thatseemed to shake the earth. It was the roar and rush of thousands ofhoofs.

  “The cattle have stampeded!” gasped Jack to himself, and the nextinstant:

  “The firing to the east has started them off; and I am right in theirpath.”

  He swung his pony in an effort to cut off part of the herd. But throughthe darkness they thundered down on him like a huge overpowering waveof hoofs and horns. Jack fired with both his six–shooters, hoping toturn the stampede; but he might as well have saved his cartridges. Nopower on earth can stop stampeding cattle till they get ready to quit.

  Jack was in the direst peril. But he did not lose his head. He swungDynamite around once more and urged him forward. It was a race for lifewith the maddened cattle. He had lost all thought of the hooded riderwho had pursued him so closely. His sole idea now was to escape alivefrom the stampede behind him. Had he dared, he would have tried to cutacross the face of it. But he knew that he stood every chance of beingtrapped should he do so. He therefore decided to trust to Dynamite’sfleetness and sure–footedness. It made him shudder to think what wouldbefall him if the pony happened to get his foot in a gopher hole andstumble.

  A Texas steer in a stampede can travel every bit as fast as a pony, andit was not long before the steers were in a crescent–shaped formation,with Jack riding for his life in about the center of the half moon. Onand on they thundered in the mad race. To Jack it felt as if they werebeginning to go down hill, but he was not certain. Nor had he the leastidea of the direction in which he was going. He bent all his facultieson keeping ahead of that hoofed and horned wave behind him.

  Dynamite went like the wind. But even his muscles began to flag underthe merciless strain after a time. He felt the effects of his strenuouslesson of the morning. Jack was forced to ply quirt and spur to keephim on his gait. But the signs that the pony was playing out dismayedthe boy. His life depended on Dynamite’s staying powers, and they wereonly too plainly diminishing.

  The slope down which they were dashing was a fairly steep one,which accounted for Jack’s feeling the grade. It led into a broad,sandy–bottomed, dry water course, or “arroyo” as they are called in thewest. But of this, of course, Jack was unaware.

  All at once Jack felt Dynamite plunge into a thick patch ofgrease–wood. The pony slowed up as he encountered the obstruction, butJack’s quirt and spur urged him into it. But that momentary pause hadbeen nearly fatal. Jack could now almost feel the hot breath of theleading cattle. Despite his grit and courage, both of sterling quality,Jack’s heart gave an uncomfortable bound. He felt his scalp tighten atthe narrowness of his escape. But still he urged Dynamite on. Luckilyhe wore stout leather “chaps,” or the brush would have torn his limbsfearfully.

  Dynamite tore on, with seemingly undiminished valor, but Jack knew thatthe end was near.

  “Only a few yards more, and then————” he thought, when he felt adifferent sensation.

  It filled him with alarm. He was dropping downward through the air.Down he plunged, while behind him came the thunder of the maddenedsteers.

  “Good heavens! Is this the end?” was the thought that flashed throughthe boy’s mind in that terrible fraction of time when he felt himselfand his pony dropping through space.

  The next instant he felt the pony hit the ground under him. Like astone from a slingshot, Jack was catapulted out
of the saddle. Helanded on the ground some distance from the pony. He was shaken andbruised, but he was up in a flash. In another instant the steers wouldbe upon him. He would be crushed to a pulp under their hoofs unless hefound some means of escape.

  “If I don’t do something quick, it’s good–bye for me,” he told himself.

  In frantic haste he looked about for some means of saving himself.All at once he spied through the darkness the black outlines of acottonwood tree. In a flash his plan was formed. He slipped behind thetrunk of the cottonwood, using it as a shield between himself and theoncoming cattle.

  Hardly had he slipped behind his refuge when an agonized cry came tohis ears, the cry of a human being in mortal terror. Jack peered frombehind his tree trunk. As he did so the form of a man rolled almost tohis feet and lay still.

  With a thrill Jack recognized the white hood the figure wore and knewit must be the hooded horseman who had pursued him. Like himself, theman had been caught in the stampede and been thrown from his horsealmost at the foot of the tree. Exerting all his strength, Jack pulledthe man into shelter behind the tree scarcely a second before thecrazed steers were upon them. In their blind frenzy of terror many ofthem dashed headlong into the tree, stunning and killing themselves.But the main herd swept by on both sides, leaving Jack and theunconscious man in a little haven of safety behind the tree trunk.

  Jack found himself wedged in between two barricades of bellowing,galloping steers, and for his deliverance from what had seemed certaindeath a few minutes before he offered up a fervent prayer of thanks.

  For some time the rush continued and then thinned out to a fewstragglers. At last Jack thought it safe to emerge from behind histree. In front of it lay several dead cattle, their brains knocked outby the force with which they had collided with the cottonwood. A fewinjured animals limped about moaning piteously. Some of them were sobadly injured that Jack, who could not bear to see an animal suffer,put them out of their misery with his six–shooter.

  It was now time to turn his attention to the hooded man. The fellow hadbeen stunned when he was thrown from his horse; but he was now stirringand groaning. Jack bent over him and pulled off his hood. As he did sohe staggered back with an amazed exclamation.

  The face the starlight revealed was that of Alvarez, the man whosedestiny had been so oddly linked with Jack’s!

  “Where am I? What has happened?” exclaimed the man in Spanish as heopened his eyes.

  “’You have been engaged in the despicable work of cattle stealing,Alvarez,” spoke Jack sternly. “If you had not been thrown at my veryfeet, you would have perished miserably under the hoofs of the herd youplanned to steal.”

  At the first sound of Jack’s voice Alvarez had staggered painfully tohis feet. Now he uttered a cry.

  “It is you, Señor Merrill! I thought you were miles from here.”

  “Well, I am not, as you see. Are you badly hurt?”

  “I do not know. I think my arm is broken. It pains fearfully.”

  “I will examine it by daylight. Are you armed?”

  “I was, señor, but I lost my pistol in that fearful ride before thestampede.”

  The man’s tone was cringing, whining almost. Jack felt nothing butcontempt for him. He held that the Mexican revolutionists were aboutas much in the right as the government troops; but cattle stealingon the Border is a serious offense and Jack Merrill was a rancher’sson. He made no reply to Alvarez, but, telling him to remain where hewas, he went off to see if he could find some water to bathe the man’sinjuries, for, besides his injured arm, he had a nasty cut on the head.

  He did not find water and was returning to the tree rather downcast,when through the darkness ahead of him he saw something moving. Theobject was not a steer, he was sure of that. He moved cautiously towardit, his heart beating with a hope he hardly dared to entertain.

  But at last suspicion grew to certainty.

  “It’s my pony! It’s Dynamite!” he breathed, not daring to make a noiselest the pony take fright and dash off.

  Cautiously he crept up on the little animal. He now saw as he drewcloser that another horse was beside it. He had no doubt that thislatter beast was the one Alvarez had ridden. How the horses had escapeddeath or serious injury Jack could not imagine; but escape it they had,although they both stood dejectedly with heads hung down and heavingflanks.

  “Whoa, Dynamite! Whoa, boy!” whispered Jack, moving up to the bronchowith outstretched hand.

  Dynamite stirred nervously. He pricked up his ears. Jack crept forwardonce more. In this way he got within a few feet of the pony. Then hedecided to make a dash for it. He flung himself forward, grabbed thepommel of the saddle and swung himself on to Dynamite’s back. With asqueal of fear the pony started bucking furiously.

  “Buck all you want,” laughed Jack. “I’ve got you now and, by ginger, ifI can do it, I mean to get back those cattle, too.”

  Dynamite soon quieted down and then Jack set himself to catching thehorse Alvarez had ridden. This was not an easy task, but the brute wasnot so fiery as Dynamite, and at last Jack got him. The dawn was justflushing up in the east when Jack, leading the Mexican’s horse, rodeback toward the cottonwood tree. Alvarez, looking pale and old, satwhere Jack had left him.

  He glanced up as the boy approached, but said nothing. Jack hitched thehorses and then examined the Mexican’s arm. He decided that it was notbroken, only badly sprained. He concluded, therefore, that the Mexicanwas quite able to perform the task he had laid out for him.

  “Get on your horse, Alvarez,” he ordered.

  “Si, señor,” rejoined the swarthy Alvarez without comment.

  Only when he was mounted and Jack told him to ride in front of him, didhe inquire what was to be done with him.

  “You are going to help me drive those cattle back first,” said Jackgrimly. “Then we’ll decide on what comes next.”

  In silence they rode up the far bank of the arroyo and the plain layspread out before them. Jack could not restrain a cry of joy as in thedistance he saw a dark mass closely huddled. It was the missing band ofsteers.

  “Now, Alvarez,” he warned sternly, “what will happen to you may dependon just how we restore his property to Mr. Reeves. Do you understand?”

  “Si, señor,” nodded the man, whose spirit appeared completely broken.

  They rode up cautiously. But the steers appeared to be as quiet as somany sheep and merely eyed them as they approached. The animals were inpitiful shape after their frantic gallop and one look at them showedJack that he would have no trouble in driving them back to the homeranch once they were got moving.

  Keeping a sharp eye on Alvarez, he ordered the Mexican to begin“milling” the steers, that is, riding them around and around till theywere bunched in a compact mass. This done, the drive began. At timesJack hardly knew how he kept in his saddle. He was sick, faint, andthirsty, with a burning thirst. The dust from the trampling steersenveloped him, stinging nostrils and eyes, and, besides all this, hedared not take his eyes off Alvarez for an instant.

  The boy surveyed himself. He was a mass of scratches and bruises, hisshirt was ripped and hung in shreds, his chaperajos alone remainedintact. Even his saddle was badly torn, and, as for the poor buckskin,he was in as bad shape as his master.

  “Well, I am a disreputable looking object,” thought the boy. “TheRangers wouldn’t own me if they could see me now.”

  * * * * *

  It was late afternoon at the Reeves ranch when Bud and the two boysrode in with the news that they could find no trace of the missingcattle. Nor, of course, had they any news of Jack. Mr. Reeves was muchdowncast at this, almost as much so as Walt and Ralph. Yet somehow thetwo latter felt sure that Jack would come out all right.

  They had not had an easy night of it, either. The battle to theeastward of the herd that had started the stampede had resulted in aflesh wound for Walt and a bad cut on the hand for Ralph. But the boysand the cow–punchers had managed to make p
risoners of ten of the hoodedMexicans, so that they felt they had not done a bad night’s work. Ifonly they had possessed a clew to Jack’s fate, they would, in fact,have been jubilant. Ralph’s behavior during the fight had quite won himback the respect he had lost by his poor exhibition with the rope. TheBorder Boys were declared “the grittiest ever” by every puncher on therange.

  The ten prisoners were confined in the barn, but they all deniedvigorously having seen anything of Jack. They confessed that their raidhad been made for the purpose of getting beef for the rebel army, whichhad been practically starved out by the government troops.

  Bud had just dismounted by the corral and Walt and Ralph weredispiritedly doing the same when Mr. Reeves uttered a shout andpointed to the far southwest.

  “Wonder what that is off there, that cloud of dust!” he exclaimed.

  “I’ll get the glasses, boss,” declared Bud.

  He dived into the house and speedily reappeared with a pair of powerfulbinoculars such as most stockmen use.

  Mr. Reeves applied them to his eyes and gazed long and carefully at thedistant object that had attracted his attention.

  “What is it?” demanded Bud.

  “I don’t know yet. I can’t see for dust. But I’m pretty sure it’s aband of cattle.”

  Walt and Ralph held their breaths.

  “_Our_ cattle?” almost whispered Bud, in a tense voice.

  “I can’t be sure. It might be any band of steers crossing the state.Tell you what, Bud, saddle the big sorrel for me and we’ll go and findout.”

  Ten minutes later the band of horsemen was riding at top speed towardthe distant moving objects. As they drew closer it was seen that theywere unmistakably cattle. All at once Bud gave a sharp cry.

  “Boss, they’re our cows. See the big muley steer in front? That’s oldAbe. I’d know him among a thousand.”

  “By George, Bud, you’re right! But who can be driving them?”

  He was interrupted by a mighty shout from Ralph Stetson.

  “It’s Jack!” he cried.

  “It _is_ the broncho bustin’ Tenderfoot as sure as you’re a foot high!”bawled out Bud.

  “But who’s that with him?” demanded Walt.

  “Dunno; looks like a greaser,” growled Bud, who had no liking for the“brown brothers” across the Border.

  And then, at the risk of starting another stampede, the cavalcadedashed forward, waving their hats and yelling like wild Indians.

  Mr. Reeves rode right down on Jack.

  “Boy, you’re a wonder. How did you do it? No; stop; don’t tell me now.I can see you’re about tuckered out. How are you?”

  “Roasted out,” rejoined Jack with an attempt at a smile. But his voicewas hoarse as a crow’s and his lips were too baked and cracked to smilenaturally.

  “Great heavens, boy, you’ve been through an awfully tough ordeal, I cansee that. But who is this personage here?”

  Mr. Reeves indicated Alvarez, who shrank under his gaze.

  Jack forced his voice out of his parched throat.

  “That is my assistant driver, Mr. Reeves,” he said. “We have had agood deal of talk as we came along and he tells me that he has a greatlonging to go back to his own country and _stay there_. He knows whatit means if he comes back across the Border again, don’t you, Alvarez?”

  “Si, Señor Merrill,” stammered the Mexican while Bud glowered at him.

  “There’s something behind all this, Jack, that I can partly guess at,”declared Mr. Reeves, “but if you really want him to go, let him go.”

  “You hear?” croaked Jack in Spanish.

  “Si, señor.”

  “Then go.”

  The Mexican wheeled his horse, doffed his peaked hat in a graceful waveand in a loud, clear voice shouted:

  “Adios, señors!”

  He struck his spurs home and brought down his quirt. His horse sprangforward. Straight for the Rio Grande he rode and vanished over itsnorthern bank. Five minutes later he was off American soil. On theopposite bank he paused once more, wheeled his horse and waved hissombrero in token of farewell. Then he vanished, so far as the boyswere concerned, forever.

  “Now, forward,” cried Mr. Reeves. “Bud, you hold the cattle here till Isend out some boys to help you bring them in. Jack, you come with us atonce. You need doctoring up.”

  “Can’t I stay and bring the cattle in?” pleaded Jack.

  “Son,” said the rancher in a deep voice, “you’ve _done_ your duty; minebegins now. I haven’t heard your story yet, but I’ll bet my last dollarthat you’ve done a big thing out there, and that the Rangers will bemighty proud of their boy recruits.”

  And then they rode forward to the ranch house and food and drink, andlater to the unfolding of Jack’s story.

  As Mr. Reeves had prophesied, the Rangers were proud of their youngcomrades. And not only the circle of Rangers, but the whole state ofTexas rang with their praises until the boys were afraid to look at anewspaper. As for Jack’s generous action in letting Alvarez go free,none but Captain Atkinson, Mr. Reeves and the Border Boys themselvesknew of it, though Bud suspected, or “suspicioned” as he called it.

  A few days later the revolution was crushed, and they heard afterwardthat Alvarez had died fighting bravely for what he deemed the rightcause. A few days later, too, the boys had to leave their kind Texanfriends and wend their way homeward.

  And now we, too, have reached the parting of the ways so far as thispart of the Border Boys’ adventures is concerned. Here, for a time,we will take leave of our young friends, wishing them well till wemeet them again in further stirring adventures. What befell themafter leaving Texas and how they acquitted themselves in scenes andsituations as exciting and thrilling as any through which they have yetpassed, will all be related in the next volume of this series, whichwill be called: “THE BORDER BOYS IN THE CANADIAN ROCKIES.”

  THE END.

  _SAVE THE WRAPPER!_

  _IF_ you have enjoyed reading about the adventures of the new friends youhave made in this book and would like to read more clean, wholesomestories of their entertaining experiences, turn to the book jacket—onthe inside of it, a comprehensive list of Burt’s fine series ofcarefully selected books for young people has been placed for yourconvenience.

  _Orders for these books, placed with your bookstore or sent to thePublishers, will receive prompt attention._

  BOOK COVER]

  Border Boys Series

  By Fremont B. Deering

  Mexican and Canadian Frontier Stories for Boys 12 to 16 Years.

  PRICE, 50 CENTS EACH

  POSTAGE 10c EXTRA

  _With Individual Jackets in Colors._

  Cloth Bound

  BORDER BOYS ON THE TRAIL

  BORDER BOYS ACROSS THE FRONTIER

  BORDER BOYS WITH THE MEXICAN RANGERS

  BORDER BOYS WITH THE TEXAS RANGERS

  BORDER BOYS IN THE CANADIAN ROCKIES

  BORDER BOYS ALONG THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER

  For sale by all booksellers, or sent on receipt of price by thePublishers

  A. L. BURT COMPANY, 114–120 E. 23d St., NEW YORK

  TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:

  —Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.