THE
BOY RANGER:
OR,
THE HEIRESS OF THE GOLDEN HORN.
BY OLL COOMES,
AUTHOR OF “HAWKEYE HARRY, THE YOUNG TRAPPER RANGER.”
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
BEADLE AND ADAMS,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
(P. N. No. 11.)
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. ROLLO, THE RANGER. 9
II. THE “HALTER” OF JUSTICE. 13
III. A PROPOSED MEETING. 19
IV. THE ATTACK. 21
V. OLD TUMULT TO THE RESCUE. 28
VI. OUTWITTED. 35
VII. IN THE HORN OF A DILEMMA. 40
VIII. THE BETROTHAL. 44
IX. A STARTLING SURPRISE. 49
X. A DESPERATE CONFLICT. 55
XI. THE RESULT OF THE FIGHT. 59
XII. THE PIPE OF PEACE. 61
XIII. THE TRAGEDY AT THE LAKE. 69
XIV. A VILLAIN DEFEATED. 72
XV. A STARTLING DISCOVERY. 76
XVI. A SURPRISE. 80
XVII. A REVELATION. 83
THE BOY RANGER;
OR,
THE HEIRESS OF THE GOLDEN HORN.
CHAPTER I.
ROLLO, THE RANGER.
Over the great plain at a breakneck speed, and down toward the little
settlement of Clontarf’s Post, rode a youthful horseman whose fair
young face was aglow with health, and whose dark, bright eyes roamed
restlessly over the green expanse before him.
From beneath a small plumed cap of scarlet velvet, masses of
dark-brown hair floated on the wind. He was a mere youth in
appearance--of seventeen perhaps, and though he was light of form
and lithe of limb, his physical and muscular development was that of
perfect manhood.
He wore a tunic of dark-blue cloth, ornamented with bright yellow
trimmings, and confined at the slender waist with a handsome belt
with silver fastenings. Buckskin leggings and buckskin moccasins were
upon his tapering limbs and shapely feet.
The boyish face wore a lovely, yet fearless expression. His hands
were as small, smooth and shapely as a maiden’s, yet, like his face,
they had become colored to a dusky brown by exposure to the hot sun
and wind of the prairie.
In addition to the handsome rifle which he carried slung over his
shoulder by means of a strap, and the handsome silver-mounted
revolvers he wore in his belt, he carried a light saber in a polished
scabbard at his side.
He was mounted upon a dark, mettlesome pony--a cross of the Mexican
and mustang breed. A fine Mexican saddle and a bridle made of braided
horse-hair, caparisoned the animal. On one side of the pommel of the
saddle hung a coiled silver horn; on the other side a double-lensed
spy-glass. With the latter, the young ranger ever and anon swept the
great plain before him as though he were not satisfied with the sight
of his own bright, flashing eyes.
Rollo, the Boy Ranger, for as such he was known, pushed rapidly on,
and soon he had gained a bold eminence upon the plain. Here, amid the
tall, luxurious grass that crowned its crest, he drew rein and gazed
away toward the west, where a grand sight was spread out before him.
The Little Sioux river divided the landscape, and with its almost
illimitable forest upon the west, and its undulating ocean verdure
upon the east, it seemed but a silver thread winding through a
field of green cloth. And down in the valley, upon the east side of
the river, nestled a dozen or more log cabins, a block-house, all
surrounded by a strong stockade that had withstood more than one
siege of the savage denizens of the forest and plain.
Outside of this settlement, which was known as Clontarf’s Post, were
a number of small fields of growing wheat and corn; while beyond the
fields a herd of cattle in the care of two boys was grazing upon the
prairie. Every thing, in fact, surrounding the post wore an air of
the thrift, industry and enterprise of its settlers.
Upon Clontarf’s Post, Rollo the ranger fixed his gaze, as though
something of uncommon interest depended upon the sight.
With the exception of a few children at play in front of the cabin
doors, the young ranger could see no life in the settlement.
To obtain a better view of the place, he took his spy-glass and
brought it to bear upon the settlement. A smile of satisfaction
overspread his fair young face as he did so. Within one of the
largest cabins whose door stood open, he saw a number of persons
collected.
“They are all there,” he said, aloud. “The trial is still in session,
and I fear it will go hard with poor Dick Sherwood. The settlers
are very strict, and if they prove the facts under which Dick was
captured, he is bound to hang--Ah! I am not a minute too soon!”
The last remarks were occasioned by seeing a number of men issue
from the cabin into the yard. A general excitement seemed to prevail
in their midst.
Bringing his glass to his eyes, the young ranger soon learned the
cause of the settlers’ commotion.
In their midst stood a man with hands bound behind his back, and a
rope around his neck; and upon him all faces were turned, scowling
dark with vengeance and hate.
After a few moments’ delay in front of the cabin, the ranger saw the
men move away toward the gate of the stockade, leading the bound man
like a haltered beast in their midst.
The brow of the young ranger darkened.
“Yes,” he fairly groaned. “Dick is doomed to die. They are leading
him into the forest. They intend to hang him--hang him! A rope is
already around his neck. There is no mercy in their hearts. Border
justice knows no mercy.”
As he spoke, he kept the spy-glass leveled upon the party of
settlers, who, filing out of the stockade, moved down to the river
bank. Here they embarked in a number of canoes for the opposite
shore, and not until they had landed and plunged into the leafy
depths of the forest did the ranger lower his glass.
The pupils of his dark eyes were expanded with long gazing. His brow
knitted, and a shade of sadness and regret passed over his face.
He spoke to his animal and it bounded away. Just then there was a
quick rustling in the tall grass before him, and a powerful Indian
warrior--a giant in stature--leaped forward, and seizing the reins,
jerked the pony back almost upon its haunches.
Quick of movement, and apparently conscious of the danger that
threatened his young rider, the pony regained its footing, and
rearing upward upon its hind feet until Rollo nearly fell from the
saddle, the sagacious beast struck the savage upon the head with both
of its iron-shod hoofs with such force that the giant was brought to
the earth, his tufted skull completely crushed.
This sudden uprising, and equally sudden downfall, of the red
assailant, occurred so quick that it was all over before the young
ranger could really define the true condition of affairs. But he soon
found that the dead warrior was not alone. Two others, one on each
side of him, both equally as demon-like in appearance as the dead
giant, arose from the tall grass and bounded toward him.
The hand of the ranger dropped to his saber. There was a
lightning-like flash of the polished blade as it leaped from the
scabbard into the sunlight. Then there was a flash upon the right,
and a flash upon the left, and the bold ranger dashed away. But,
there was blood upon his saber, for both strokes had done their
fearful work, and three savage warriors lay dead upon the plain!
The young ranger dashed on over the plain as calmly as though nothing
had happened. Finally, however, he drew rein again, and swept the
prairie with his glass. But not a living object was visible anywhere
upon the face of the great, green expanse.
Even the settlement was hidden from his view by an intervening wave
of the prairie sea, and he seemed alone upon the trackless waste.
However, he took the coiled horn from the pommel of the saddle and
blew a blast upon it so shrill and harsh that it caused his animal to
shake his head.
The young man bent his head in the attitude of listening when he
removed the horn from his lips, and faintly to his ears came the
sound resembling the far-off echo of his own horn.
A smile passed over his face.
“Ah! they have heard it, and have replied. Now my good Dart”--patting
his pony’s neck--“we have a hard ride before us--ah, there they go!”
He raised his head as he spoke, and from behind the crest of a hill
nearly a mile away, he saw a dozen or more mounted Sioux Indians
emerge, riding at a wild, reckless speed down toward Clontarf’s Post.
They were hideous with war-paint, and decked and plumed in all the
paraphernalia of savage warfare.
It was plain to be seen that their mission was one of death and
destruction. And it was still plainer that they had marked Clontarf’s
Post as their point of beginning.
Evidently they had seen the men leaving the post, and had determined
to take advantage of their absence and destroy their stronghold and
slay their women and children.
Rollo, the ranger, put spur and dashed away, keeping to the right of
the Indians and watching them all the while with a curious expression
upon his face. By a circuitous route he reached the river about a
mile above the post.
The banks of the stream were low and unobstructed, and scarcely
checking his speed, the ranger spurred his foam-flecked animal into
the river and swam it across to the opposite side, and then dashed
away in the deep shadows of the great, green woods.