[Illustration: THE NEXT INSTANT JACK AND THE PONY WENT ROLLING AND
PLUNGING OFF THE TRAIL DOWN TOWARD THE RIVER.—_Page 36._]
╔══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╗
║ ║
║ THE BORDER BOYS ║
║ ║
║ WITH THE TEXAS RANGERS ║
║ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ║
║ By FREMONT B. DEERING ║
║ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ ║
║ AUTHOR OF ║
║ ║
║ “The Border Boys on the Trail,” “The Border Boys with the ║
║ Mexican Rangers,” “The Border Boys Across the Frontier,” ║
║ “The Border Boys in the Canadian Rockies,” “The Border Boys ║
║ Along the St. Lawrence.” ║
║ ║
║ [Illustration] ║
║ ║
║ ════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ ║
║ ║
║ A. L. BURT COMPANY ║
║ ║
║ Publishers New York ║
║ ║
║ Printed in U. S. A. ║
║ ║
╚══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╝
Copyright, 1912,
BY
HURST & COMPANY
MADE IN U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. “IN TEXAS DOWN ON THE RIO GRANDE” 5
II. THE HUMBLING OF SHORTY 18
III. AN ATTEMPT AT “GETTING EVEN” 28
IV. WITH THE RANGERS 37
V. JACK’S CHANCE 47
VI. THE POOL OF DEATH 57
VII. A STRANGE VALLEY 67
VIII. NATURE’S PRISONERS 77
IX. A CLIMB FOR LIFE 85
X. A BATTLE IN MID–AIR 95
XI. RANGERS ON THE TRAIL 105
XII. A BAFFLING PURSUIT 115
XIII. THE CAPTAIN’S STORY 123
XIV. RALPH’S HOUR OF DANGER 135
XV. A “BLANK WALL” 147
XVI. LOST IN THE BURNING DESERT 159
XVII. TWO MEN OF THE AIR 170
XVIII. THE SANDSTORM 180
XIX. THE BATTLE AT THE SCHOOLHOUSE 195
XX. WHERE STRATEGY WON OUT 208
XXI. THE STAGE HOLD–UP 221
XXII. OFF ON A MISSION 231
XXIII. THE HERMIT OF THE YUCCA 241
XXIV. BY SHEER GRIT 254
XXV. THE GREAT STAMPEDE 271
The Border Boys With the Texas Rangers
CHAPTER I.
“IN TEXAS DOWN ON THE RIO GRANDE.”
“Yip! Yip! Y–e–e–e–e–ow!”
“Gracious! What’s coming, a band of circus Indians?”
“Not knowing, can’t say; but there is evidently something to the fore
in the strenuous line.”
“Well, I should say so. Hark, what’s that?”
“Shooting; maybe some of those Mestizos from over the Rio Grande are
attacking the town.”
“Hardly likely. The last heard of them they were fifty miles from the
Border fighting hard with the Federals. But it’s something, all right.”
“Hullo! Look there. It’s—it’s the Rangers!”
The red–headed, sun–burned last speaker reined in his impetuous,
plunging, gray broncho and, shielding his eyes with his hand, gazed
down the dusty main street of San Mercedes. Above the trio of lads who
had halted their cayuses at the sudden sound of distant uproar, the sun
hung in the steely blue sky like a red hot copper ball. Jack Merrill,
alert and good–looking, with his frank, bronzed face and easy seat in
the saddle, followed the direction of red–headed Walt Phelps’ gaze.
Ralph Stetson, equally excited, studied the situation with equivalent
interest.
And now at the end of the street, which had suddenly become thronged
as if by magic with slouching Mexicans, blue–bloused Chinese and
swinging–gaited cow–punchers with jingling spurs on their high–heeled
boots, a novel procession swept into view.
Out of a cloud of yellow dust, which hung like a saffron curtain
against the burning cobalt of the sky, appeared the foremost of a group
of riders.
“Here they come! Look out, fellows! Let’s sidetrack ourselves and let
the Texas limited go by!”
As he shouted this advice Ralph Stetson, a lad of slightly more
delicate build than his youthful companions, swung his wiry little pony
in a pivotal sweep, and made as if to retreat.
“Hurry, boys!” he shouted.
But Jack Merrill stood his ground, and Walt Phelps, seeing that the
leader of the three Border Boys did not swerve in the face of the
onrush, did not budge an inch either. But on the street excitement was
rife. Cayuses, hitched to the long, strong hitching racks, or simply
left to stand with the reins dropped to the ground over their heads,
plunged and squealed. Men ran about and shouted, and even the usually
stolid Chinese restaurant keepers and laundry men seemed stirred
out of their habitual state of supreme unconcern. As for the Mexican
residents of San Mercedes, they merely drew their serapes closer about
them and from beneath their broad brimmed, cone–crowned sombreros
gazed with a haughty indifference at the group of galloping, shouting
horsemen.
As Ralph Stetson cantered off, Jack Merrill backed his pony up to the
very edge of the raised wooden sidewalk. The little animal was wildly
excited and plunged and whinnied as if it felt the bit and saddle for
the first time. But Jack maintained his easy, graceful seat as if he
had formed part of the lively little creature he bestrode. Walt Phelps,
also undisturbed, controlled his equally restive mount.
“Why don’t we cut and run, too, Jack?” asked Walt, as the hind feet of
their ponies rattled on the wooden walk. “Those fellows are taking up
the whole street. They’ll run us down.”
“Inasmuch as they are just the men that we are here to meet,” responded
Jack, “I propose to stand my ground.”
The Border Boys had arrived in San Mercedes that morning, having ridden
from El Chico, the nearest town on the Southern Pacific Railroad. They
had come almost directly from a short rest following their exciting
adventures across the Mexican Border, as related in “The Border Boys
With the Mexican Rangers.” In this book, it will be recalled, they had
aided the picturesque mounted police of Mexico in running down a band
of desperadoes headed by Black Ramon, a famous Border character.
We first met the boys in the initial book of this series, “The Border
Boys on the Trail.” This volume set forth how Jack Merrill, the son of
an Arizona rancher, and Ralph Stetson, the rather delicate son of an
Eastern Railroad magnate and an old school chum, had shared with Walt
Phelps, a cattleman’s son, some astonishing adventures, including much
trouble with the hard characters who formed the nucleus of a band of
cattle rustlers. They assisted in putting them to rout, but not before
they had encountered many stirring adventures in a ruined mission
church in Chihuahua used as a gathering place by the band. The treasure
they discovered secreted in the catacombs under the ruined edifice had
given each boy a substantial little nest egg of his own.
In “The Border Boys Across the Frontier” they were found aiding
Uncle Sam. They happened to find a strange subterranean river by
means of which arms and ammunition were being smuggled to Mexican
revolutionists. In trying to put a stop to that work they were
captured, and escaped only after a ride on a borrowed locomotive and a
fight in the stockade of the Esmeralda mine.
We now find them in San Mercedes awaiting the arrival of the Texas
Rangers, a detachment of whom had been ordered to the little
settlement on the banks of the Rio Grande Del Norte to put down any
disturbances, and to keep the warring Mexicans from committing outrages
on Uncle Sam’s soil. The boys, always anxious for anything that might
offer in the way of adventure, had begged their fathers to allow them
to see something of the work of the Rangers. At first this had been
absolutely refused. But finally Mr. Stetson gave his permission, and
then Mr. Merrill fell in line, as did Walt Phelps’ parents. Captain
Moseby Atkinson of the Rangers being an old friend of Mr. Merrill’s,
the rest was easy, and it had been arranged that the boys were to meet
Captain Atkinson at San Mercedes. Though they looked only for fun
and novel experiences, the Border Boys were destined, while with the
Rangers, to pass through adventures more thrilling, and hardships more
severe than they dreamed.
On dashed the Rangers, the hoofs of their mounts thundering like
artillery. It was a sight calculated to stir the heart and quicken the
pulse of any wholesome, active lad. There were fully twenty of them,
riding six abreast. Their sombreros, blue shirts, rough leather chaps
and the rifles slung in each man’s saddle holster, showed them to be
men of action in the acutest sense of that word; men whose bronzed
faces and keen, steady eyes bespoke them of the best type of plainsman;
worthy descendants of Fremont, Lewis and Clarke.
“Yip! Yip!” the foremost of the riders shouted as they saw the boys.
Jack’s fiery little pony began to show signs of frantic alarm. It
bucked and tried to throw itself backward, but each time the young
horseman’s skill checked it.
“Captain! Captain!” called Jack, as the Rangers swept by.
But above the thunder of hoofs, and in the midst of the yellow dust
clouds, Captain Atkinson did not hear nor see the two boys.
But one of his men, a rather squat, dark–skinned, dark–haired little
fellow, did.
“Y—e—ow! Out of the way, you tenderfoot kid!” he exploded.
“I’m trying to get out of the way,” responded Jack good humoredly.
“What’s that, you long–legged cayuse,” bellowed the little chap, whose
sleeves were tied round above the elbows with gorgeous pink ribbons,
and whose black silk shirt was embroidered with pink rosebuds, “what’s
that? Can you ride, kid? Can you ride?”
At the same instant Jack’s pony swung around, presenting its flank
toward the little Ranger. As it did so the Texan brought down his quirt
with all its force on the startled little creature’s rump.
“Wow! now for fireworks!” he shouted, while his comrades checked their
ponies to see the fun.
Jack said nothing. In truth, he had his hands full. Excited before,
his pony was now half mad with frenzy. It bucked as if its insides
had been made of steel springs. But Jack stuck to it like a burr to a
maverick’s tail.
“Wow! Wow!” shouted the Rangers, as the pony gathered its feet
together, sprung into the air, and came down with legs as stiff as
hitching posts.
“Stick to him, kid! Don’t go to leather!” (meaning, “grab hold of
the saddle”), encouraged some of the Rangers struck by Jack’s manful
riding. But the dark–skinned little chap seemed to wish nothing more
than to see the youthful leader of the Border Boys ignominiously
toppled into the dust. He spurred his pony alongside Jack’s and whacked
it again and again with his rawhide quirt.
“That’s enough!” shouted Jack. “Stop it!”
“You’re scared!” jeered the Ranger. “Mammy’s little pet!”
The taunt had hardly left his lips before something very unexpected
happened. Jack, for a flash, managed to secure control of his pony.
He swung it round on its hind legs and rode it right at the scornful,
jeering Ranger. As he did so the other leaned out of his saddle to give
Jack’s pony another blow with the quirt as it dashed by him. But he
miscalculated. Jack drove his pony right in alongside his tormentor’s,
and the shock of the collision, added to the position the Ranger now
occupied in the saddle—leaning far over—proved too much for his
equilibrium.
His animal plunged, as if shot from a catapult, halfway across the
street from Jack’s pony. As it did so its rider made a vain attempt to
save himself by grabbing its withers. But quick as he was he could not
regain his balance.
Off he shot, landing in the street and ploughing a furrow with his face
in the soft dust. As for the pony, it dashed off, while a dozen Rangers
pursued it, yelling and swinging lariats.
Those who remained set up a yell of delight. It tickled the fancy of
these free and easy sons of the plains to see their companion unhorsed
by a slip of a boy.
“Good for you, kid!” shouted some.
“Say, Shorty,” admonished others, “why don’t you pick a fellow your own
size?”
In the meantime “Shorty,” as he had been addressed, scrambled to
his feet. He was a sorry object. His elaborate black silk shirt was
torn and dust covered, and one of his carefully tied ribbons was
missing. His sombrero lay six feet away, and his black hair fell in a
tangle over his dark forehead. As he got to his legs again, crowning
humiliation of all, a Chinaman picked up his broad–brimmed hat and
tendered it to him. Shorty aimed a blow and a curse at the well–meaning
Mongolian, who quickly dodged.
With a roar of rage he rushed at Jack. Then Jack and the others saw
what they had not noticed before.
In his fall Shorty’s revolver had fallen from its holster into the
dust. But he had recovered it, and now, with his lips set viciously,
he was rushing at Jack, the weapon poised for a shot.
“You dern young coyote, I’ll do fer you!” he shouted hoarsely, beside
himself with fury, intensified by the taunts of his companions over his
downfall.
As if in a trance Jack saw the revolver raised above the fellow’s head,
and then brought down to the firing position.