THE HUMBLING OF SHORTY.
But at the very instant that the Ranger’s finger pressed the trigger
something came swishing and snaking through the air, falling in a loop
about him and pinioning his arms. The gun cracked as Shorty was yanked
from his feet, but the bullet merely ploughed a little furrow in the
ground. The next minute he was rolling in the dust for the second time,
roped as neatly as ever he had lassoed a yearling, by the rawhide of
Captain Atkinson himself.
The captain, who had been in advance, as we know, had not witnessed the
first part of the drama which had so nearly ended in a tragedy, but had
been apprised of it when Shorty’s pinto pony had flashed by him with
half a dozen shouting Rangers at its heels. The minute it had been
roped he instituted inquiries, and hearing what had occurred, he judged
from his acquaintance with Shorty’s character that his presence might
be needed at the scene of the Ranger’s unhorsing.
At top speed he had galloped back, arriving just in time to see
Shorty’s revolver flash in the air as he brought it down for a shot.
Almost as by magic the captain’s hand had sought and found his lariat
and sent its coil swishing through the air.
“Get up!” he thundered to the disgruntled Shorty, who, thoroughly
humiliated, did as he was told.
“Let me alone! Let me git at that cub!” he snarled, under his breath.
“See here, Shorty Swift!” flashed Atkinson, “this isn’t the first
trouble I’ve had with you. You’re a disgrace to the Rangers.”
“He was pickin’ on me,” began the Ranger; but his commander cut him
short with a sharp word.
“Buncombe! Is this the way you obey orders to conduct yourself
properly? Do you mean to tell me that you can give me any good reason
why a kid like that should annoy a Texas ranger?”
“Well, he did. It was his fault. He—he———”
“See here, Shorty, are you going to tell the truth?”
“I am telling the truth, cap.”
“You’re not. Some of you other boys tell me what happened.”
One of the Rangers who had applauded Jack’s horsemanship gave a plain,
unvarnished account of the whole scene. Captain Atkinson’s brow
darkened as he heard.
“So,” he snapped, “that’s the sort of fellow you are. Well, all I’ve
got to say is that you and your kind are a disgrace to the name of
Texas. I’ve warned you before, Shorty, of what you might expect if
you got into disgrace again. That was the last time. Now I find you
bullyin’ a kid who hadn’t done you any harm, and when he gave you what
you deserved you tried to shoot him. I’ve only got one thing to say to
you————”
He paused.
There was a vibrant silence, during which the trampling of the restless
ponies’ hoofs and the hard breathing of Shorty were the only sounds to
break the stillness.
“Git!”
The order came like the crack of a rifle.
Shorty seemed to wither and grow smaller and darker as he heard.
“Captain, I————” he stammered out. But Atkinson cut him short abruptly.
“You heard me. Git! This isn’t a cow camp, but a regularly organized
troop to enforce law and order. You set a fine example of lawlessness
right in the town we have been sent to protect from that very thing.
There’s your pony and here’s the pay that’s coming to you. Hit the
trail, and hit it quick.”
“Don’t be too hard on him, captain. Give him one more chance. I guess
it was only meant as horse play and not viciousness.”
Captain Atkinson turned his bronzed countenance on the speaker. It was
Jack. Beside him Walt Phelps had reined up and Ralph Stetson, too, the
latter having been attracted by the excitement from the side street
where he had sought refuge at the boisterous entrance of the Rangers.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “Well, young chap, you’ve got nerve and
sense; but this fellow doesn’t deserve any pity.”
“I’m sure he won’t do it again,” Jack assured the captain; “let him off
this time. He’s been punished enough.”
At this Captain Atkinson could not resist a smile. Shorty’s woebegone
appearance assuredly bore testimony to the truth of Jack’s statement.
As for the Rangers, some of them broke into an open guffaw of amusement.
“You’re sure right, young chap,” agreed Captain Atkinson, “but right
now I’d like to ask you who you and your two friends are. You don’t
look as if you belonged about here.”
“We don’t. My name is Jack Merrill, this is Walt Phelps and yonder is
Ralph Stetson, a school chum and————”
“Waal, by the Lone Star! So you’re the kids I’m to take along, eh?
Shake, boy, shake! I thought you were a lot of blithering tenderfeet,
but you’re regular punchers. Put it there, Jack. I’m Captain Atkinson,
your father’s friend, and————”
“I guessed as much,” smiled Jack, shaking hands with the grizzled
leader of the Rangers who, in turn, almost wrung the lad’s fingers off.
“It’s for the sake of your friendship, captain, that I ask you to give
this man another chance.”
“Boy, you’re a real sport. Shorty, apologize to this lad here and take
your place in the ranks.”
“I—I’m sorry,” muttered Shorty, hanging his head sullenly and forcing
the words from unwilling lips.
“That’s all right, Shorty,” said Jack heartily, “and I’m as sorry as
you are. I didn’t mean to give you such a bump.”
Shorty took the outstretched hand with limp fingers, barely touched it,
and then, remounting his pony, which had been led up, rode off to the
rear of his comrades. His face was contorted with humiliation and angry
shame.
“I hope you won’t judge the Rangers by that fellow,” said Captain
Atkinson to Jack when Shorty had gone; “we may appear rough but our
hearts are in the right place, as I hope we shall prove to you.”
“I’m sure of it,” rejoined Jack heartily. “Are we going to camp far
from the town?” he asked, by way of changing the subject.
“Yes, in the outskirts, on the banks of the river. Alameda and his men
are giving the Federal troops a hard tussle, and we want to be on the
job if they try to cross.”
“Then you won’t be in one place?”
Captain Atkinson laughed.
“No; we Rangers are supposed to be like the Irish bird that flew in two
places at the same time,” he said.
Then, in a more serious tone, he went on:
“We have twenty–five miles of the Rio Grande to patrol and see that the
life and property of Americans along the Border are protected. It is
also our duty to keep the revolutionists or Federals from getting into
American territory or receiving supplies.”
“We had some experience in that line when we were in Northern
Chihuahua,” responded Jack.
“So I have heard. That is one reason I consented to have you along.
Raw tenderfoots would be out of place on a job of this kind. But now
we must be pushing on. I want to get into camp and map out my plan of
campaign before night.”
In a few minutes the column was reformed, and the Rangers, at an easy
pace, were riding out of the town toward the river. The three boys rode
together.
“Well, Jack,” remarked Ralph Stetson, as soon as they found themselves
alone, “you’ve made a nice mess of it.”
“How’s that?” inquired Jack unsuspiciously.
“Getting in a muss with that Ranger. From the look he gave you as he
went away I could see he bore you no great affection.”
“Well, I’m not going to lose any sleep over it,” declared Jack.
“I should think not,” chimed in Walt Phelps, “you only did what you
were compelled to do. My dad says, ‘Don’t go looking for trouble and
always avoid it if you can; but if you have it forced on you, why then
make the other fellow remember it.’”
“Don’t worry about that Shorty not remembering it,” admonished Ralph
seriously; “he’s not of the forgetting kind.”
And Ralph was right—Shorty wasn’t, as we shall see before long.