AN ATTEMPT AT “GETTING EVEN.”
The Rangers, still overshadowed by that pall of yellow dust that seemed
inseparable from them, and almost as much a part of themselves as
their horses or accouterments, dashed gallantly out of the town and
across the rather dreary expanse of mesquite and thorny cactus that lay
between San Mercedes and the Rio Grande. On the brink of the stream,
which at that point flowed between steep bluffs of a reddish hue, they
drew rein.
The boys peered curiously over the bluff on the edge of which they
had halted. They saw a shallow, slowly flowing stream obstructed with
sand bars and shallows. On its banks grew scanty patches of brush
and dull–colored, stunted trees; but the scene was a dreary, almost
melancholy one.
“So this is the Rio Grande!” exclaimed Ralph, in a disappointed voice,
“I always thought of it as a noble river dashing along between steep
banks and————”
“Gracious, you talk like Sir Walter Scott,” grinned Jack; “the Rio
Grande at this time of the year, so I’ve been told, is always like
this.”
“Why, it’s not much more than a mud puddle,” complained Walt Phelps.
“I’m not so sure about that, young men,” put in Captain Atkinson,
who had overheard their conversation, “at certain times in the early
spring, or winter you’d call it back east, or when there is a cloud
burst, the old Rio can be as angry as the best of them.”
“What’s a cloud burst?” asked Ralph curiously. “I’ve read of them but I
never knew just what they were.”
“Well, for a scientific explanation you’ll have to ask somebody wiser
than me,” laughed Captain Atkinson, “but for an everyday explanation,
a cloud burst occurs when clouds, full of moisture, come in contact
with mountain tops warmer than the clouds themselves. This causes the
clouds to melt all at once—precipitation, I believe the weather sharps
call it—and then if you are in this part of the country, look out for
squalls along the river.”
“But I don’t quite understand,” remarked Walt. “I guess I’m dense or
something. I mean there are no mountains here.”
“No; but up among the sources of the Rio there are,” explained the
leader of the Rangers, “and a cloud burst even many hundred miles away
means a sudden tidal wave along this part of the Rio.”
“Well, it certainly looks as if it could stand quite a lot more water
without being particularly dangerous,” commented Jack.
At this point of the conversation Captain Atkinson gave a quick look
around as the rumble of approaching wheels was heard.
“Here comes the chuck–wagon, I guess,” he said; “you boys will have to
excuse me while I ride off to tell them where to make a pitch.”
“Yes; I suppose a chuck wagon naturally would make a pitch,” grinned
Ralph, as Captain Atkinson clattered off.
“The kind of pitch he means is a location,” rejoined Walt Phelps.
“Look, boys! there she comes. Well, that means that we don’t starve,
anyhow.”
The others followed the direction of Walt’s gaze and saw a big
lumbering vehicle drawn by eight mules approaching across the mesquite
plain. It was roofed with canvas, and through this roof stuck a rusty
iron stove pipe. From this blue smoke was pouring in a cloud.
“Talk about a prairie schooner. I guess that’s a prairie steamer. Look
at her smoke–stack,” cried Ralph.
“Yes; and look at the captain,” laughed Jack, pointing to the yellow
face and flying queue of a Chinaman, which were at this moment
projected from the back of the wagon.
“That’s the cook,” said Walt Phelps, “I guess he’s been getting supper
ready as they came along.”
A loud cheer went up from the Rangers as their traveling dining–room
came into sight.
“Hello, old Sawed Off, how’s chuck?” yelled one Ranger at the grinning
Chinaman.
“Hey, there! What’s the news from the Chinese Republic?” shouted
another.
“Me no Chinese ‘public. Me Chinese Democlat!” bawled the yellow man,
waving an iron spoon and vanishing into the interior of his wheeled
domain.
“They call him Sawed Off because his name is Tuo Long,” chuckled
Captain Atkinson, when he had directed the driver of the cook wagon
where to draw up and unharness his mules, “but he’s a mighty good
cook—none better, in fact. He’s only got one failing, if you can call
it such, and that is his dislike of the new Chinese Republic. If you
want to get him excited you’ve only to start him on that.”
“I don’t much believe in getting cooks angry,” announced Walt Phelps,
whose appetite was always a source of merriment with the Border Boys.
“Nor I. But come along and get acquainted with the boys. By–the–way,
you brought blankets and slickers as I wrote you?”
“Oh, yes, and canteens, too. In fact, I guess we are all prepared to be
regular Rangers,” smiled Jack.
By this time the camp was a scene of picturesque bustle. Ponies had
been unsaddled and tethered, and presently another wagon, loaded with
baled hay in a great yellow stack, came rumbling up. The Rangers, who
had by this time selected their sleeping places and bestowed their
saddles, at once set about giving their active little mounts their
suppers.
First, each man mounted on his pony barebacked and rode it down to the
river to get a drink of water. To do this they had to ride some little
distance, as the bluffs at that point were steep and no path offered.
At last, however, a trail was found, and in single file down they went
to the watering place.
The boys followed the rest along the steep path, Jack coming last of
the trio. The trail lay along the edge of the bluff, and at some places
was not much wider than a man’s hand. Jack had reached the worst part
of it, where a drop of some hundred feet lay below him, when he was
astonished to hear the sound of hoofs behind him.
He was astonished because, he had judged, almost everybody in the
camp had preceded him while he had been busy inspecting the different
arrangements. He faced round abruptly in his saddle and saw that the
rider behind him was Shorty.
It must have been at almost the same moment that, for some unknown
reason, Shorty’s horse began to plunge and kick. Then it dashed
forward, bearing down directly on Jack.
“Look out!” shouted Jack, “there’s only room for one on the trail.
You’ll knock me off!”
“I can’t pull him in! I can’t pull him in!” yelled Shorty, making what
appeared to be frantic efforts to pull in his pony. At the same time he
kept the cayuse to the inside of the trail.
Jack saw that unless he did something, and quickly, too, his pony was
likely to become unmanageable and plunge off the narrow path. But there
was small choice of remedies. Already Shorty’s horse, which was coming
as if maddened by something, was dashing down on him. Jack resolved to
take a desperate chance. The others had by this time almost reached
the bottom of the trail. As fast as he dared he compelled his pony to
gallop down the steep incline. It was a dangerous thing to do, for the
trail was too narrow to afford any foothold at more than a slow and
careful walk.
Behind him, yelling like one possessed, came Shorty. Jack urged his
mount faster.
“Goodness! I hope we get to the bottom safely!” he gasped out.
The words had hardly left his lips when he felt his pony’s hoofs slip
from under him.
The next instant, amid a horrified shout from the men below, Jack and
the pony went rolling and plunging off the trail down toward the river.
The last sound Jack heard was Shorty’s loud:
“Yip! yip! Ye–o–o–ow!”