THE ALARM BELL
“How long has Old Baldy been gone now, dad?” asked Frank.
“All of a month, I’m positive,” replied the stockman. “Yes, I remember
now that we missed a round dozen head at the time, followed their tracks
for several miles, and then they seemed to disappear in the low swale
back of Purple Sage Mesa. We never got a trace of them again. Some of
the boys jumped to the conclusion that they were caught in that
quicksand. But I never could quite believe Old Baldy would forget all
his cunning like that.”
“You’ve always stuck to it that the bunch was driven off by men cunning
enough to hide their trail, haven’t you, dad?” Frank continued.
“That’s what I have,” said Colonel Haywood, emphatically; “and now that
you tell me the old fellow has shown up again, I’m more set on that
explanation than ever.”
“There’s proof that Old Baldy has been in other hands all this time,”
remarked Frank, nodding his head convincingly.
“You mean his brand has been changed?” exclaimed the stockman, eagerly.
“Perhaps that ought to tell us who took him. I hope, son, you haven’t
found the Arrow brand there, nor yet the mark of the X—bar—X Syndicate?
I’d hate to think any decent rancher could be guilty of such a thing,
for spite!”
“Fact is, dad,” laughed Frank, “there isn’t a sign of a new mark on the
flank of Old Baldy. Somebody took the pains to wipe out our brand, all
right; but they didn’t have the nerve to continue the work. I reckon
that Old Baldy just tore around, so they had to let him severely alone.”
“Well, I wouldn’t wonder,” chuckled the stockman, who had known the
tough old steer to do many queer things in his time. “Only wonder is
they didn’t put a bullet in him, and end his loping. But I must go out
and see our old friend when he shows up. You think he was on the way
here, don’t you, Frank?”
“Sure he was,” continued the boy, “when he caught a whiff of that lame
wolf, and set up a siege by the little bunch of timber. Give him half an
hour, and you’ll see him show up at the cattle corral, acting just as if
he’d never been away.”
“There’ll be some high old jinks played around there,” remarked Bob.
“Old Baldy used to be the Great Mogul, I remember; and since he
disappeared several candidates have bobbed up to take his place.”
“Yes, he’ll have to beat the lot of ’em before he’s proved his right to
his old position of boss!” declared Frank.
“And he’ll sure do it,” echoed Bob. “The way he acted out there on the
plain proved that even a month’s vacation hasn’t taken any of the ginger
and spirit out of the old chap. Why, I guess he’s that tough, his flesh
would turn the edge of a hunting knife—that is, any ordinary blade,” and
Bob sighed as he spoke.
Frank knew that he was thinking once more of the mystery concerning the
disappearance of his own knife, which he valued so highly, and thought
without an equal.
Some of the cowboys connected with the Circle Ranch came galloping in
just then. They were grinning, as though wonderfully pleased over
something; a fact the boys with Colonel Haywood noticed immediately.
“Two to one they’re on,” remarked Bob, upon seeing the three punchers
make a bee-line for the piazza, as though each wanted to be the first to
communicate some pleasing information.
“He come back, Colonel!” yelled one, from afar.
“It’s that sly Old Baldy, he means!” called a second.
“Thar he is, headin’ for the corral right now!” whooped the third, not
wanting to be left entirely out of the game.
“An’ our brand’s been burned off, sure,” declared the leader, as he
reached the steps; “but thar, ye don’t seem to be s’prised a heap. Boys,
it ain’t no news after all, we’re slinging. Look at Frank grin; it’s a
cinch he’s been ahead of us!”
Of course, after that, Frank had to own up, and relate the story of how
Old Baldy had made the lame wolf take to cover, and held him there until
help came.
“Bully for Old Baldy! He’s the same game chap as before he was took!”
exclaimed Jeff Davis; and then led his comrades in a series of cheers
for the returned wanderer who had finally made his way home, after
adventures which might never be more than guessed at.
An exciting debate followed; but when all had given their opinion it was
found that suspicion centred on Pedro Mendoza as the guilty one. This
Mexican had long been a thorn in the flesh of the ranchers of Arizona.
He led a band of bold, lawless spirits who seemed able to appear and
vanish in a manner that baffled all search.
As a rule the rustlers had not annoyed the Circle Ranch people,
confining their operations to ranges more distant. Nevertheless, the
stockmen had grumbled considerably about the way these frequent outrages
took away from the profits of raising cattle; and, only for the petty
jealousies between them, they must have united long ago in a determined
effort to rid the country, once and for all, of such a bad character as
Mendoza.
Colonel Haywood and his foreman had often talked the matter over. They
had even laid out a plan of campaign to be followed in case they awoke
some morning to find that the rustlers had visited the herds of Circle
Ranch.
At the time the dozen head had vanished, Old Baldy among them, opinions
had differed so widely that nothing was done. Since no trail could be
found beyond a certain point the boys had concluded that the quicksand
was responsible for the wholesale disappearance. At other times a single
cow had been engulfed; and, on the face of it, this theory appeared
plausible; though Colonel Haywood had never been fully convinced himself
concerning its truth.
But at the time he had been laid up with a broken leg; and as he would
wish to be at the head of any expedition formed for the purpose of
hunting the shrewd rustlers to their hiding place, it was finally
allowed to drop.
But the anger of the Circle Ranch cow punchers only slept. The return of
Old Baldy with the mark of a fresh burn on his flank, blotting out the
circle that had stamped him as the property of Colonel Haywood, was the
match that once more started the smouldering blaze.
There was more or less excited talk in the bunk-house that night
concerning the necessity for some prompt action with regard to ridding
the country of the rustlers who had so long had things their own way.
Even the stockman seemed to have the subject on his mind, for as he sat
with the two boys and Bart Heminway on the piazza after supper, with the
moon just rising in the eastern heavens, and the many noises of the
night adding to the drowsy feeling, he referred to the loss of the
entire saddle band of horses, sustained by a ranch located some twenty
miles away, on Cibiou Creek.
“I’ve been thinking some over that matter, Frank,” he continued; “while
I was kept here idle with this game leg; and putting this and that
together, I reached a certain conclusion. Fact is, I’ve about made up my
mind I know where that Mendoza crowd of rustlers must hold out.”
“If that’s so, dad,” remarked Frank, “you’d sure please a lot of people
a heap if you could show ’em. They’ve been hunting high and low these
three years and more for that secret cache where Pedro hides his stolen
cattle and horses. Would you mind telling Bob and me about it?”
“Fact is, Frank,” the rancher went on, “you were the one to give me my
idea.”
“Now I get on to what you mean, sir,” remarked Frank. “You’re referring
to what Bob and myself saw, that time we were on our way to find out
what made the queer growling and thunder-like sounds on that mountain?”
“Just what I mean,” nodded Colonel Haywood. “You remember you told me
that when you were camped in the dark, near the beginning of the canyon,
you were startled to hear the thud of many horses’ hoofs; and looking
out, saw a troop pass by, many of the animals being led by unknown
riders.”
“Yes,” Frank went on, quickly, “and at the time, Bob and myself just
kept quiet, and they never suspected we were anywhere near. You see, we
couldn’t make sure at the time whether they were some cow punchers from
a ranch, taking home some new stock, and making use of the canyon over
Thunder Mountain as a short-cut to the country beyond; or the rustlers.
And as we hadn’t lost any saddle band just then, we didn’t care to mix
in.”
“As near as I can figure out, Frank, it was that night, or the one
before, when the raid was made on that Cibiou Creek ranch. And the more
I think of it, the firmer grows my conviction that over beyond Thunder
Mountain somewhere Mendoza has his hidden corral, in some lost valley
none of us know anything about!”
“Just as you say, dad, the chances look that way,” Frank admitted. “And
if Circle Ranch meets with a loss any of these fine mornings, that’s
where we’ll have to look to recover our stock. It may come sooner than
any of us think. And dad, even if it’s the X—bar—X, or the Arrowhead,
that stands the next loss, don’t you think we’d all better sink our
differences, and unite against the common enemy?”
“I had made up my mind to that, Frank,” replied the stockman, firmly.
“The time for our fall round-up is now close at hand, and the way things
look we ought to make a good showing, unless something unforseen drops
down on us. They say we have the finest herds in the whole section; and
the branding before winter sets in ought to be the biggest ever.”
“Yes, and that’s just the reason we may be the next one to suffer at the
hands of Mendoza,” observed Frank. “They say he keeps tabs on all the
ranches, and even has many spies. In that way he knows about the
condition of the herds, and makes his plans so carefully that he never
was known to carry away anything but the very best.”
“What you say about spies has occurred to me more than once,” remarked
the rancher. “I’ve even thought it possible that he might have one of
his friends here. But it’s hard to suspect any of our boys, they’ve all
seemed so faithful. In the other days, now, there was Spanish Joe, and
his nephew, Abajo, both of whom I felt sure had communication with
Mendoza. I was glad to be rid of the greasers. Still, there may be some
one at Circle Ranch who sends word on the sly to the rustlers.”
“It would be a bad thing for him if the boys ever learned of his
treachery,” declared Bob.
“Yes, they’d either tar and feather him,” said Frank grimly, “or else
put it out of his power to send any more messages. But I hope it isn’t
so, dad. Just now, with such fine prospects before us, and, as you say,
the fall round-up at hand, we’ve got to be more watchful than usual over
our herds, that’s all.”
“And son,” Colonel Haywood said, in a convincing way, “I’ve made up my
mind that to-night’s the last one we’ll let our cattle stay away on the
range. We’ve got three big bunches out now, with two boys to act as
night wranglers for each herd, it’s true, but they’re miles away from
here. If anything swooped down on those steers, we mightn’t know it for
hours.”
Gradually the conversation took a different turn, and before the two
boys went in to sleep they had for the time being quite forgotten the
fears of the early evening.
By ten o’clock everything seemed quiet and peaceful around the ranch
house. Over where the punchers bunked one cowboy was playing a banjo,
and there was some little singing; but by degrees even this died away.
The moon sailed high overhead in a clear sky. Midnight came and went. A
touch of coolness in the air told of coming fall, though as a rule
winter was not a time to be much feared in this warm section of the
southwest, even if “northers” did blow in upon them occasionally, that
caught the herds on the range, and brought about some loss of stock.
Bob had been dreaming of his Kentucky home, as he often did. Perhaps
with some of his boyhood comrades he may have been visiting the “ole
swimmin’ hole,” and amid much whooping was engaged in one of the mud
battles that marked those visits. Then again, he may have dreamed that
he was once more climbing the tower of the church in the dead of night,
dispatched by his prank-loving companions to ring the bell, and startle
the village out of sleep.
He sat up in bed to find Frank shaking him. Yes, a bell was certainly
ringing furiously enough; but it belonged to no church.
“Get up, and fling some clothes on, Bob,” Frank was saying.
“What’s the matter? House afire?” gasped Bob, a little dazed still, even
as he started to follow the directions of his energetic chum.
“Don’t know,” replied the hurrying Frank; “but I hear dad shouting out
there. He’s rousing the boys—you can catch their whoops now!”
“Great guns! I wonder what it all means!” ejaculated Bob, shivering with
excitement.