THE CATTLE CACHE
Just as Bob had anticipated, it was found that the narrow pass served
somewhat as the neck of the bottle. Perhaps it was the only way whereby
cattle could enter or leave the secret valley lying between the several
spurs of the high ridge. By blocking this pass with rocks, as had
apparently been done, there was little chance of any wandering on the
part of the trapped herd.
The two boys had to clamber over these rocks. Bob could see that they
had recently been moved to the position they now occupied.
“I wonder how the old chap ever made it?” he murmured, as he went down
the other side of the barrier.
Frank chuckled, for it happened that just then his thoughts were roving
in exactly the same quarter that the words spoken by his chum would
indicate held Bob’s attention.
“Now, you’re thinking of Old Baldy, eh Bob?” he asked, softly.
“Just what I was,” replied the other.
“And wondering how he ever got over all those rocks when he escaped?”
Frank went on.
“He must have had wings to do it, that’s what, Frank.”
“Oh! shucks!” Frank remarked. “I don’t believe for a second the old
rascal ever went up over this barricade. Perhaps it didn’t happen to be
here at the time he flew the coop. Then, again, it might be the sharp
old chap found some other way of leaving the hidden valley, that even
the rustlers know nothing about.”
“I wouldn’t wonder, Frank,” said the other; “for he’s as wise as they
make ’em, I reckon.”
“No more at present, Bob,” cautioned Frank.
Having climbed over the barrier designed to block the neck of the valley
which had so long served Mendoza as a hiding place for his stolen stock,
the two lads followed Colonel Haywood and the cow punchers.
The broad stretch of moonlight had been left behind, and now they were
passing along through shadows again. Bob hardly knew when Scotty and his
mate joined the column, so silently did they appear. The first thing he
realized, some one was at the side of the stockman, and appeared to be
conferring with him in low tones as they moved along; and when they
chanced to pass through a patch of moonlight, he saw that it was Scotty.
Of course from this he understood that the sentry had been placed in a
condition where he could do no harm. Somewhere aloft there he was
undoubtedly lying, tied up like a mummy of the ancient pyramids, and
doubtless filled with wonder as to what had happened.
They seemed to be following what was evidently a path, partly made by
the hoofs of many cattle coming and going. Now it seemed to run along
over the plain side of the mountain; but occasionally it hugged the edge
of what appeared to be a sheer descent.
No doubt in the light of day this would have not been a dangerous route.
It was quite a different thing now, for the moon failed to be of any
assistance, owing to the lay of the land.
Bob was making his way along with more or less confidence, never
dreaming of sudden peril, for he had faith in his abilities as a
mountain climber. But it proved that, after all, he was not quite so
sure-footed as those who had been brought up to such work.
Bob always claimed that it was a pebble under his foot that caused him
to slip. He felt a thrill of alarm as he felt himself going, for a black
gulf lay on that side of him, and he could only guess how far he would
tumble if he went over.
He naturally made a convulsive effort to clutch some object that would
prevent his slipping beyond the edge upon which he was now perilously
balanced. And, queer as it might seem, when he looked back after it was
all over, Bob realized that he was really more concerned about the noise
his fall would make, thus betraying the presence of his comrades, than
what would happen to him personally.
Fortunately, Frank had been on the watch. He knew the Kentucky boy was
not quite so sure on his feet as the rest of them; and besides, Bob must
be more or less tired just then.
So when he heard that suspicious grating sound, which told of a stumble,
Frank turned instantly. His hand shot out and by the best of luck came
in contact with the extended rifle of Bob. There was a quick clutch, and
as Frank had braced himself for the little shock, he managed to hold the
other. And in another second Bob was once more back on the path,
trembling not a little, but safe.
“Whew! that was a bad job for me, Frank!” he gasped.
“It might have been worse,” came from his chum, rather dryly.
“I didn’t mean that, and you know it,” added Bob; “but the noise of that
piece of rock I kicked over the edge, what if it was heard by some of
the rustlers?”
“Not much danger, because you see they’re too far away from here.
Besides,” Frank continued, “such a thing wouldn’t alarm them. A rock may
roll down the side of a mountain like this at any time. It was only the
growling that came from the heart of Thunder Mountain that used to
rattle the Indians and cowboys.”
“But Frank, these rustlers didn’t used to mind it, did they?” asked Bob.
“I’ve been thinking that over,” his chum replied, “and I’ve come to the
conclusion that Mendoza must have found out the truth for himself long
ago, and knew about the big geyser that boiled up inside the mountain.”
“Then he and his men kept it a secret, all right,” Bob remarked, as he
followed close on the heels of Frank, the dangerous point having now
been passed by.
“It paid him to do that, don’t you see?” Frank went on. “So long as
Indians and ignorant prospectors, as well as cowboys, believed the place
to be haunted, he knew they would fight shy of Thunder Mountain, and his
valley ranch here wouldn’t be known. But the worm has turned at last;
and this is going to mark the end of the rustler’s secret cache.”
Once more Bob held his peace. He was interested in watching ahead, and
noting what seemed to be lights in the valley.
“Unless I miss my guess, they’re fires, too,” he said to himself. “And
when that one flamed up just then I sure saw what looked like a cabin
just back of it. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if that Mendoza has got a
regular little colony planted right here! This must be where he lives
when he isn’t out rustling cattle, and running off with the saddle bands
belonging to ranches. Talk about nerve, would you!”
Of course, as they advanced along the side of the valley, the sounds
that had come so faintly to their ears when beyond the barrier now grew
more positive. Cattle could be heard, trust the experienced ears of
cowboys for detecting their presence. Then, besides, voices sounded, as
men called out to one another; while the fellow who twanged the mandolin
persisted in his efforts to practice on the airs he possibly meant to
sing the next time he went courting down below the Mexican border.
That the rustlers had been in this place a long time, unsuspected by any
of the stockmen, or even the State authorities, Frank soon had positive
evidence.
“Say, what’s this mean?” asked Bob, as they came to what seemed to be a
barbed wire fence, six strands high.
“It’s a corral to keep the cattle in, at times, perhaps while the
branding is going on,” answered his chum, familiar with all such
devices.
“I wager then that Old Baldy broke through it,” Bob declared.
“I wouldn’t think that impossible, because he’s done it many a time in
the past,” Frank whispered in his turn. “But how did you guess it?”
“Because I noticed, Frank, that he was considerably torn along one of
his shoulders, and the marks looked fresh, just as barbed fencing always
jabs a steer,” went on the other.
“Good for you, Bob; glad you had your eyes about you that time,” Frank
said; for it always pleased him to find that his chum was observing
little things, such as serve as straws to show which way the wind blows.
“I wonder how many men there are in this place?” Bob continued, for he
was so filled with a desire to obtain information that he could not keep
from asking questions.
“No telling,” Frank replied; “but enough to give us a tussle in case we
have to get down to hard blows, which I hope we won’t. All we want is to
get back our stock.”
“But if the rustlers try to keep us from recovering the herd, what then,
Frank?”
“Trouble, and of the worst kind,” was the reply. “But between dad and
Scotty and Bart I reckon they’ll be able to manage things. We’ve got one
chap with his wings clipped right now; perhaps there may be others,
sooner or later.”
“You mean, take them prisoner?” asked Bob.
“That would be what my dad would want if he had his way. But all we have
to do is to lie low and obey orders. I’m ready to help as far as I can;
and I know you are too, Bob.”
“We seem to be creeping closer all the time,” remarked Bob.
“Yes, and for that reason, suppose we stop talking now. If it’s really
necessary you can whisper close to my ear; but better keep quiet all you
can,” said Frank; and his chum took the hint.
They could now easily make out the men as they walked back and forth, or
lounged in the camp. The several cabins and tents could also be plainly
seen, as the fires burned cheerfully, or the moon looked down on the
scene, mounting higher above the rim of the ridge to the east, fringed
with a straggling row of stunted trees.
Bob had never expected to be given a chance to look in on the camp of a
rustler band, and especially one so notorious as Pedro Mendoza’s. More
than once he rubbed his eyes as though suspecting that he might be
dreaming; but the voices of the men around the fires, the clashing of
long-horned cattle near by, and the picture of the cabins still remained
to prove the truth, and show him that it was real.