STARTLING NEWS
“It promises to be a bully day for the round-up, Frank!” remarked Bob,
just forty-eight hours after the morning that saw them near the foot of
the Thunder Mountain Ridge, and driving the recovered herd homeward,
after rescuing it from the cattle rustlers of the dreaded Mendoza.
“Just what it does,” replied his chum, who was sitting on his buckskin
pony, and looking out to where a band of punchers were circling around
the first bunch of cattle that would require attention.
Colonel Haywood had been hearing from the neighboring ranches ever since
they reached home. In a side corral he had all the cattle taken from the
rustlers, outside of those which he recognized as his own property. Here
the other stockmen tried to pick out certain steers and cows which had
been stolen from them recently.
The original brands had been destroyed, and a new one burned on the
flanks of the animals. Evidently these steers had been intended for
shipping at the first favorable opportunity for reaching the railroad,
on the part of the rustlers.
By degrees two-thirds of the recovered stock had been claimed. The
balance was likely to remain in the hands of the Circle Ranch people,
since there was no means of identifying it.
Having made all his arrangements for the Fall round-up, Colonel Haywood
did not allow such a little matter as his encounter with the rustler
band to disturb his well laid plans.
So this fine morning every cowboy employed on the ranch, as well as some
borrowed from friendly neighbors, such as the Arrowhead over on the
creek, were hard at work, bringing in cattle to be looked over, the
brands renewed in cases where they had become unsightly; and the
youngsters that had grown to a considerable size taken in hand for the
first time, and marked with the big circle.
Since a full day had elapsed after their arrival in safety at the ranch,
the two saddle boys had fully recovered from their fatigue. A couple of
good nights’ sleep had also done much toward making them feel as
“chipper as ever,” as Bob expressed it.
“Will they get it all through with in one day?” asked the Kentucky boy,
laughing at the antics of some of the wild riders who were rushing back
and forth on all sides of the herd, and showing their wonderful skill in
the saddle.
There were riders in the Circle outfit who had few equals, when it came
to carrying out the many difficult feats whereby cowboys delight to
prove their claim to being better riders than even the famous Russian
Cossacks. They could do the most astonishing tricks while galloping at
full speed over the plain. And Bob, though brought up in an atmosphere
where fine horses were bred, the Blue Grass region of Kentucky,
despaired of ever equalling the records of some of these expert and
reckless punchers.
“Dad says it will take all of two, and maybe more,” replied Frank. “You
see, some of the herds are a long ways off. And then you’d never imagine
the trouble an old steer gives, once in a while, when it’s necessary to
renew his brand. I’ve seen half a dozen boys at their wits’ ends to down
a tough old chap; though they always get him, sooner or later. But it
takes time.”
“Old Baldy is with that lot, Frank; I’m sure I can tell him from here,
leading them all, like a proud general.”
“Yes, that’s Baldy, sure. And no need of him worrying about his feed
after this. Every cowboy on the range is proud of the way that old
rascal found his way out of the Lost Valley. Why, just think how much we
owe him. Only for his leaving a marked trail up to the second gateway
we’d still have part of our herd cooped up there, and a big job to dig a
passage through those tumble-down rocks to get ’em out.”
“Say, Frank, what do you think? I dreamed last night that I found it!”
“I suppose now you’re talking of that wonderful hunting knife you lost
nearly a week back?” remarked the other, smiling.
“Just that,” Bob went on.
“And where was it, in your dream?” continued Frank.
“Where do you suppose, Frank?”
“Well, if you’re going to get me guessing, the first place I’d think
about would be the spot where you cut up that deer, under the twin
cotton-woods. How is that for a starter, Bob?”
“You made a bulls-eye of it that time, because that’s just where I
thought I found the old blade!” Bob exclaimed.
“H’m, lying on the ground, and perhaps half hidden under the grass or
trash, eh?” his chum continued.
“That’s where you missed fire. Where else but sticking in the trunk of
that tree, just where the first crotch lies. But Frank, try as I will, I
just can’t remember ever putting it there.”
“Which doesn’t prove anything,” his chum went on to say with decision.
“Sometimes, you know, we do things mechanically, and without thinking.”
“Yes, just as a fellow will work his pump-gun, after firing a round. It
may be so, Frank. And if it wasn’t that I want to see everything that
goes on at the grand round-up here, I’d ask you to ride with me over the
plain to where we got that deer.”
“Well, I would have to decline, all the same, Bob; because I’m wanted
here, and so are you. Another time will have to do. If it’s true that
the knife is there, I reckon it won’t run away inside of another couple
of days or so.”
“Perhaps not,” replied Bob, a little dejectedly it is true; for the
longer the missing article eluded his search the greater grew his desire
to find it again.
They were soon in the thick of the work. Frank was given opportunities
to show how he could throw the rope, and bring a steer down. Bob, too,
took a chance; and as he had been practicing diligently since his last
public attempt, he “did himself proud,” as he expressed it; actually
roping a big steer, and throwing the beast in a way that brought out a
round of cheers from Frank and the boys.
Then Bob also assisted with the branding. The afternoon found them still
at it. With hundreds of cattle to be looked over, considerable time was
required to accomplish a clean sweep.
Colonel Haywood found much cause for satisfaction. His herds had
increased even more than his best record; and doubtless the next few
shipments would be banner ones for Circle Ranch.
Then again, the fact that he had not only recovered his missing herd,
but driven the rustlers out of their long secret lair, was another cause
for congratulation.
On the preceding day a couple of cowboys had been sent back over the
trail, with instructions to leave their horses at the foot of the
mountain ridge, and on foot follow the tracks left by the escaping herd,
passing into the valley by way of the new gateway.
They were to look there for the horses of the rustlers, which it was
believed must have been abandoned at the time of their flight; and
should these be found they would become the property of Circle Ranch as
spoils of war.
The afternoon was fairly well along when the two saddle boys, being
tired of the sights and sounds marking the grand round-up, decided to
gallop a few miles away over the plain.
“There’s a lone pilgrim heading this way, Frank; and he’s on foot too,
which I take it is some queer out in this country,” Bob remarked,
pointing as he spoke.
“Oh! I don’t know,” his comrade said, “because sometimes Indians don’t
all happen to be riders like the Apaches and Comanches, you know.”
“Is that an Indian, then?” asked Bob.
“It sure is, or my eyes deceive me,” Frank went on; “and what’s more,
perhaps we happen to know him, too.”
“Do you mean Havasupai, the old Moqui, Frank?”
“That man walks like him,” the prairie boy continued; “and see, he’s
making gestures to us right now. I guess he’s recognized us all right.
Trust an Indian’s eyes for knowing a friend as far as he can see him.”
“But the last we saw of Havasupai was up there in the valley, when he
shut the door of the rustlers’ bunk-house, just when he knew every
man-jack of ’em was asleep! To tell the honest truth, I had clean forgot
all about the old fellow after that.”
“Well, I didn’t forget him,” Frank remarked; “but he never showed up
again, and I had to come away without seeing him. I reckoned he didn’t
want Mendoza to know he had played him false. You see, the old Moqui was
awfully anxious to learn where his daughter, the Antelope, was. It seems
that the rustler married the Moqui girl, and has her hidden away
somewhere.”
“Yes, I heard him say she was down in Mexico,” Bob declared. “It struck
me that Havasupai must imagine the girl is being badly treated, and he
wants to recover her again. Do you think I’m near the truth there,
Frank?”
“I certainly do,” answered the other, as he swung around, and started
his horse on an easy lope toward the on coming figure.
Already Bob saw that it was certainly the old Moqui. They had met
Havasupai first of all up in the region of the Grand Canyon of the
Colorado, as has been mentioned in an earlier volume of this series. And
his actions in the Lost Valley had proven beyond all question that the
Moqui wished to retain their friendship.
“Dad will be glad to see him,” Frank remarked, as they drew rapidly
nearer the figure of the weary walker. “He said he meant to help the old
man recover his child, if it was possible. And I heard him even asking
several of those other stockmen if they knew anything about Antelope.”
“Oh! I hope he came across a clue, then,” Bob remarked; “because it must
be hard on the old chap, being exiled from his village, and losing his
only child.”
“Dad says that the old warrior can stay around Circle Ranch as long as
he wants,” Frank went on to say; “he will always have his three meals a
day, and little to do. Perhaps he’s on his way there right now. He might
happen to know something of what his son-in-law is meaning to do.”
Presently they drew up with a flourish alongside the old Moqui, who
allowed a faint smile of welcome to creep over his wrinkled and bronzed
face at sight of the two lads he had come to care for more than a
little.
“How! Havasupai! what cheer?” cried Bob, reaching down to shake hands.
“We hope you’re on your way to the ranch, Chief,” Frank said, a little
more seriously; “because my father, the Colonel, wants to see you, and
tell you something about the one you are hunting. Will you take a seat
here behind me, and ride?”
“It will be as well if Havasupai can meet the big chief soon,” replied
the old Moqui, gravely, as he accepted Frank’s hand, and for a man of
his years deftly climbed to the withers of the buckskin pony, that
pranced about, as though not satisfied at the prospect of carrying
double.
“Have you any news to take him—word of the White Wolf?” asked Frank,
referring to the rustler leader after the fashion in which the Moqui
himself had addressed him.
“He has left the band, and turned back, filled with hatred for those who
took his cattle out of the valley. Even now he may be there at the
ranch, with a double face, meaning to have revenge by burning the teepee
of the white man or poisoning the spring where the long-horns drink.”
Frank and Bob stared at each other when the old Moqui said this.
“We must make for home on the jump, Bob!” exclaimed the stockman’s son,
as he dug his heels into the sides of his pony, and headed along the
back trail, followed by his alarmed chum.