GUS HEARS FROM HOME.
Gus spent the two days following his arrival at the rancho in resting;
and even at the end of that time he had not fully recovered from the
effects of his long, hard ride on horseback. He and Ned passed the time
in roaming about the house and grounds, and at every turn Gus found
something to interest him. The rancho and everything about it, Uncle
John’s manner of living, the appearance, customs and language of the men
he met every day—all these were new to Gus, who could have enjoyed
himself hugely now if it had not been for two disagreeable reflections
which constantly intruded upon him in spite of all he could do to keep
them out of his mind. There were cattle-thieves in that country who made
a practice of shooting everybody who came in their way, and they had
been in that very house not a great while ago. They might come again at
any moment, and there might be another fight—and Gus did not like to
think of that. He would have been safer in his father’s store than he
was in that country, but would he ever be permitted to return to that
store after what he had done? On the whole he was sorry that he had come
to Texas, and Ned was almost sorry that he had invited him, for Gus
didn’t act and talk like the boy he had known in Foxboro’. He was not so
jolly and full of life as he used to be.
Mr. Ackerman never asked the visitor if he had left home with his
father’s full and free consent. He, no doubt, took it for granted that
Gus had talked the matter over with Mr. Robbins, and so said nothing
about it. This relieved Ned of a burden of anxiety, and another thing
that pleased him was the fact that Gus never asked any questions
concerning the hunting adventure which Ned had so graphically described
in his first letter.
During these two days nothing was heard of the missing George. The
herdsman who had been sent out to make inquiries among the neighbors
brought back the information that he had not been able to find any
traces of him, and that seemed to settle the matter, so far as Uncle
John and Ned were concerned. The two boys seldom spoke of him. They had
more important matters to occupy their attention. They talked over old
times to their hearts’ content, and Ned told Gus everything of interest
that had happened to him since he came to Texas. The story of the stolen
horse and the description of Philip’s strange conduct on the night of
the fight were so incredible that Gus wouldn’t believe a word until he
had seen the bullet holes in the manger and the lumber pile behind the
shed had been torn down so that he could see the gold-mounted saddle and
bridle. Then he looked bewildered, and, contrary to Ned’s expectation,
could suggest nothing more than he had already thought of himself.
“You ought to have given the horse up when the owner came for him,” said
he. “You would have made something handsome by it probably.”
“I know that as well as you do,” replied Ned. “But seeing I didn’t do
it, how am I going to get myself out of the scrape?”
“I don’t see that you are in any scrape. How far does the man who owns
the horse live from here?”
“Fifty or sixty miles.”
“Did you ever see him before that night?”
“I never did.”
“Well, comfort yourself with the thought that you may never see him
again. There’s nothing to bring him back here.”
“O, yes there is. Didn’t I tell you that he and his companion rode off
two of father’s horses? Of course they must bring them back. It isn’t a
safe piece of business in this country, I tell you, for a man to keep a
horse that doesn’t belong to him. The people won’t allow it.”
“And you knew this all the while, and yet held fast to that stolen
horse!” said Gus.
“Now, look here,” exclaimed Ned, angrily, “I know that I was a
blockhead. I was bound to keep the horse, and didn’t stop to think of
the consequences. When I had a chance to give him up I did not dare do
it, for fear that the owner would do something to me before I could
explain matters to him.”
“Well, the horse is gone now, and you are all right. If you are afraid
to meet those men, keep your eyes open and dig out when they come back
with your father’s horses.”
“But suppose that while I am gone Philip should take it into his head to
tell them that I had the horse in my possession when they were here
before, and wouldn’t give him up?”
“If he does that, tell your father that he was the one who let the
raiders into the house.”
“Now, what earthly good would that do me? Would it get me out of the
scrape?”
“No; but you would have the satisfaction of knowing that you had repaid
Philip by getting him into just as much trouble as he got you into.”
“But that isn’t what I want. I want to clear myself, and I don’t know
how to do it.”
“I don’t know either. You’ll have to trust to luck.”
“I’d rather trust to anything else in the world. Luck never served me a
good turn yet.”
“You said your father discharged the old cook because you asked him,
didn’t you? Very well; ask him to discharge Philip. You had better get
him away from here as soon as you can. I judge from what you say, that
he had made up his mind to have that safe in your father’s office, and
the first thing you know he’ll bring men enough here to take it. He’s
not a safe person to have about.”
Ned was very well aware of that fact, but still he could see no way of
getting rid of him without rendering himself liable to exposure, and
neither could Gus. As often as they discussed the matter, they arrived
at this conclusion: that Philip was there in the rancho; that he meant
to stay there; and that Ned could not have him discharged without
getting himself into serious trouble. One would suppose, that while this
state of affairs continued, there would be no such thing as pleasure for
Ned. He never did see a moment’s peace while he was awake, but those
around him did not know it. He seemed to be enjoying himself to the
fullest extent.
On the third day, Gus began to feel a little more like himself, and when
Ned proposed a short gallop to get up an appetite for dinner, the
visitor did not object. The first thing was to select a gentle horse for
his use; for the one he had ridden from Palos was a borrowed animal, and
must be returned in good order, at the very first opportunity. Ned made
the selection for him, and then went with him into the store-room to
pick out a saddle and bridle. As they came out into the hall, a horseman
drew up beside the porch long enough to throw a letter at them, after
which he turned about and galloped back in the direction from which he
had come. This was the only way in which the neighboring ranchemen and
farmers would have anything to do with Uncle John. They inquired for his
mail when they went to Palos, and brought it to him, if there chanced to
be any, but they did it simply as an act of courtesy, just as they had
banded together and pursued the raiders in the hope of recovering the
stock they had stolen from him. They did not ask Uncle John to join them
in the pursuit, and when they brought him his mail they never visited
with him or stopped to hold conversation, as they did with their other
neighbors.
Gus picked up the letter and handed it to Ned, who, after glancing at
the name on the envelope passed it back to his companion. The letter was
addressed to him in care of Uncle John. The visitor’s face grew red and
pale by turns, as he looked at his father’s well-known writing.
“Sam Holmes has blowed the whole business!” he exclaimed, as soon as he
could speak.
“Well, you expected it, didn’t you?” returned Ned. “What do you care for
Sam Holmes now? You are out of his reach and your father’s too. Why
don’t you read the letter?”
Gus didn’t want to read it—that was the reason. It took him by surprise,
for it was something he did not expect to receive. In accordance with
Ned’s suggestion, however, he tore open the envelope, and ran his eye
hastily over the few lines the letter contained.
“Well, I call that pretty cool!” he exclaimed.
“Any objections to telling what they say?” asked Ned.
“None whatever. Read it for yourself, and read it aloud, so that I may
be sure I have made no mistake.”
Ned took the letter and read as follows:—
* * * * *
“MY DEAR BOY:—I learn that you have gone to Texas, to visit Ned
Ackerman. I am sorry you thought it best to leave us without saying
good-by, for if we had known that you were resolved to go, we should
have given you all the aid in our power. I am sorry, too, that you went
when you did, for we had anticipated much pleasure in your company
during our summer’s visit to the trout streams of the Adirondacks. If
you think you would like to come home when your visit is ended, I will
send you the necessary funds. I do not suppose Mr. Ackerman will care to
pay your expenses both ways. Your mother and I would be glad to hear
from you as often as you may feel in the humor to write. I have paid all
your debts.”
Ned was very much astonished, and went over the letter twice, to make
sure that he had read it aright.
“What do you think of it?” demanded Gus.
“It _is_ cool, that’s a fact,” answered Ned, who did not know what else
to say; “very cool!”
“It’s—it’s impudent!” exclaimed Gus, angrily; “downright insulting! Now,
isn’t he a pretty father for a fellow to have!” he added, snatching the
letter from Ned’s hand. “Just listen to this: ‘If we had known that you
were resolved to go, we should have given you all the aid in our power;’
and ‘_if_ you think you would like to come home when your visit is
ended!’ He might as well say that if I don’t want to return, I can stay
away and welcome!”
“It seems that the rest of them are going to the Adirondacks,” said Ned.
“You know you always wanted to go there.”
“That’s just what provokes me!” cried Gus, thrashing his boots angrily
with his riding-whip, as he walked up and down the porch. “Of course, I
always wanted to go there. I have tried more than once to induce father
to consent, but he wouldn’t do it. He treated me like a dog and drove me
away from home, and now he coolly informs me that he’s going
trout-fishing this summer! I hope he’ll catch a whale, and that the
whale will smash his old boat into kindling-wood, and tumble him out
into the water!”
This remark showed Gus to be possessed of so mean and paltry a spirit,
and the wish expressed in it was so perfectly ridiculous, that Ned burst
into a loud laugh. He could not help it. Gus looked sharply at him for a
moment, and continued his walk up and down the porch, whipping his boots
at every step. He was greatly amazed, as every young fellow is, when he
learns for the first time that he is not an absolute necessity, and that
the world will wag just as well without him as it will with him. Gus
thought, of course, that his parents were very much distressed over what
he had done, and that the letter was written to urge him to return at
once and relieve their suspense; but, instead of that, his father seemed
to take the matter very coolly, and did not even give up his
contemplated trip to the mountains, because Gus was not there to take
part in it.
“I’ll never go back!” declared the boy, flourishing his whip in the air.
“I’ll stay here until you get tired of keeping me, and then I’ll go to
work at something—I don’t care what it is—so long as I don’t have to
sell dry-goods!”
“I wish that letter had been lost on the way,” said Ned, “for it has
taken all the spirit out of you. You were bright and lively this
morning, and were beginning to act like the Gus Robbins I used to know
in Foxboro’.”
“I’m the same fellow now!” said Gus, tearing the letter into the
smallest possible fragments, and throwing them over the railing for the
wind to carry away. “Let’s go somewhere and do something!”
The boys mounted their horses, which were standing, saddled and bridled,
at the foot of the stairs, and rode away; but the gloom which had been
thrown over their spirits went with them, and the letter was the only
thing they could talk about. Gus could not forget that trouting
excursion to the Adirondacks. He had longed and hoped for that as he had
never longed and hoped for anything else, and it was very provoking to
know that it was to take place now, after he had put it out of his power
to enjoy it. He would have done a year’s hard work in the store and
given up his Texas scheme for it very gladly. He didn’t care for horses,
guns or dogs; but he was an enthusiastic fisherman, and nothing suited
him better than to get away by himself, and wander up and down the banks
of some retired stream, in which the pools were deep and the speckled
beauties abundant. But all his chances for such sport were gone
now—lost, too, by a deliberate act of his own—and Gus felt angry at
himself when he thought about it.
“Then don’t think about it at all,” said Ned, as Gus gave utterance to
the thoughts that were passing through his mind. “Think about something
more agreeable. Give up all idea of ever going back to Foxboro’!”
“O, I have given it up!” said Gus. “But it provokes me almost beyond
measure when I think——”
He finished the sentence by shaking his riding-whip in the air.
“That they can be happy and lay plans for their amusement when you are
not there; eh, Gus?” said Ned. “I know right where the shoe pinches.
Stay here, and we’ll make money by raising wheat. Do you see that field
over there? That’s mine!”
“I saw it some time ago,” answered Gus, “but I thought it was a pasture
that somebody had fenced in. I see some cattle in it.”
“In my wheat field!” cried Ned, with great indignation. “Where? So do
I!” he added, after he had run his eye along the fence.
Ned put his horse into a gallop and rode toward the field at the top of
his speed, his companion following closely behind. As they drew nearer
they saw that there was a wide gap in the fence, that the field looked
as though somebody’s cattle had used it regularly for a pasture, and
that some of the animals that had caused the mischief were in the
enclosure now. As they drew rein at the gap and looked over the
desolated field the cattle shook their heads as if they were indignant
at the interruption, and went off toward the opposite fence in a gallop.
“What wild-looking fellows!” exclaimed Gus. “I should think you would be
afraid to go near them.”
“They are wild, too,” replied Ned. “They’d just as soon go for us as not
if we were on foot, but they’ll not trouble us so long as we are in the
saddle. But just look at this wheat! It’s ruined, isn’t it?”
“I am no farmer,” returned his companion.
“It doesn’t need a farmer to tell whether or not there is any wheat
here, does it?” cried Ned angrily.
“Can’t you make the man who owns the cattle pay damages?”
“No; you can’t collect a cent. That thing has been tried.”
“Then shoot the cattle!”
“I’d do it in a minute if I wasn’t afraid. You remember the story of
that neighborhood row I told you last night, don’t you?”
“Yes; and if I were in your place I’d raise another. There’s nobody in
sight, and how is the owner of the cattle going to know who did the
shooting? Knock one of ‘em over! I dare you to do it!”
Ned hesitated. He had talked bravely enough, when in the presence of his
cousin, about doing this very thing, but since that time he had seen a
fight, had heard the reports of firearms and the yells of excited and
angry men, and thought he had some faint conception of the scenes that
had been enacted during that neighborhood row, and which would, no
doubt, be repeated if another should arise. But here was his fine field
of wheat so nearly destroyed that it would not pay for the harvesting;
within easy rifle shot of him were some of the cattle which had done the
mischief and which probably belonged to one of the neighbors who
wouldn’t visit with him or his father because they wore good clothes and
claimed to be gentlemen; and there was no one in sight.
“Knock one of them over,” repeated Gus, “and perhaps it will teach their
owner to keep his stock out of the way of your field, the next time you
plant wheat in it. Hand me your gun, and I’ll show you that I am Gus
Robbins yet, and not afraid to do anything.”
The boy leaned forward in his saddle as he said this, and taking the
rifle out of his friend’s grasp, rode toward the cattle (there were
probably a dozen of them in all) which were dashing along the fence and
trampling down the wheat that had escaped destruction during their
former raids. As Gus approached them, they charged in a body in the
direction of the gap; but instead of going through it they ran on by,
kicking up their heels and shaking their heads as if they enjoyed the
sport. While Ned galloped through the field to head them off, Gus
dismounted, and taking his stand near the gap, cocked the rifle in
readiness to shoot one of the herd the next time they went by.
Ned succeeded in turning the cattle after a short race, and, as before,
they took no notice of the gap, but dashed by it and started for another
gallop around the field. At that moment the rifle cracked, and one of
the finest steers in the herd threw his head and tail higher in the air,
galloped faster for a short distance, then sank to his knees and rolled
over on his side. By the merest chance, Gus had sent a bullet smaller
than a buckshot into some vital part, and there was one less steer in
somebody’s herd to break down fences and destroy wheat crops.
“What do you think of that?” cried Gus, in great glee.
“It was a splendid shot,” replied Ned, who just then rode up and
extended his hand for the rifle. “You did it, didn’t you? Since we have
begun the work, we’ll do it up in shape. If they won’t go out they can
stay in; but they’ll stay dead!”
The horse that Gus rode, having been broken to stand fire, was not at
all alarmed by the report of the rifle. He allowed the boy to catch and
mount him again, and by the time he was fairly in the saddle, Ned had
placed a fresh cartridge in his rifle. “You head them off and drive them
back,” said he, “and I’ll wait here at the gap to salute them as they go
by.”
In accordance with this request Gus rode off, and in a few minutes the
herd came dashing along the fence again. They must have been growing
tired of the sport by this time, for they headed straight for the gap,
and all got through; but one of them carried a bullet somewhere in his
body, the effects of which very soon became apparent. The rest of the
herd began to leave him behind, and when he followed them over a ridge,
which lay about a quarter of a mile from the field, he was staggering
about as if he could scarcely keep his feet.
While the work of driving the cattle out of the field was in progress, a
horseman appeared on the ridge of which we have spoken, riding slowly
along, with his eyes fastened on the ground, as if he were following a
trail. Just as he reached the top, he heard the report of a rifle, and
looked up to discover that the cattle of which he was in search, were
running about a wheat field, and that two persons were engaged in
shooting them down. One of the cattle fell just as he raised his eyes.
When he saw this, he placed his hand on one of the revolvers he carried
in his belt, and seemed on the point of dashing forward to take
satisfaction for the loss he had sustained; but he evidently thought
better of it a moment later, for he backed his horse down the swell
until nothing but his own head could be seen over it, and there he sat
and saw all that Ned and Gus did. When the wounded steer came over the
swell, staggering from the effects of the bullet Ned had shot into him,
the man shook his clenched hand in the direction of the wheat field,
muttered something to himself, and galloped off in pursuit of the
uninjured cattle, leaving the wounded one to take care of himself.
“There!” exclaimed Ned, when the laggard of the drove had disappeared
over the swell, “it’s done, and I am glad of it. If the owner of those
cattle finds out that we did it and has anything to say about it, I
shall tell him that this is my land—it may be mine some day, you know,
and before long, too—and that no cattle except my own have any right on
it.”
“I wish that steer had got over the fence before he died,” said Gus.
The boys seemed to be highly elated over what they had done. They had
performed the same feat which, not so very many months ago, had set the
whole settlement together by the ears, and no one was the wiser for it.
Of course some rancheman would some day find out that one of his fattest
steers had been killed and another badly wounded, but how was he going
to find out who did the shooting? Ned fully expected that there would be
trouble about it; that there would be threats and inquiries made, and
that he and Gus, being safe from discovery, would have many a hearty
laugh in secret over the storm they had raised.
“Remember one thing,” said he. “No matter what is said or done, we don’t
know anything about it. They can’t crowd us into a corner tight enough
to make us own up. That would only make matters worse.”
Gus readily agreed to this, and the boys shook hands on it. In order to
make assurance doubly sure they rode around the rancho and approached
it, just at dark, from a direction opposite to that they had taken when
they rode away from it in the morning. When the events of the afternoon
became known nobody could fasten the guilt upon them by saying that they
had been seen coming from the direction of the wheat field. They found
supper waiting for them, and when they had eaten it they went into the
office to spend the evening in reading and conversation.
While they were thus engaged inside the house, a proceeding which looks
strange at the first glance, but which will be plain enough when all the
circumstances connected with it are known, was going on outside of it. A
horseman, who was riding rapidly along the road toward the rancho,
turned off just before he reached it, and made his way to the corral
that was located a short distance to the right of the shed in which Ned
had taken refuge on the night of the fight. He stopped in front of the
gate and uttered an exclamation of disappointment when he found that it
was secured by a heavy padlock. After looking about him for a moment, as
if he were turning some problem over in his mind, he dismounted, pulled
the bridle over his horse’s head and hung it upon the horn of the
saddle; whereupon the animal turned and galloped toward a
watering-trough a short distance away, where he was joined by a small,
dark-colored mule which had followed the horseman down the trail. The
horseman himself moved toward the house, pausing every now and then to
listen and reconnoiter the ground before him, and presently reached the
steps leading to the porch. These he mounted with cautious tread, and
was about to place his hand upon the door when it was suddenly opened
from the inside, a flood of light streamed out into the darkness, and
the horseman was confronted by a stalwart herdsman who started back in
surprise at the sight of him.
Arresting by a hasty gesture the cry of amazement that arose to the
herdsman’s lips, the visitor stepped into the hall, and, closing the
door behind him, uttered a few short, quick sentences in a low tone of
voice which the other received with subdued ejaculations of wonder. When
he ceased speaking the herdsman hastened away, and the visitor, who
seemed to be perfectly familiar with the internal arrangements of the
house, moved quickly along the hall, turning several corners, and
finally opening a door which gave entrance into Mr. Ackerman’s office.
There was a happy party gathered in that office, if one might judge by
the ringing peal of laughter which echoed through the hall, when the
door was opened; but it was quickly checked at the sight of the boy who
entered as though he had a perfect right to be there, and whose
appearance was so sudden and unexpected that it brought two of the three
persons in the room to their feet in an instant.
“Why, George!” they both cried in a breath—and a quick ear would have
discovered that there was more surprise than cordiality in their
tones—“Is this you? Where in the world have you been so long? We have
been worried to death about you!”
“Yes it is I,” answered George Ackerman, for he it was. “I have come
back safe and sound, and that is all I can say to you now about myself.
I want to talk to you about yourselves, and especially to you Ned. By
the way, I suppose this is the friend from Foxboro’ whom you have so
long been expecting.”
Ned replied that it was, but he forgot to introduce the two boys to each
other, and so did Uncle John. There was something about George that made
them forget it. When they came to look at him they saw that he was very
much excited, and that his face wore an expression they had never seen
there before. They could not tell whether he was frightened or troubled.
“Why, George!” exclaimed Uncle John, in some alarm. “What is the matter?
Any bad news? Are the Indians or Mexicans——”
“Yes, I have bad news,” interrupted George, almost impatiently, “and but
little time to tell it in. Ned, you and your friend must pack up and
leave this rancho, and this county, too, without the loss of an hour’s
time. You are in danger, and I have placed myself in danger by coming
here to tell you of it!”
The boy’s words produced the utmost surprise and consternation among
those who listened to them.