[Illustration: THE CROWD WATCHED THE POLICEMEN]
The Rambler Club on
the Texas Border
BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD
AUTHOR OF
“THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S WINTER CAMP”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S AEROPLANE”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S HOUSEBOAT,” etc.
Illustrated by the Author
[Illustration]
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMXV
COPYRIGHT
1915 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
[Illustration]
The Rambler Club on the Texas Border
Introduction
The members of the Rambler Club of Kingswood, Wisconsin,--Bob Somers,
Dave Brandon, Tom Clifton, Dick Travers and Sam Randall,--have taken
advantage of an opportunity to visit the state of Texas. Shortly after
their arrival, Cranny Beaumont, an old-time friend, comes on to pay
them a visit. And whenever Cranny is around adventures and excitement
of some sort always seem to follow.
The crowd is thrown a great deal in the company of the Texas Rangers,
the “policemen of the plains,” who have many achievements to their
credit in the suppression of lawlessness along the border and elsewhere
in the Lone Star State.
Four of the lads, in the company of two travelers, cross the famous Rio
Grande del Norte and enter Mexico, which at this time is shaken by some
of the most troublous events in all of its stormy and eventful history.
In a little frontier town they meet a newspaper man and a mysterious
young pianist, and through a peculiar combination of circumstances are
plunged into the midst of a series of thrilling adventures.
What happens to the pianist and how a certain event plays a very
important part in the career of Cranny Beaumont is related in this
story.
Other books telling of the adventures of the club are:
“The Rambler Club Afloat,” “The Rambler Club’s Winter Camp,” “The
Rambler Club in the Mountains,” “The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch,”
“The Rambler Club Among the Lumberjacks,” “The Rambler Club’s Gold
Mine,” “The Rambler Club’s Aeroplane,” “The Rambler Club’s Houseboat,”
“The Rambler Club’s Motor Car,” “The Rambler Club’s Ball Nine,” “The
Rambler Club’s Football Team,” “The Rambler Club With the Northwest
Mounted,” “The Rambler Club’s Motor Yacht.”
Contents
I. CRANNY 9
II. MACHINE GUNS 21
III. THE RANGERS 33
IV. THE INVADERS 46
V. NEW FRIENDS 53
VI. IN THE SADDLE 65
VII. SCOUTING 77
VIII. IN MEXICO 89
IX. A LONE HORSEMAN 99
X. MOVING PICTURES 108
XI. SOLDIERS 117
XII. RIFLE SHOTS 129
XIII. THE STORM BREAKS 134
XIV. THE STAMPEDE 148
XV. THE FIGHT 154
XVI. A WILD RACE 167
XVII. A NIGHT IN THE OPEN 174
XVIII. ON THE TRACK OF “RUSTLERS” 186
XIX. CAPTURED BY COWBOYS 204
XX. UNDER FIRE 223
XXI. THE FUSILLADE 238
XXII. KIDNAPPING JIMMY 257
XXIII. SAFE AGAIN IN TEXAS 273
XXIV. JIMMY GETS BACK 289
XXV. CAPTURING THE “RUSTLERS” 307
XXVI. GOOD-BYE TO THE RANGERS 315
Illustrations
PAGE
THE CROWD WATCHED THE POLICEMEN _Frontispiece_
“INTO THE SADDLE, BOYS!” 73
ONCE MORE HE TURNED 149
“OWN UP--NOW!” 206
SILENTLY THE LADS OBSERVED THEM 261
The Rambler Club on the Texas Border
CHAPTER I
CRANNY
“Honestly, fellows, I can hardly keep from shouting hip, hip,
hurrah--rah, rah, rah, all the time. Just think, here we are, out for
adventure. Yes, I’ve got to let it go. Rah, rah, rah for the Ramblers,
and ditto for the Texas Rangers!”
It was a big, husky-looking chap who uttered this rapid flow of words,
and the shout which ended his sentence rang through the spacious square
room of the ranch-house so lustily that his hearers, a crowd of six
boys and two men, broke into a storm of laughter.
The shining eyes of Cranny Beaumont, once of Kingswood, Wisconsin,
and later of Tacoma, Washington, would have told of his delight and
exuberant spirits without this corroborative evidence. And his
companions, or at least the boys, looked just as happy as he.
The Rambler Club and Cranny Beaumont, the impetuous, the reckless, the
daring but always rollicking, light-hearted lad, were once more in each
other’s company and eager for the adventurous life which they hoped
would be theirs for a few weeks to come.
It was rather an odd assortment of boys and men which lounged
informally about the room. Beside the five Ramblers,--Bob Somers,
Dave Brandon, Tom Clifton, Dick Travers, Sam Randall and their friend
Don Stratton, the son of a New Orleans financier,--there were present
Sergeant Robson Howell and Private Carl Alvin of the Ranger force at
Texas.
Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton were easily the most conspicuous members
of the club. The former, stout, round-faced, with twinkling eyes that
betrayed a wealth of good humor, was an excellent foil to the tall,
active Tom, whose shoulders, now broadening out, gave him quite the
appearance of a formidable athlete.
All the lads with the exception of Don Stratton showed the beneficial
effects of outdoor life. Clear skins, cheeks flushed with the ruddy hue
of health, and keen steady eyes stamped each with an air of vigor and
strength.
Cranny Beaumont hadn’t lived out in the open as much as his friends,
but to none did that life hold a stronger appeal. As he ceased pacing
the floor, to come to a halt before the window, his eyes rested upon
two brown-patched mustangs tethered to hitching-posts near the broad
flight of steps which led to the entrance. To him these restless,
stamping animals, surcharged with life, dynamic with force and energy,
seemed fairly to breathe the spirit of the plains. In his mind’s eye he
could see those vast reaches, the great herds of cattle roaming over
them and the cowboys on their lonely rounds. It was a pleasant picture
to contemplate, even though it loomed only in the shadowy depths of his
imagination, and a loud whoop almost involuntarily escaped his lips.
“I suppose that means a contented spirit,” remarked Sergeant Howell
with a grin.
“I should say so,” gurgled Cranny. “Now, fellows----”
“Look here, let’s get down to business,” interrupted Tom Clifton, in
a voice which almost possessed the depth and gruffness of the burly
sergeant’s. “Fire away, Cranny. You know----”
“I know that I don’t know a whole lot of things about your last trip,”
said the Tacoma lad, with a shake of his head. “Go ahead, somebody. I’m
listening.”
When Cranny Beaumont spoke in a certain tone and squared his jaw there
was generally nothing to do but to accede to his wishes, and Tom,
knowing this, figuratively stepped into the spot-light. He told about
the business which had brought the crowd to New Orleans, of their
unexpected voyage on the Gulf of Mexico aboard Mr. Stratton’s power
yacht, and of their still more unexpected and thrilling adventures in
the troubled land of Mexico.
It was there the crowd had fallen in with Carl Alvin, the Texas Ranger,
at that time on a furlough, and the idea had come to them to spend a
few weeks among those famous policemen of the Lone Star State. Alvin
was delighted at the idea, and this, in connection with the lure of
the open-air life, proved irresistible.
So, in the Ranger’s company, the Ramblers and Don, who succeeded in
gaining his father’s permission, had journeyed from the oil district of
Tampico, Mexico, to Brownsville, Texas, and thence to a small town on
the Rio Grande.
“My, what a great time you’ve had!” exclaimed Cranny. “By George, I
only hope I’ll run into something just as full of ginger.”
“Not for me,” said Don Stratton, decidedly. “Gingery affairs of that
kind are all well enough to read about, but when it comes to the real
thing I’d rather be excused.”
“Well, boys,” broke in the sergeant, “we must be getting along now.
Just stepped in to say howdy-do.” A grin crossed his weather-beaten
face which was burned to a coppery hue by the sun’s hot rays. “Ride
over to headquarters whenever you feel like it,” his glance fell on
Cranny--“and don’t try too hard to run into adventures, my lad, or----”
His sentence, concluded by a significant gesture of a big brown hand,
plainly conveyed his meaning, and caused the Ramblers to chuckle with
mirth.
“The sergeant has you sized up all right, Cranny,” exclaimed Tom. He
intended to speak in a low, confidential tone, but every one in the
room plainly heard his words. “I say, old chap, it wouldn’t be possible
to have a nice, quiet time with you along, eh?”
“Not if I could help it,” grinned Cranny. He faced the burly Howell.
“You’ll see us come over, Sergeant. Honestly, I’m just pinin’ to get a
glimpse o’ that bunch o’ Rangers.”
“An’ I guess all of ’em will be just as glad to see you,” remarked Carl
Alvin. “If there’s anything a Ranger likes, it’s a chap brimful of
grit.” He eyed the big Tacoma lad critically. “And if I’m not mistaken
you’ve got the goods.”
“Thanks!” laughed Cranny.
The two Rangers picked up their rifles, which rested in a near-by
corner, and with the crowd following at their heels walked out on the
wide veranda which extended entirely around the old rambling building.
Good-byes were said. Then the crowd watched the policemen untie their
fiery mustangs and swing themselves into the saddle. The animals kicked
up their heels, shot forward, then settling into a loping trot carried
them swiftly away.
On all sides of the house stretched a broad undulating prairie covered
with long waving grass which sparkled in the light of a cloudless day.
To the southwest, seen as flat, gray masses against a sky of dazzling
brilliancy, rose the low, irregular hills of Mexico, just across the
Rio Grande. Northward, a line of cottonwoods and oaks fringed the
border of an unseen watercourse, and dotted over the great expanse were
groups of trees or other vegetation.
Amid this immensity of space the figures of the rapidly retreating
horsemen seemed to be dwarfed to mere pigmy proportions; but even
from afar the rays of the sun, striking on pistol butts or trappings,
continued to send back spots of flashing light.
Cranny Beaumont drew a long breath. With all the eagerness of a bird
which sees the door of its cage open and freedom before it he observed
these vast reaches extending off to a hazy distance. How different
it was from being cooped up in a city office, a din of clicking
typewriters continually sounding in his ears!
“Well, fellows!” he said.
And then such a curiously sober look chased away his expression of
whole-hearted enjoyment that Tom spoke up:
“What’s the matter, Cranny?”
“Tell us the secret sorrow,” chirped Dick.
The big Tacoma lad seated himself on the veranda railing, where with
one foot swinging forth and back like a pendulum, he began to grin
almost sheepishly.
“Say, fellows, the fact is I’m a--a--oh, hang it all, you might as well
know--a--a--failure.”
“For goodness’ sake!” cried Tom--“a failure?”
“Terrible indeed to hear such a confession from one so old!” mused Dave.
“Yes, sir--or sirs--a flat failure; even a steam roller couldn’t make
it flatter.”
“Hist--hist! Another case of life’s young dream forever shattered!”
gurgled Don Stratton.
“Oh, it may sound very funny to you chaps,” said Cranny, “but honest to
goodness, I feel pretty serious--or at least I do sometimes.”
“Go ahead, Cranny,” laughed Bob. “We’re listening now.”
“I’ve been intending to tell you ever since the train dropped me, about
an hour ago, at that station back yonder and your nag, Bob, carried us
over here--a hefty weight for one little horse-power, eh?”
“Stick to the point at issue,” said the Rambler, in judicial tones.
“I’ve been working in dad’s real estate office off an’ on for a long
time, you know; but I couldn’t get down to the clockwork thing. It was
late in the morning--late gettin’ back at lunch time, an’--an’----”
“Early leaving at night, I s’pose?” suggested Dick.
“Rather. Well, at last dad simply wouldn’t stand for it any longer,
an’--an’ I don’t blame him.”
“Neither do we,” grinned Sam.
“When I received a letter from Bob Somers telling me the crowd was
going to spend a short time with the Texas Rangers I got an idea.”
“Fine! Let’s share it,” cried Dick.
“Dad could have found me a job in a big wholesale house. But after
thinkin’ things over a bit I put it up to him like this: ‘Father’ I
said, ‘the Ramblers are in Texas.’ An’---- Say, boys, maybe he didn’t
laugh!”
“Why?” demanded Tom, suspiciously.
Cranny regarded the tall lad with a quizzical air. Then, like a flash,
the thoughtful expression flitted from his face. He laughed in his old,
boisterous fashion.
“Because he knew what I was going to say, Tom,” he chuckled. “Both he
and I think you’re the greatest bunch ever.”
“Off the subject again, Cranny,” Bob reminded him, severely.
“Ob, pardon me, your Honor. I told dad I simply must see the crowd.
Say, but didn’t he look--er--er----”
“Flabbergasted?” said Dick, helpfully.
“You’ve struck it. Anyway, to boil three days’ conversation down into
three minutes’ talk,--what do you think he did?” Before the others
had had a chance to put in even a single word Cranny resumed speaking.
“Why, good old dad actually consented to lend me three hundred plunks.
“Yes, sir. An’ he said”--the big lad fairly bubbled over with glee--“‘I
consent. Join Bob Somers an’ his club in Texas; but remember, Cranny,
henceforth’”--a suggestion of the sober look returned,--“‘you must
carve out your own future.’”
“Help!” grinned Dick.
“And when is the carving to begin?” asked Don.
“That’s just it,” confessed Cranny. “I--I--don’t know.”
“One thing’s sure,” pronounced Don: “your pater must be very kind and
indulgent.”
“You’re right,” agreed Cranny. “An’ you can just believe he did a
whole lot o’ thinkin’. Oh, I know.” He jumped from his perch, to begin
striding up and down. “Dad thinks I need a jolly good lesson. I reckon
he figures it out this way: In about a month or two the money’ll be all
gone--and then! But, by Jove, I won’t, no sir--I’ll--I’ll---- Say,
fellows--honest, I don’t know what I’m good for. Speak up, philosopher.”
Stout Dave Brandon smiled genially as his eyes met Cranny’s.
“A few days’ riding about the plains with the Texas Rangers is my
prescription,” he said. “The pure fresh air, the illimitable distances,
the communing with nature in all its varied aspects, the----”
“Hold on--hold on!” chortled Cranny. “You’re the same old Dave.
Fellows”--his tone changed to one of seriousness--“I want to make good
at something. But for a few weeks I’ll just chuck all the worry stuff
to the Texas winds. Dave’s right. Hooray for the Rambler Club and life
with the Rangers!”