MACHINE GUNS
The crowd had arrived in the Lone Star State only a few days before.
Traveling by rail, they reached a little town on the Rio Grande,
visited the company headquarters of the Texas Rangers, for the time
being stationed there, then put up at the rather pretentious Ledaro
Hotel.
The first thing the boys did was to hire horses and provide themselves
with firearms; the second, to ride off on a tour of the surrounding
country. A few miles out of town, crowning the summit of a gentle rise,
an abandoned ranch-house claimed their attention. Old and dilapidated,
a suggestion of romance seemed to hover about its cracked and yellowed
adobe walls. To those poetically inclined it conjured up thoughts of
the long ago, when the sun shone on a fresh, clean structure situated
amid a grassy field. But now rank weeds and scraggly bushes flourished
unchecked, while vines climbed about the wooden steps or trailed over
the veranda railing, as if to flaunt their disdain of the ruin which
time and neglect had wrought.
Dave suggested renting the place. His idea received enthusiastic
support. With Carl Alvin’s aid, they succeeded in finding the owner;
and he, possessing that hospitality for which the Southern people are
noted, promptly gave his consent, though the crowd had a difficult task
to persuade him to accept remuneration.
Don Stratton had always been accustomed to ease and luxury, and though
he couldn’t understand why the crowd should deliberately cast aside the
comforts of hotel life, he proved his gameness by offering no objection
to the plan.
So the ancient interior, in which perhaps for years the dreary silence
had only been occasionally broken by intruding rodents scurrying across
the floors or bats flapping in circular flights about the rooms, now
became the temporary home of lusty, enthusiastic youths.
According to Tom, the task of putting the lower floor into habitable
shape was jolly good fun. Many willing hands made the cleaning and
dusting occupy but a surprisingly short time. From a clump of timber
close by the boys gathered great quantities of fragrant cedar boughs;
and these, skilfully fashioned, became their beds. Then, from the
old, tumble-down stable in the rear, they obtained a supply of boards
which enabled them to construct a table and several benches, rough and
uncouth in appearance, yet strong and serviceable.
It was just about this time that the crowd had received a letter from
Cranny telling them to be on the lookout for him. And now the Tacoma
boy was actually there.
“Hooray for the Rambler Club!” repeated Cranny. “What a perfectly
rippin’ time we’re goin’ to have, fellows! Just let me get a horse, a
few shootin’ irons--then I’ll be so jolly happy I’ll----” He paused.
“Just happened to think o’ that makin’-a-livin’ business,” he explained.
“Oh, cheer up!” laughed Don. “Come along. We’ll conduct you through the
palace.”
“I’d be more cheerful than a song-bird in spring,” declared Cranny, “if
I only knew what to do.”
The tread of many feet and the sound of voices echoed uncannily
through the rooms as the lads passed from one to another. Everywhere
their eyes lighted on broken plaster, decaying boards, and many a
thick festoon of cobwebs dimly revealed itself in shadowy corners. Up
a twisting stairway they climbed to the second floor. Here Cranny,
to his surprise, always found himself coming upon unexpected rooms
and passageways,--these last, dark, somber-looking places, where the
accumulated dust of ages rose up in choking clouds.
“Been up on the roof yet, fellows?” he asked, suddenly noting in one of
the rooms a ladder resting against a trap-door.
“Of course. It was about the second thing we did,” answered Tom.
“There’s a dandy view, too.”
“Me for the roof, then,” declared Cranny.
He briskly crossed the floor; sprang up the rungs of the ladder; then
the door, in response to a vigorous shove, banged on the roof, while a
flood of whitish light poured through the opening.
Cranny immediately scrambled upward. For an instant his figure was
sharply outlined against the blue sky, then he disappeared from view.
One by one the others followed until all stood on the gently-sloping
roof, the target for a fresh, strong breeze which swept directly toward
them from the land of Mexico.
Tom’s description was not exaggerated. Here and there bright spots of a
yellowish color traced the course of the Rio Grande, and the low hills
on the opposite side were now touched with delicate purple shadows and
glowing lights.
In the vast sweep of country which their lofty perch embraced, not a
living thing was in sight. The undulating surfaces stretched far off
with the grasses billowing like waves of the sea, and finally melted
softly into a hazy sky.
“Superb!” murmured Dave.
“Gettin’ an inspiration for a poem?” asked Cranny with a chuckle.
“Almost,” laughed the stout lad, seating himself with a sigh of
satisfaction. His example was quickly followed.
Cranny still had a number of questions to ask. He wanted to know all
about their experiences since they had been in Wyoming together;
and the Ramblers, too, felt a keen interest to hear some further
particulars in regard to his own affairs at Tacoma. Naturally all this
took some time. The sun rose to the zenith and continued on its slow
journey toward the west while lively tongues rattled on. Cranny was in
the midst of a graphic description of his “failure” when a sound--a
very faint sound coming from the distance--abruptly caused him to break
off in the middle of a sentence. He glanced inquiringly toward his
companions.
“What in thunder was that?” he demanded, raising his hand. “Listen!”
“Great Scott!” cried Tom, springing to his feet, and gazing intently
toward the Mexican hills. “That must mean trouble not so very far away.”
Once more the sound, borne on the sweeping wind, came to their ears.
It was unmistakably the rattle of a machine gun, and presently a
continuous series of ominous reports convinced every one that somewhere
across the Rio Grande an engagement was taking place between Federal
and Revolutionary forces.
“By George! Fellows, I reckon if we ever got over there, we’d see some
excitement!” Cranny Beaumont’s eyes, as he spoke, were shining with
excitement. “Sounds like a hot scrap, eh?”
The Ramblers all knew the Tacoma lad’s reckless, daring nature.
Wherever any excitement was going on, there Cranny wanted to be. And
the eagerness of his expression plainly revealed the thoughts running
through his mind.
“I’d rather stay on this side of the river,” drawled Dave. He grinned
faintly. “It’s no fun, Cranny, to be anywhere in the vicinity of
bursting shells, or to hear bullets singing past one’s head.”
“We know by experience, too,” said Tom loftily.
“You bet,” chimed in Don Stratton.
“A chap wouldn’t have to run into any danger,” declared Cranny, rising
to join Tom, who stood near the edge of the roof. “Some day----” The
lad paused, but the sparkle hadn’t faded from his eyes, nor the notes
of suppressed excitement from his voice.
“He’s always out for adventure,” said Bob to Dave.
“Yes, and always bound to find it,” returned the other.
As the faint notes of warfare continued, sometimes barely perceptible
above the sighing of the breeze, then again booming forth clearly, the
nerves of all were tingling.
“How glad I am we’re neutral,” remarked Dave.
“How I’d like to be in an aeroplane lookin’ down upon it,” declared
Cranny.
Finally the distant guns spoke at longer intervals, and at length
ceased altogether.
“Yes,” said the Tacoma lad reflectively, “a jaunt into old Mexico
would---- Oh, don’t shake your head, Dave--I reckon I’ll have to go--so
near, you know. What! Lunch time already? By Jove! I’d almost forgotten
about it. Let’s hurry--I want to hire that nag this afternoon.”
Recklessly he sprang for the trap-door, and several times the ladder
threatened to collapse beneath the weight of the boys as they piled
back into the room.
When they reached the lower floor, Tom explained to Cranny that he was
“chef” for the afternoon.
“To-night Don takes a crack at it,” he added.
“And I reckon you’ll all want to take a crack at me after the frost is
over,” grinned Don.
The Ramblers immediately got things under way. Dick kindled a fire in
the old-fashioned open-grate; Bob brought forth the provisions and tin
dishes, while stout Dave and Sam attended to various odds and ends.
Tom went about his duties with a stern and determined air, and Cranny,
watching him with twinkling eyes, was before very long sniffing some
delicious odors. A monster coffee-pot generously let the nature of its
contents be known, and beans baked the day before in true lumberman’s
style, now having the finishing touches supplied, helped to indicate
that this meal at least would be no “frost.”
When the chef finally cried, “Fall in, fellows,” the others obeyed his
summons with wonderful alacrity, and in a few moments the good things
began to vanish like a flurry of snowflakes in the early spring.
About an hour later the boys were in the stable.
“Ho, for that little Mexican town, and the Texas Rangers!” exclaimed
Cranny. Then his eyes traveling over the mustangs he added, “A corkin’
fine pony o’ yours, Bob.” He critically examined the brown-patched
animal when the Rambler a moment later led it forth into the light.
No friendly look greeted Cranny from a pair of dark, intelligent eyes.
And at almost every sound the mustang’s shaggy sides quivered; its ears
were thrown back, while four active hoofs suggested the advisability of
keeping a considerable distance away.
“H’m--a jolly bad-tempered little beast,” commented the lad.
“Here’s the horse-dealer’s description of him,” laughed Bob. “‘He’s
hardy as a cactus, vicious as a rattler, and as ungrateful as a coyote,
but he certainly can go.’”
“Well, I only hope that I can find one just like him,” declared
Cranny. “They can’t be too gingery for me.”
It was a pretty difficult job to saddle “Whirly-gig,” but Bob
accomplished the task with an ease that brought an admiring comment
from the big Tacoma lad.
“You’re as clever as a cow-puncher in a wild-west show, Bob,” he
chuckled.
“Thanks,” laughed the other. “Whoa! old boy,” he patted the pony’s
neck. “Ready, fellows? Whoa--come along then!”
A clatter of hoofs echoed noisily throughout the dingy old building as
the horses one by one were led outside.
“Into the saddle, boys,” cried Bob, springing into his own. “Jump up,
Cranny--look out.”
Cranny, active, alert, his eyes shining with pleasure, had need to heed
this caution. The mustang, “Whirly-gig,” apparently having no desire
for a repetition of his early morning experience, was exhibiting a
tendency to buck and dance.
Seizing a favorable moment, he matched his speed with the pony’s and
won. Then almost simultaneously six mustangs leaped forward, soon to
settle down into a steady, loping trot.
And a few minutes later, bathed in the bright clear sunlight, horses
and riders became but tiny, far-off specks amid the ever-billowing
grasses of the plain.