A LONE HORSEMAN
Early next afternoon a lone horseman rode slowly into the plaza. Both
the appearance of horse and rider gave evidence of a long hard journey.
The man’s sunburned face, shadowed by the broad brim of his sombrero,
looked lined and haggard; his clothes, too, were torn and dusty.
The animal’s shaggy body was steaming, while his slow, spiritless
movements and dejected mien showed plainly that food, water, and rest
were urgently needed.
“Hello!” exclaimed Tom, with the others standing on the veranda.
“What’s that?”
“Forsooth--if I mistake not a man--a horse,” laughed Cranny.
“And, by Jove, best of all, an American!” cried Bob Somers, who had
been gazing intently toward the approaching rider. One good look at the
man’s clean-cut features convinced the others that Bob was right. They
observed something else, too; he held the reins in his left hand; the
other was swathed in bandages.
“H’m; looks as though he’d been in some kind of muss,” commented Tom.
“So it does,” agreed Dick.
The rider as he came up, on discovering so many of his compatriots
facing him, appeared so surprised that for a moment he allowed their
cheery salutations to go unanswered.
“Well, well,” he began at last. “I didn’t----”
“Of course not,” said Tom, cheerfully. “Nobody ever does. But I
say”--he pointed to the young man’s arm--“is it----?”
“It is!” answered the other in grim tones. “Quite badly, too.” Slowly
he dismounted, shook a cloud of dust from his clothes, then patted the
mustang’s shaggy head.
“I’m mighty curious to know what a crowd like you is doing in this
out-of-the-way spot,” he continued, “but my desire for a bite to eat
and rest is, for the moment, so much greater that---- Hello, here he is
now!”
The fat proprietor had appeared on the scene, and it became apparent
to the boys that the men were well acquainted. The American switched
off into the Spanish language, speaking it with ease and fluency. When
the man came from the stable to lead his weary horse away, he stepped
up on the veranda.
The crowd, sympathizing with his tired condition, made no attempt to
question him, though Cranny found it difficult to check the flow of
words which were ready to gush forth at the slightest encouragement.
An hour and a half later, however, the aspect of the situation had
changed. The young man, having attended to his various needs, was just
as anxious to talk as they.
In a few words Tom told him something about the club. Then abruptly he
demanded, “How about your hand?”
“I’ll tell you,” said the young man. “My name is Ralph Edmunds and I am
a special correspondent for an Eastern newspaper syndicate.”
“Say, that’s a fine job,” said Cranny.
“You might not think so, if you’d been mixed up in some of the
scraps I have!” remarked Edmunds dryly. “It’s a dangerous game.”
The lines of his face became hard and stern. “I’ve been with the
Federal troops and just last night we ran across a scouting party of
Constitutionalists--whew--say--maybe it wasn’t some hot scrap. Rifles
crack easily in this country, you know! Well, a stray bullet scraped my
wrist. At first I thought it had ploughed clean through; but luckily it
didn’t do any more than temporarily put it out of commission,--which is
bad enough, and made me take a long wearisome ride back here.”
Expressions of sympathy came from the crowd.
“And--confound the luck, one of my most important articles is only half
finished--what am I to do?” To emphasize his disgust Edmunds’ well hand
came down on the table with a bang.
“First of all, let me take a look at your wrist,” said Tom in
professional tones. “I’m going to be a doctor some day, you know.”
“I do now, at any rate,” remarked the newspaper man. “And I’m glad to
hear it. You may save me the trouble of hunting up a Mexican medico.”
Tom always carried with him a small case containing all the necessary
articles for the first aid to the injured treatment, and being deeply
interested in the subject had received instructions from a physician
in his home town, Kingswood. He left the room to return a moment later
with the precious case tucked under his arm.
“Who bandaged it up for you?” demanded Tom, as he unwrapped the gauze.
“A good-natured Mexican.”
“Well, he may have been good-natured enough; but I reckon he never even
saw the book--here, let me show you!”
An admiring crowd watched the physician-to-be skilfully bathe and bind
an ugly wound; a proceeding which caused Cranny once more to become the
victim of disturbing thoughts.
Tom’s career was all settled upon. He had wisely made a selection
and with a definite purpose in view could look forward to the future
without fear or worry. Deep in the midst of gloomy reflections he
lifted his head, as these words spoken by the newspaper man reached his
ears.
“I say! Is there any chap in the crowd who’d like to help me finish my
article?”
On the spur of the moment Cranny answered:
“Sure thing! I’ll do it.”
“Well, isn’t this simply fine? Can you write fast?”
“So fast that when it’s done nobody can read it,” grinned Cranny.
“Never mind. I’ll risk it. When will you start?”
“Right away.”
Probably Cranny’s quick decision was caused by the strong liking he had
taken to the youthful newspaper man. He felt that he was one of those
“red-blooded” chaps, full of grit and determination.
The crowd was certainly astonished. It seemed most unlike Cranny to
proffer his services for any kind of work when he could just as easily
go off on a pleasure jaunt. So with puzzled expressions they watched
him and the correspondent presently leave the room.
“Remarkable,” whispered Dick.
“Being with us is doing Cranny lots of good,” said Tom.
“It isn’t making him any worse, at least,” said Bob, with a smile.
Two hours later the Tacoma lad reappeared, carrying a manuscript.
“I sailed through it like a breeze, fellows,” he chuckled gleefully.
“A whole two cent lead pencil’s gone. I’m off to despatch it to the
newspaper syndicate. Comin’ along? Good.”
The post and telegraph office was in the same building as the general
store. Situated in the liveliest section of the frontier town, with
a spacious porch surrounding the entire structure, it had become a
convenient lounging place for a considerable number of the idle poor.
“It was like running a gauntlet,” Dick declared, to pass before the
dark glittering eyes of the Mexicans.
While Cranny attended to his mission the others waited outside. The
view they saw was characteristic of border towns. Saddled horses were
hitched to posts at intervals along the sidewalks. A buckboard and
other vehicles, some of the most primitive sort, formed a little group
near by. On both sides of the wide, tree-shaded streets were hotels or
stores of various sorts, but the most conspicuous building, both on
account of its design and the flaming posters which adorned its front,
was a moving picture theater.
When Cranny rejoined them with a peculiar look of satisfaction on his
face, they wandered across the street to study the place at closer
range.
“H’m, looks kind of good to me,” remarked Tom. “Let’s take it in
to-night.”
“Do just let’s,” chortled Dick.
“Good idea,” approved Cranny.
“The ayes have it, so we’ll go,” declared Bob.
Arriving at the hotel they found Professor Kent and Edmunds engaged
in conversation, and a few words which the lads overheard before the
others were aware of their presence made Cranny Beaumont’s face light
up with pleasure.
“Yes, sir! He’s a smart one; writes from dictation like a streak, and
scarcely ever makes a error.”
“Bully for you, Cranny,” said Bob softly.
After taking their evening meal in the cool patio, and writing letters
home, the crowd set out for the motion-picture theater.