ON THE TRACK OF “RUSTLERS”
Of course, in that section of the country it was the most natural
thing in the world to come across roaming cattle; though the thought
instantly suggested itself to Tom that to see one so far separated from
a herd had an element of mystery in it.
“It’s mighty queer,” he murmured.
Curious to know what could have happened to the animal, he galloped
across the last stretch of ground at a rattling pace.
Reining up by the side of the fallen steer he sprang from the saddle
to make a discovery which considerably surprised him. Instead of the
motionless, inanimate form he had expected to find, the animal seemed
to have plenty of life left in him.
The huge, bulky form began to move. He was making desperate efforts to
struggle to his feet, but each time fell back with a ponderous thud to
the earth.
“Poor beast!” exclaimed Tom compassionately. “I’m mighty glad I decided
to come along.” He straightened up. “Cowboys never drive cattle so hard
as to make ’em fall over in a heap--no, sir, not by a long shot.”
Tying his horse to a near-by sapling he returned to the steer to make a
more careful examination.
He found there were no outward evidences of injuries, though everything
showed that the animal was in a complete state of exhaustion--so
complete that it had ceased all efforts to move, and but for its gently
heaving sides and half-closed eyes would have appeared quite lifeless
indeed.
Another idea came to Tom. There was scarcely any trace of the rain of
the day before, but here and there he thought the earth might still be
sufficiently soft to show tracks of passing cattle.
Not very long afterward he whistled softly; his eyes sparkling with a
peculiar light were turned in the direction of the rolling hills in the
west, over which the rising sun was casting a soft, mellow glow.
At his feet lay a little marshy tract; in various portions limpid
pools reflected the sky above. Here was the evidence he had been so
earnestly searching for. Imprints, and fresh imprints, too, of many
hoofs.
“Yes, sir; it looks to me as though a whopping big bunch has passed
this way,” he exclaimed. “By George--if it should be--I wonder----”
Frowning lines immediately appeared on Tom Clifton’s forehead;
his detective instincts were once more fully aroused. The whole
circumstance to his mind had a decidedly suspicious look--the steer
fallen by the wayside from exhaustion, the direction in which the
cattle had been driven. The more he considered the question, the
stronger became his conviction that cattle rustlers were at work again.
“By George! This is a discovery, sure enough!” he cried to the empty
air. “Now let’s see!”
The Rambler seated himself on the turf, where in a comfortable position
he pondered deeply for a considerable time.
How fine it would be, he reflected, if through his efforts some clue
to the whereabouts of the bandits’ stronghold could be obtained.
There were many places in the rugged country along the Rio admirably
adapted for their purposes. By making a little haste he might actually
trail them to the very spot and then--well, the Texas Rangers put in
possession of such valuable information ought to have no difficulty in
getting hot on their track.
In his imagination Tom could see all this accomplished. His face was
flushed.
“Yes, sir, I’ll try it,” he exclaimed. “Of course, Bob must realize
that I’m all right. Anyway, a few hours more or less can’t make much
difference now.”
All annoying reflections of this character fled from Tom Clifton’s
mind as he sprang to his feet. The dangers to which he might be
exposed, should his deductions prove correct, occurred to him, but were
dismissed with an impatient shrug of his shoulders and a thought voiced
aloud: “Well--it’s worth all the risk.”
He took another look at the prostrate steer, satisfying himself that
after a sufficient rest he would be all right again.
“Only wish I could do something to help you, old bovine,” he chuckled.
“Who knows? Maybe by keeling over you’ve done the Texas Rangers the
biggest kind of service.”
Unfastening his pony he leaped into the saddle and was off. Almost
every instant his eyes were keenly fixed on the ground, and often he
halted to examine patches of turf which still retained the slightest
signs of moisture. In the hollows, or where vegetation grew in
abundance, he often managed to pick up the trail.
It was a glorious morning; the dew on the leaves and grasses glittered
and sparkled like diamonds in the sunshine. Birds flitted from place to
place or from leafy coverlets sent their blithesome songs over the air.
Sometimes a jack-rabbit scampered across the rider’s path, and then in
headlong flight quickly disappeared from view.
Tom’s thoughts, however, were so intent upon the work in hand that he
paid but little attention either to the beauties of nature or the life
about him.
The difficulties of his self-imposed task made the Rambler all the
more determined to keep on, but half an hour’s ride was sufficient to
bring even his sanguine, hopeful nature to a realization that only
failure had repaid him for his hard, toilsome work.
For a long distance not a single evidence of the animals’ tracks was
to be seen, and the country farther to the west was becoming wild and
barren, where the difficulties of his task would be increased tenfold.
The hills, rugged and steep, partly covered with a scraggly growth
of mesquite and cactus, constantly increased in height. Between them
lay narrow, rocky gorges of a gloomy and sullen aspect, overrun with
treacherous roots or tangled thickets, the haunts of hordes of vicious
mosquitoes and myriads of other insects both winged and crawling.
“Yes, sir! I’ve lost all trace of it,” murmured the lad disconsolately.
“If a band of rustlers were really behind those cattle, they must have
known a much better route to the Rio than the one I’ve taken.”
From the sloping side of a ridge he could see on every hand a wild and
desolate expanse of country; vast, impressive and silent. Now Tom
could understand more fully the difficulties under which the Texas
Rangers worked. Nature, here, had provided excellent hiding places for
outlaws; and as an aid to them in case of discovery there were natural
barricades from behind which they could almost defy their enemies.
“It’s a peach of a place for ’em, sure enough,” declared Tom. He slid
off his pony’s back, in another moment examining the animal’s injured
leg. It had withstood the traveling well, and appeared to be nearly
healed.
“Fine!” he commented. Then seating himself on a bit of rock he
reflectively gazed up at the pink clouds floating lazily in a field
of palish blue. Tom had, of course, been greatly disappointed; his
bright visions of lending valuable aid to the Rangers were almost
dashed--almost, because, even now, a vague hope seemed to be urging him
on. But for thoughts of Bob Somers and the others he would not have
hesitated an instant--the Rio Grande, he reflected, couldn’t be so
very far away, and once there, possibly something of interest might be
discovered.
There was naturally only one result to be expected from the mental
arguments which he indulged in with himself. The affirmative side
now--a few hours more and his companions would see him again; so why
bother further?
“Of course,” cried Tom briskly, “I won’t! I’m all ready now, old
chap--let’s be on the move!”
Then began another hard fatiguing journey, with the traveling becoming
increasingly difficult.
At length the lad, mopping his perspiring face, was murmuring his
intention of making a long halt in the first shade he could find, when
the sound of horses’ hoofs, coming from the top of the ridge just above
him, instantly drove away all feelings of discomfort.
With a sharp exclamation he pulled up, while thoughts of cattle
rustlers and bandits rushed back to his mind in full force. Tom had so
completely given up any idea of encountering other human beings in this
wild section of the country, that now he felt his nerves beginning to
tingle, his heart to beat faster.
“Ah!” he breathed an instant later.
The figure of a horse and rider abruptly appeared above the crest of
the hill, slowly rising higher and higher until both in full view were
silhouetted in bold relief against the sky. The two, almost giant
specimens of their species, formed a magnificent picture as the glow
of the early morning sun fell across their figures. Now having come
to a halt, they suggested in their motionless state rather a great
equestrian statue than living, breathing creatures.
One swift, comprehensive glance had shown Tom Clifton. An elderly,
gray-bearded, patriarchal-looking man he was, every line in his bronzed
face telling of his nationality.
“A Mexican!” muttered Tom. Then mastering himself he exclaimed in even
tones:
“Good-morning, sir!”
He was vaguely conscious of the fact that the other appeared to be
studying him with considerably more interest and attention than a
chance meeting between two strangers would seem to warrant. Another
thing, too, impressed itself upon his mind. This man had evidently
seen him approaching from a considerable distance, for he exhibited no
signs of surprise.
“Buenas dias, señor,” came the greeting.
The Mexican spoke in a kindly, friendly tone, and Tom’s disturbing
thoughts immediately fled.
“Good-morning,” he said again. Then without further hesitation he
flipped his reins, and the mustang’s sharp hoofs were once more digging
into the hard, stony ground.
Riding up by the stranger’s side he addressed him in English only to
see him shake his head uncomprehendingly. The situation, however, was
saved from any embarrassing features by the Mexican’s sense of humor.
He laughed heartily and extended his hand, which Tom smilingly shook.
Thus, the American and Mexican faced each other on the top of the ridge
for several instants in silence, Tom heartily wishing all the while
that he possessed a sufficient knowledge of the Spanish language to put
a few questions to him.
An entirely different air distinguished this man from the majority of
Mexicans he had seen in the little town across the Rio.
His age, of course, precluded the idea of his being a vaquero. Besides,
everything about him seemed to indicate that he occupied a much higher
station in life. He wondered why the Mexican was roaming about the
country alone--or was he alone? A startling thought flashed through his
mind. Had this man any connection with the cattle rustlers--might he
not be one of the band acting as a sentinel? Desperados did not always
look the part!
Tom Clifton, with his love of mysteries, began to think that he had now
stumbled upon another, which might prove to be fully as interesting
as the one his imagination had woven about the young pianist of the
Mexican theater.
“I do wonder----” he thought; then with a little start he realized that
the other was speaking. The words themselves were meaningless, but the
man’s actions perfectly clear. The Mexican wished the lad to follow
him. Highly puzzled, Tom nodded his head. Then side by side they rode
until, skirting around the side of a jagged ridge that rose high above
their heads, his eyes took in a view which brought the cry: “The Rio
Grande!” from his lips.
Yes--the great river appeared right before him. Its muddy water,
faintly tinged in places with reflections from the brilliant sky, was
flowing near the base of a line of rugged, almost perpendicular bluffs.
“Well, well, I certainly never expected to run across it so soon as
this!” he exclaimed.
He felt a touch on his arm. The gray-bearded Mexican’s gaze was fixed
intently upon the opposite shore where the hills loomed up bright in
the sunshine.
“My country!” he exclaimed in English.
What a wealth of meaning those two words, quietly spoken, seemed to
express. The man, sitting almost motionless in his saddle, a troubled
look in his piercing black eyes, seemed just then to typify the sorrows
of that great land, brought to misery and suffering by so much internal
dissension.
For several moments the two let their eyes wander over the vast stretch
of country before them. Tom was the first to speak.
“Don’t you know any other words of English?” he inquired.
The answer was a shake of the head. By means of expressive gestures,
however, the Mexican very easily conveyed to Tom’s mind a desire to
know in which direction he was bound. This information being supplied,
a look of much surprise came over his sunburned face, as though he
could not understand why the lad should travel as far as the river only
to turn right back.
Tom, realizing the hopelessness of attempting oral explanations, wisely
concluded to confine his efforts to communicate to the clumsy, though
useful medium of gestures, and in this way signified his intention of
starting off at once. The Mexican with a benevolent smile made it known
that he should like to accompany him, to which request Tom at once
assented.
He reflected that there was nothing at all unusual about this. The man
might be on his way to visit some of the ranches that lay to the east.
At any rate he found his company a most agreeable change after the long
hours of solitude and silence.
He soon discovered, too, that the horseman possessed an intimate
knowledge of the surrounding country, for, acting as guide, he
conducted him over a route much easier than the one by which he had
come. And this resulted in their reaching the undulating prairie far
sooner, and with much less fatigue than would otherwise have been the
case.
“This is something else to talk about,” mused Tom. “I guess Cranny will
wish to thunder he had come along with Bob and me. Honest, I’d give a
lot to know who this chap is, and where he’s bound.”
As the two for mile after mile jogged along side by side across the
prairie, all sorts of ideas concerning the Mexican ran through Tom
Clifton’s head. He hadn’t yet managed to dismiss the thought that there
was something decidedly mysterious about him.
“Perhaps he’s a Mexican general, who has come over to the United States
on some mission,” he reflected, “or he may be seeking safety from his
enemies.”
The depths of patriotism expressed both in the man’s face and actions,
when he had looked upon the land of his fathers, made Tom feel that
somehow the rustler theory was rather untenable, though he was still
not yet prepared to dismiss it altogether from his mind.
The lad was always expecting the Mexican to bid him adieu, but as time
passed on he showed no inclination to do so.
“It’s mighty odd,” muttered Tom, “that my direction should be exactly
the same as his direction. It’s another thing I don’t quite understand!”
At last, growing tired of speculations and deductions, which he
reflected would certainly never solve the matter, he thrust them all
from his mind, becoming more conscious from that moment of the heat and
the glare of light which enveloped the landscape.
Reaching the heights of a ridge the two looked down upon a valley, to
see far-off herds of grazing cattle. At the right a faint bluish smudge
rising above the low chain of hills attracted Tom’s attention.
“Hello!” he exclaimed, “I’ll bet that’s a cowboys’ camp.” He turned
quickly and discovered the Mexican eying him with a most peculiar
smile. It instantly faded, however, when the latter observed his
action. Once more Tom became impressed with the idea that for some
reason he was an object of special interest to this man whom he had so
unexpectedly encountered.
“By George! It’s about the queerest thing I ever ran up against!” he
muttered. “I’ll steer straight for that camp, and, if there are any
cow-punchers among the bunch who speak a few words of the Spanish
lingo, maybe they can put me wise.”
A sweep of his hand told the Mexican of his resolve, at which an
expression of undisguised astonishment, so plain as to admit of no
mistake, flashed for a second over the other’s face.
Tom saw his keen searching eyes fixed full upon him; they seemed to
travel slowly from the soles of his shoes to the high peaked crown of
his sombrero. Then with a slight shrug of his shoulders, the man’s
benevolent smile returned and cracking his whip he galloped down the
slope.
Not long after the two horsemen were riding among Colonel Brookes
Sylvester’s great herds of cattle. Hundreds of them were contentedly
browsing over the hillsides or along the rich pasture lands of the
valley.
It was not always an easy matter to keep that thin column of smoke in
view, for many times ridges or thick clumps of vegetation came between.
Therefore, Tom was highly pleased when they finally rode over a ridge
and saw the cowboys’ camp at the base of a gently-sloping surface which
extended before them.
A big chuck-wagon stood in the shadow of a grove of cottonwoods. Around
a smouldering fire a number of shirt-sleeved men had gathered and every
one was staring hard toward them.
“That’s the finest sight I’ve seen for some time!” cried Tom,
enthusiastically. “Hooray!”
The mustang, responding to his commands, broke into a swift gallop
which carried him in a moment to the cottonwoods where, with a hearty
salutation to the cowboys, he slipped from his horse.
Their actions filled him with the greatest astonishment. They were
looking at him as though in open-mouthed wonder. He heard them
speaking, in low excited tones; he saw the biggest, a man well over six
feet in height, step forward, extending a huge brown hand toward him.
Then his amazement was made complete when he listened to these words,
spoken in a loud chuckling tone:
“Shake, Jimmy Raymond. We’re sartinly more’n glad to see you.”