CAPTURING THE “RUSTLERS”
For three days the detail of Texas Rangers under command of Sergeant
Howell had been encamped near the shores of the Rio Grande. They were
surrounded by a wilderness of precipitous bluffs and deep ravines, in
the shadowed depths of which the paths worn by wild animals, notably
the peccaries, or Mexican wild hogs, could be frequently traced.
It was a paradise for myriads of mosquitoes and other insects and among
them, lurking about in search of prey, was that deadly spider,--the
tarantula, always a menace to both man or beast.
And those three days had been scorching hot ones, when for hours at a
time not the faintest breath of air stirred the leaves or grasses. Yes,
the boys were fully satisfied now that the life of the Texas Ranger was
not an enviable one.
Tom had piloted the party to the place where he had come across the
prostrate steer. The animal had evidently recovered and wandered off to
other parts.
The Rangers, skilled in following the faintest trails, able to read
signs in nature which to an ordinary observer would have meant nothing
at all, had by tireless efforts found a passageway leading between
jagged hills to the Rio. Here were the unmistakable tracks of cattle,
hoof-prints clear-cut and comparatively fresh.
The deep chasms, overhung with dark beetling cliffs, led into a
cup-shaped valley, where tall grasses and rank vegetation flourished in
the greatest profusion. On the shores of the river, extremely shallow
at this point, were still other evidences to show that the Texas
Rangers had actually discovered at last the retreat of the outlaws.
“And we have Tom Clifton to thank for that!” exclaimed Carl Alvin.
“Without his help we might have searched around this rugged country for
weeks without finding a single trace.”
“You’re certainly right there,” assented Jack Stovall. “Now all we have
to do is to play a waitin’ game. Rustlers, an’ ’specially Mexican
rustlers, ain’t never satisfied. They’ll sure come ag’in.”
And the “waiting game” was being played. Stationed at various points
from where the cup-shaped valley could be observed, the men kept
vigil, often viciously attacked by hordes of ravenous mosquitoes. Hot,
tiresome and monotonous work it was, for the most part unrelieved by
comfort of any sort. But the hardy, courageous policemen of the plains
seldom uttered a word of complaint.
And with the exception of Don Stratton, neither did the boys. Don
emphatically declared that he had had all the roughing experiences he
wanted or ever would want, and after this little affair was concluded
that sort of life for him would be over forever.
“Don’t you believe it!” grinned Tom. “I’ll bet you’ll be out with us
again some time.”
For the entire three days the boys, Carl Alvin, Jack Stovall and Oscar
Chaney had had a little camp together in a pass so small that it was
with difficulty space could be found to quarter their mustangs. The
place possessed many advantages, however; it was wild and secluded,
and from a point part way up on the bluff they could see, between
a deeply gashed opening in the barren, rocky walls, a bit of the
cup-shaped valley, and beyond the “Rio Bravo.”
On the morning of the fourth day Tom Clifton, rolled up in his blanket,
was sleeping peacefully, when a light nudge on the shoulder suddenly
awakened him. Starting up with an exclamation, he saw Carl Alvin’s hand
raised in a warning gesture.
“Not a sound, Tom,” exclaimed the Ranger, in a scarcely audible voice.
“Come with me--bring your field-glass along.”
As effectually as though cold water had been dashed upon him, his
drowsy feelings vanished. Rising to his feet and throwing the blanket
aside, with field-glass in hand he followed the Ranger.
With all the precautions that Alvin took, Tom worked his way up the
slope, presently reaching the Ranger’s side. Eagerly his eyes were
turned toward the cup-shaped valley, to see something which brought a
faint exclamation from his lips.
Somber and dark against the water of the Rio Grande were the figures of
several horsemen. In a few minutes more they would reach the shore.
“Rustlers!”
The words, low and tense, were whispered in the Ranger’s ears. Carl
Alvin, his face stern and thoughtful, nodded: “It looks that way, Tom.
And we have them bottled up. The only thing to do is to nab them as
suspects and work up the evidence afterward. If they’re the guilty
parties, count on the Rangers to find a way to prove it!”
The Rambler, crouching behind the shelter of a shelving piece of
rock, raised the field-glass, and the moment his eyes took in the
riders under this changed condition he gave vent to a whistle of great
astonishment.
The man leading the advance was the benevolent-looking Mexican who had
ridden with him a few days before across the plains.
And so his hastily formed suspicions had been right! And Blimby, the
cowboy, had also guessed the truth!
So stunning was the surprise that Tom scarcely heard Alvin’s repeated
and impatient demands for an explanation. Through the binocular he
could plainly see the patriarchal-looking man, all unsuspicious of the
fact that human eyes were fixed keenly upon him, urge his dripping
horse up to the beach.
So, after all, he was one of the cattle rustlers. It gave him a great
thrill to reflect that he had ridden for miles and miles in the company
of an outlaw. It came as a distinct shock, too.
He revealed the nature of his discovery to Carl Alvin. The Ranger’s
eyes brightened; he, too, whistled softly.
“Too bad! too bad!” he murmured. “I liked the old chap so well! I can
scarcely believe it. This is a bad day’s work for him. In another
moment we must be off!”
Tom made no reply; he was too busily studying the other members of the
party. They were much younger men, strongly built, and had the same
refined appearance which characterized the leader.
“Which makes it all the worse!” thought the lad.
Alvin was now busily bucking on his cartridge belt. He turned to the
Rambler.
“You’d better keep out of this, Tom!” he exclaimed in earnest tones.
“Rustlers are a desperate lot and there may be a lot of gun play!”
“I’m going along,” answered Tom, briefly.
A half grin fluttered across the Ranger’s face, but it lasted only for
an instant.
“Now is the time when the Ranger force of Texas is going to perform
another signal service for the state,” he said. “How little those
fellows suspect they are bottled up!” He began to descend the slope.
The sleepers were awakened. There was no excitement, no alarm, either
on the part of boys or men. The expected had simply happened. That was
all!
Less than five minutes later a party of horsemen, Carl Alvin in the
lead, were picking their way through the winding ravines, with dark
gloomy crags hanging menacingly above their heads.
All arrangements having been made beforehand they halted at a certain
point and there they were almost immediately joined by the other
policemen. Now Sergeant Howell took command.
Those were thrilling moments for the boys. It was a dangerous game
they were mixed up in. What would be the outcome? Silently, with sober
faces, they followed the sergeant’s stern injunction to keep well to
the rear.
There was only one outlet to the less rugged country beyond and through
this the riders must pass. At the most favorable point for decisive
action the Texas Rangers halted.
“Not a word, men,” commanded Sergeant Howell, in a stern, cautious
tone. “Remember, don’t let one escape.”
The silent, motionless horsemen waited, their ears strained to catch
the faintest sounds which would tell them of the others’ approach.
The boys saw Alvin raise his hand.
Yes, they could now hear the steady beating of the horses’ hoofs.
Louder they came--still louder!
Around a bend swung the benevolent-looking Mexican. Close behind him
clattered the others. But a few paces more, and the policemen’s horses
sprang forward. Then the astounded Mexicans found themselves facing
a group of the famous Texas Rangers, every member of which had them
covered with a Winchester rifle.