TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
[Illustration: Around a smoldering fire lay several men.
(_Page 28_) (_The Border Boys With the Mexican Rangers_)]
THE BORDER BOYS
WITH THE MEXICAN RANGERS
By FREMONT B. DEERING
AUTHOR OF
“The Border Boys on the Trail,” “The Border Boys
with the Texas Rangers,” “The Border Boys Across
the Frontier,” “The Border Boys in the Canadian
Rockies,” “The Border Boys Along the
St. Lawrence.”
[Illustration: LOGO]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Printed in U. S. A.
Copyright, 1911,
BY
HURST & COMPANY
MADE IN U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. AN IMPRUDENT BEAR 5
II. RUGGLES—THE DERELICT 15
III. JACK’S ADVENTURE 28
IV. A BATTLE ROYAL 38
V. CAUGHT IN A TRAP 47
VI. AN EXCITING QUEST 57
VII. THE CLOUDBURST 68
VIII. ADRIFT ON THE DESERT 76
IX. THE LONE RANCHO 91
X. AFTER MIDNIGHT 103
XI. TRAPPED 116
XII. THE GRINGOES MOVE 128
XIII. SENORITA ALVERADO 140
XIV. EL FIESTA 152
XV. BY FAIR MEANS OR FOUL 164
XVI. A BORDER BOY ERRANT 176
XVII. THE TRAIL OF THE TREMBLING MOUNTAIN 186
XVIII. BLACK RAMON’S TRICKERY 197
XIX. WHAT COYOTE DID 208
XX. WITH THE MEXICAN RANGERS 224
XXI. THE CAPTAIN PLAYS A TRICK 234
XXII. THE DWELLING OF A VANISHED RACE 243
XXIII. THE HEART OF THE MYSTERY 255
XXIV. THE DEATH TRAP 266
The Border Boys with the
Mexican Rangers.
CHAPTER I.
AN IMPRUDENT BEAR.
Professor Wintergreen sat bolt upright amidst his blankets and listened
intently. Had it been daylight, the angular figure of the scientist
would have made a laughable spectacle. But the canyon in the State of
Sonora, in Western Mexico, in which the Border Boys and their preceptor
were camped, was pitchy dark with a velvety blackness, relieved only
by a few steely-looking stars shining from the open spaces of a fast
overclouding sky.
The night wind soughed in melancholy fashion through the trees that
clothed the sides of the rugged abyss in which the camp had been
pitched that evening, and the tinkle of the tiny stream that threaded
its depths was audible. But although these were the only sounds to
be heard at the moment, it was neither of them that had startled the
professor. No, what he had heard had been something far different.
Waking some hours after he had first fallen asleep, the man of science
had indulged his sleepless moments by plunging into mental calculations
of an abstruse character. He was deeply engrossed in these, when the
sudden sound had broken in on the quietness of the night.
“Bless me, I could have sworn that I heard a footstep, and a stealthy
one, too,” muttered the professor to himself, “I must be getting
nervous. Possibly that is what made me wake up, and—wow!”
The ruminations of Professor Wintergreen broke off abruptly as he
suddenly felt something warm and hairy brush his face.
“It’s a bear!” he yelled, springing to his feet with a shout that
instantly aroused the others,—Jack Merrill, the rancher’s son; Ralph
Stetson, his schoolmate from old Stonefell; Coyote Pete, and Walt
Phelps.
“A b’ar!” yelled Coyote Pete, awake in a flash, “wha’r is ther
varmint?” As he spoke, the plainsman drew forth his well-worn old
forty-four and began flourishing it about.
Before the others could say a word a dark form bolted suddenly through
the camp, scattering, as it went, the embers of the dying campfire.
“It’s a bear, sure enough!” exclaimed Ralph, as the creature, a small
bear of the black variety, howled and stumbled amidst the hot coals.
All at once its shaggy coat burst into flame, and with a cry of intense
agony it dashed off into the woods.
“Poor creature!” cried Jack Merrill, “it will die in misery unless it’s
put out of its agony quickly. Pete, lend me your gun.”
The plainsman handed it over with a quick interrogation to which he
received no reply. Instead, Jack made a swift dash for the spot, a few
feet distant, in which the horses of the party were tethered. Throwing
himself on the back of one, with a twisted halter for a bridle, he set
off in hot pursuit of the unfortunate bear.
He could see it quite plainly as it lumbered along through the woods,
crying pitifully. Its long coat, greasy and shaggy, burned like a torch.
“Get along, Firewater, old boy,” breathed Jack, bending over his
animal’s neck to avoid being brushed off by the low-hanging branches,
for, after a short distance, the tangle on the hillside at the canyon’s
bottom grew thick and dense.
But Firewater, alarmed and startled at the spectacle of the flaming
beast rushing along through the dark woods in front, balked and jumped
about and misbehaved in a manner very foreign to him when he had his
young master on his back.
But Jack never made the mistake of allowing a pony or horse to think
it could get the upper hand of him, and, consequently, Firewater soon
quieted down and realized that there was no help for it but to go
whither he was directed.
At length Jack arrived within pistol shot of the frenzied bear. Aiming
as carefully as he could for a death shot, he pressed the trigger and
the wretched animal,—the victim of its own curiosity,—plunged over
and lay still.
“Poor creature,” quoth Jack to himself, “you are not the first to pay
the toll of too much inquisitiveness. Gee whiz!” he broke off the next
instant with one of his hearty, wholesome laughs, “I’m getting to be as
much of a moralist as the professor.”
Having ascertained that the bear was quite dead and out of its
suffering, the Border Boy remounted his pony and pressed back toward
camp. But as he neared it, it was borne in upon him that the adventures
of the night were by no means at an end, for before he reached the
others, and while a thick screen of brush still lay between him and the
glow of the newly made camp fire, a sudden volley of shots and the
clattering of many horses’ hoofs broke the stillness.
A touch of the heel was enough to send Firewater bounding forward. The
next instant the brush had been cleared, and a strange spectacle met
Jack Merrill’s eyes. His companions, their weapons in hand, stood about
the fire staring here and there into the darkness. A puzzled expression
was on all their faces, and particularly was this true of the
professor, who was scrutinizing, through his immense horn spectacles,
a scrap of paper which he held in his hand. He was stooping low by the
firelight the better to examine it.
“Oh, here you are,” cried Ralph, as the returned young adventurer came
forward into the glow.
“Yes, here I am,” cried Jack, throwing himself from Firewater’s back.
“I despatched that bear, too, but what on earth has been happening
here?”
“Read this first, my boy, and then I will tell you,” said the
professor, thrusting the not over-clean bit of paper into his hands.
“Read it aloud,” urged Pete, and Jack, in a clear voice, read the
untidy scrawl as follows:—
“Señors; you are on a mission perilous. Advance no further but turn
back while you are safe. The Mountains of Chinipal are not for your
seeking, and what you shall find there if you persevere in your quest
will prove more deadly than the Upas tree. Be warned in time. Adios.”
“Phew!” whistled Jack, “that sounds nice. But what was all the
firing—for I suppose that had something to do with it?”
“Why, the firing was my work,” struck in Walt Phelps, looking rather
shamefaced, “and I’m afraid I wounded the man I shot at, too.”
“You see it was this way,” went on Ralph Stetson. “We were watching the
woods for your coming when, suddenly, a horseman appeared, as if by
magic, from off there.”
He pointed behind him into the dark and silent trees.
“Under the impression that we were attacked, I guess, Walt opened fire.
But the man did not return it. Instead, he flung that note, which was
tied to a bit of stone, at our feet, and then dashed off as suddenly as
he had come. What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know what to think,” rejoined Jack in a puzzled tone; “suppose
we ask the professor and Pete first.”
“A good idea,” chorused the other boys. “Well, boys,” said the
professor anxiously, “not being as well versed in such things as our
friend Mr. Coyote, I shall defer to him. One thing, however, I noticed,
and that was that the note is worded in fair English, although badly
written in an uneducated hand.”
“Maybe whoever wrote it wished to disguise his writing,” ventured Walt
Phelps.
“That’s my idee of it,” grunted Coyote Pete; “yer see,” he went on,
“ther thing looks this yer way ter me. Some chap who knows of a plot on
foot ter keep us frum the Chinipal, wanted to do us a good turn, but
didn’t dare be seen in our company. So he hits on this way of doing it
and gits drilled with a bullet fer his pains.”
Walt Phelps colored brilliantly. He felt ashamed of his haste.
“Don’t be upsot over it,” said Pete, noticing this, “it’s ther
chap’s own fault fer dashing in on us that way. I reckon, though, he
kalkerlated on finding us asleep, an’ so we would have bin if it hadn’t
a bin fer Mister flaming b’ar.”
“The question is, are we to heed this warning, or is it, what I believe
is sometimes termed a bluff?” asked the professor anxiously. He drew
his blankets about his skinny figure as he spoke, and stood in the
firelight looking like a spectacled and emaciated ancient statue.
Coyote Pete considered a minute.
“Suppose we leave that till the morning fer discussion,” he said. “In
my judgment, it will be best fer you folks ter turn in now and sleep
ther rest of ther night.”
“And you, Pete?” asked Jack.
“I’ll watch by the fire in case of another visit. I don’t think
there’ll be one, but you cain’t most gen’ally always tell. Gimme my gun
back, Jack; I might need it.”
There was no dissuading Coyote from his plan, so the others turned in
once more, and, despite the startling interruption to their slumbers,
were soon wrapped in sleep.
As for Coyote, he sat by the fire till the stars began to pale and the
eastern sky grew gray and wan with the dawn. Except for an occasional
swift glance about him the old plainsman’s eyes were riveted on the
glowing coals, seemingly searching the innermost glowing caverns for
some solution of the situation that confronted them.