THE TRAIL OF THE TREMBLING MOUNTAIN.
But the Trembling Mountain still lay far from them. Following that
bivouac at the foot of the somber chain of mountains, they made their
way for some days through the most magnificent scenery they had ever
seen. Even Grizzly Pass could show nothing to compare with it. It was
an enchanted land of soaring peaks, deep and narrow canyons in whose
depths lay perpetual twilight, mighty cliffs and crags and leaping
waterfalls.
Sometimes on topping an eminence they could see far off to the
southwest a circle of snowy peaks vaunting it above their timber
clothed brethren. From some of these peaks issued columns of blue
smoke. Somewhere among those smoldering volcanoes, the professor
told them, lay the object of their quest. At noon every day careful
observations were taken, but they still pressed onward, the mystery and
charm of their quest increasing all the time.
Often, seated about the campfire, they discussed the possibility of the
Ramon gang having trailed them; but the consensus of opinion was that
they had succeeded in throwing the rascals off their tracks.
“But the scoundrels are keen on the scent where gold or treasure is
concerned,” said Ralph one evening, “and I’ll bet that if they are not
now on our trail they are trying to get upon it. I’ve got a private
presentiment that we are not destined to land that treasure without a
struggle.”
“If only we could encounter those Mexican Rangers of Colonel
Alverado’s, our task would be easier,” said Jack. “I’ve a good mind to
look about at daylight to-morrow before we get under way, and see if I
can discover some trace of them.”
“Not a bad idea,” assented the professor, “the Don said that his men
were off in this section somewhere, as it was suspected that the
rascally gang of which Ramon is the head would make in this direction
to seek shelter in the wild fastnesses.”
The next day, dawn had hardly made things visible before Jack was
stirring, and saddling the big horse which they had taken from the
Mexican outlaws at the lone rancho, set forth on his quest. They
had wished to leave this horse as a present to Don Alverado for his
kindness, but the Don would not hear of it. He argued that they might
need an extra horse, and his words had proven true. The extra animal
had come in handy once or twice when one or another of their own mounts
was crippled temporarily by the rough mountain roads.
Jack did not set out without an objective point. This was the summit of
a cliff at some distance which he felt sure he could reach by a sort
of natural trail he had observed from below. It was going to be risky,
though. To begin with, the trail was too narrow for him to turn back
if he found it ended abruptly, but it was the only way of reaching the
cliff top, and Jack felt that only from there could he obtain a good
view of the surrounding country.
To his relieved surprise, however, the trail, though narrow enough in
places to give a timid rider heart failure, was yet wide enough toward
the summit to afford a foothold to a sure-footed horse like the one
he bestrode. After about half an hour of breath-catching riding, the
Border Boy at length reached the top. As he had anticipated, the view
from there was as extended as it was magnificent. Peak after peak in
serried ranks stretched away on every side. Deep canyons lay between
them, with here and there a solitary eagle soaring above the dark
depths. The sky above was a blinding blue, and the newly risen sun
shone brightly, but yet, at that great altitude, Jack felt chilled.
But if he had expected to see the smoke of campfires, or spy a distant
line of moving dots on this vast panorama, he was mistaken. No human
note marred the impressive solemnity of the scene. Jack Merrill, poised
with his horse on the cliff top, might have been the only being in the
world for any evidence to the contrary.
“Well, I suppose I’d better be getting back again,” he thought to
himself. “What a magnificent country! It is like those cloud palaces
you see among the thunder heads on a still summer’s day in New England.”
With half a sigh at leaving such a spectacle behind him, the boy turned
his horse, and as he did so gave vent to a shout of surprise.
Kneeling on one knee behind a rock, and pointing a rifle full at him,
was the figure of a man who must have crept quietly up while Jack had
been admiring the view. This figure made a gesture cautioning Jack not
to move, and then gave a shrill whistle. Instantly the woods all about
galvanized into life. A score of wild-looking horsemen sprang out. They
were all armed, and Jack, utterly at a loss to know what this could
portend, stopped short.
“Well, senors, what is it?” he asked politely.
“Get off that horse, Miguel de Acosta,” ordered one of the men sternly.
“It is useless to resist, and——”
“But my name doesn’t happen to be Miguel de Acosta,” protested Jack.
“In that case, what are you doing with his horse?”
“Whose horse?”
“Why, De Acosta’s. If you are not De Acosta and have his horse you are
a horse thief, which is as bad under our laws as any of the crimes of
which De Acosta is accused.”
“Will somebody please tell me what all this means?” cried Jack, looking
about him bewilderedly.
“Please let me examine the brand of that horse,” said the first
speaker, who seemed to be a kind of leader; “ah, just as I thought. A
bar and a flying U. That’s De Acosta’s horse and you are the man we’re
after. Get off now.”
“But—but——,” began Jack, beginning to think that this adventure
might turn out seriously after all.
“No explanations now. You may make those to the commandante later.
Come, senor,” as Jack still hesitated, “are you going to dismount?”
“Nothing for it I suppose but to obey,” said Jack, clambering out of
the saddle.
The man who was conducting this inquiry while the rest looked grimly
on, was excessively polite, but there was something alarming in
his very suavity. As Jack’s feet touched the ground a sharp order
was given in Spanish, and two of the horsemen who had so suddenly
appeared stepped to his side. As they did so they tapped their rifles
significantly. But suddenly Jack noted something, and that was that on
the butt of each of the rifles was stamped Republica de Mexico, No. 2,
Sonora.
A great light broke upon him.
“Why, you are Mexican Rangers,—Rurales,—are you not?” he demanded of
the seeming leader.
“Si, senor. None should know that better than you.” was the grave
reply. “We are the second division of Sonora, with headquarters at
Santa Anita.”
“Hooray, then it’s all right after all,” cried the boy, and plunging
his hand into his breast pocket he drew forth the paper which Don
Alverado had given him before they departed from his hospitable roof.
The officer scanned it with raised eyebrows.
“Why, senor. A thousand pardons. I see that a mistake has been made.
But pardon me, how do you come to be riding the horse of the notorious
outlaw, De Acosta, who is one of Black Ramon de Barros’s chief
lieutenants?”
“Oh, I see it all now,” cried Jack, “you were in search of Black Ramon,
and when you saw a horse answering the description of De Acosta’s, you
at once jumped to the conclusion that I must be he. Say, that’s quite a
joke.”
“It wouldn’t have been much of a joke for you, if you had not proved
your identity, senor,” was the grave reply of the officer,—for such
Jack now knew he must be, “do you know what we would have done with
the real Acosta had we found him? Hanged him to the nearest tree and
left his body for the gallinazos and the buzzards.”
The day was warm, but Jack shuddered as the leader of the Mexican
Rangers spoke.
“But, senor,” went on the young officer, “you hinted just now at having
a story to tell about how you came by the horse. Will you breakfast
with me at our camp yonder, and you can relate your story as we eat? It
may be of great value to the State if it throws any light on the ways
of Black Ramon.”
Jack assented to this proposition. For one thing, he was hungry. For
another, he saw that the Mexican Rangers might prove valuable allies
in case of a brush with the Ramon outfit. All the rurales, among whom
a very democratic spirit prevailed, were much interested in his tale.
They hung closely about the officer’s quarters, a blanket stretched
on the ground, while Jack related his story of the happenings at
the lonely rancho. It made an odd scene, this conclave under the
great mountain pines. There was the clean-cut American lad sitting
tailor fashion opposite the young officer who listened eagerly, while
all about hovered the forms of the rangers, clad in bright sashes
and brilliant-hued serapes, with immense cone-topped hats lavishly
decorated with gold and silver braid. Jack learned later that some
of these men oftentimes pay as high as two hundred dollars for their
headgear, and that a good sombrero will pass down from father to son
and grandson without deteriorating.
At the conclusion of Jack’s narrative, the officer expressed a wish
to visit the camp of the Border Boys, more especially as it was in a
part of the mountains unfamiliar to him. No time, therefore, was lost
in mounting and getting under way. The Rangers used bugle calls like
regular troops, the trumpeter riding at the leader’s side.
In single line they defiled down the steep trail by which Jack had
ascended, and were soon at the foot of the mighty cliff.
“And where is your camp, senor?” inquired the officer, after they had
ridden for some time in the direction in which Jack knew it lay.
“That’s what’s puzzling me, senor,” rejoined the boy anxiously, “it
should be here, but——”
He broke off abruptly. Undoubtedly from the litter and the still
smoking embers upon which they had just that minute stumbled they must
be at the site of the camp. But where were the lad’s companions?
Had the earth swallowed them they could not have vanished more
completely, nor did a painstaking search by the Rangers reveal any clue
as to their whereabouts or the manner of their departure.