WITH THE MEXICAN RANGERS.
Coyote Pete felt that he was passing through the most critical moments
of his adventurous life. At the very least, he estimated the drop to
the bottom of the gully must be several hundred feet.
Obviously it was impossible for him to extricate himself from the
hurtling log, yet to remain in it was to doom himself to almost certain
destruction. Yet, as the log shot down like an object dropped from a
balloon, he realized that when it struck the earth he would be battered
into annihilation.
But even in a situation which would have caused most men to swoon with
terror, Coyote could think, and think coolly, too.
Suddenly, though, there came a sudden interruption to the downward
progress of the great log with its human freight enclosed.
Crash!
Every nerve in Coyote Pete’s frame seemed to be ripped asunder. Every
tooth in his head was jarred. He lay still, feeling pounded and
stunned, like a boy who has just had a hard fight with some school
tyrant.
“The log has landed, evidently,” he exclaimed, “but how? Where? Why
aren’t I dead?”
Suddenly he became aware that the wood encasing him like a coffin had
become easier in its pressure on him. He moved, and with a tearing,
rending sound the log burst asunder.
Like a butterfly from its cocoon,—if Coyote will forgive me for
comparing his rugged form to a butterfly,—the cow-puncher, bruised,
wounded and sore in every limb, peered forth. Where was he?
All at once he felt the portion of the log which remained beneath
him gently swaying like a boat on rippling waves. In a short time,
by cautious feeling about him, he found that the log had, by some
providential miracle, landed on a sort of island of trees growing,
apparently, right straight out from the cliff face. As he realized his
position the cold sweat burst out in great drops on his brow and all
over his body. If this was the case his fate was to be worse than if he
had been dashed to pieces and mercifully killed outright.
Hung where he was between heaven and earth, he would have to die
miserably of starvation, unless madness intervened and he leaped
crazily to his own destruction. All at once, as he made his
investigations, his foot slipped, and with a cry of actual terror the
cow-puncher felt himself beginning to dart downward through space. By a
desperate, despairing effort he clutched the branches as he fell, and
drew himself, with infinite pains, back upon his precious perch. Once
there he lay trembling and nauseated at the thought of the narrowness
of his escape from a plunge into the abyss.
Of all the tight places he had ever been in, Coyote Pete was surely now
in the very worst. He felt the wall behind him when he had somewhat
recovered from his attack of deadly sickness. It was smooth as glass.
No chance of climbing up. He would have examined his surroundings at
greater length, but he dared not risk another slip like the one that
had so unnerved him.
It was many years since Coyote Pete had prayed, but he did so then,
commending his soul to his Maker, for that he would ever escape from
his frightful predicament he did not dare to hope. Somewhat calmer
after his devotions he lay still, not daring to move lest the motion of
his body might dislodge some of the rotten wood, and he could not bear
to think of hearing it go dropping down into that awful gorge beneath,
finally losing all sound in the dread profundities.
It was unlikely in the extreme that he would ever be found, for in that
unfrequented part of the mountain fastnesses it was most improbable
that anyone ever passed. It was only the thirst for gold that had
brought Ramon into the rugged place.
There came no sound from above, and Coyote concluded that the outlaws,
hearing the crash of the landing, had concluded that he was dead, and
departed.
“What a story fer the boys and the professor to hyar,” groaned the
unhappy man, burying his face in his hands.
So the dark hours rolled away and daylight came. But those hours of
terror had unnerved Coyote terribly. With the coming of day he dreaded
more than ever to look beneath him. He felt that if he ever dared to
gaze into the voids which he felt must lie beneath his fragile perch,
that he must be impelled by a crazy desire to leap into space.
So strong did this feeling become that he lay there, not daring to look
about him, until a sudden sound smote on his ears,—the sharp rattle
of hoofs, coming apparently from the canyon above which his log was
perched in such a precarious condition.
The sound in arousing Coyote’s hopes of rescue,—though how they were
to rescue him he did not know,—had likewise temporarily banished his
keener fears. Cautiously he peeped over the edge of his eyrie and then
gave vent to a shout of astonishment that went echoing and roaring off
among the canyon walls.
“Mother of all the bob cats!” he howled, “here I’ve bin lying all night
ez scared ez a sick puppy and not ten feet above the ground!”
Such, in fact, was the case. The trees in which the log had so
fortunately landed, grew out from almost the base of the great cliff.
Coyote, glancing up, saw that they were the only ones on its hundred
and fifty feet of height.
“Coyote, you old idjut, ain’t you never goin’ to larn?” the cowboy
admonished himself. “Why didn’t you drop suthin’ down ter see how far
you was above the ground, you consarned, double-barreled old chump?
You’d hev saved yourself some gray hairs ef you hed.”
Reproaching himself thus, the cow-puncher dropped lightly from one of
the lower branches of the trees to the ground.
“Wish I’d done that when I slipped last night,” he said. “Hold on,
though, on second thoughts, I don’t. I’d have bin dead o’ fright afore
I touched the ground in that case.”
But now the hoof beats which had attracted his attention were coming
nearer. The floor of the canyon was so strewn with Titanic rock masses,
though, that it was impossible to see more than a few yards in either
direction.
“Wonder if that ain’t thet Ramon and his bunch come ter look at ther
remains?” thought Pete. “Guess I’ll be on the safe side and jes’ duck a
’hind this yar rock till I make sure.”
So saying, he slipped between two boulders into a small natural cave in
which he felt he would be secure from observation, and yet be able to
see what was going forward. He had not long to wait. Suddenly, around
the corner of one of the huge rock piles, there swung a troop of gaily
caparisoned riders; Mexicans, beyond a doubt. Their serapes streamed
out behind them in the wind like gaudy streamers.
“Now, what bunch of pesky greasers is this yar?” Pete was beginning to
himself, when suddenly he broke off in amazement:
“Jack Merrill’s among ’em, by ginger. He’s a prisoner! No, he ain’t!
He’s talking ter that chap in front with ther silver-mounted rifle. Bob
cats! I have it now. It’s a troop of rurales, and they’re on the trail
of Ramon!
“Yip-yip-yee-ee-ee!”
Giving vent to the long-drawn cow-puncher yell, Coyote Pete dashed from
his place of concealment, and a more astonished lad than Jack Merrill
I can assure you, you never saw, when he perceived the old plainsman
suddenly bob up out of a great rock mass in that lonely canyon.
In his excess of joy Coyote fairly flung his arms about Jack’s neck.
But scant time could be given to greetings. Explanations were in order.
Exclamations of indignation and of fury ran like wildfire among the
Rangers, as the old plainsman told his tale. Then Jack related how he
had fared, and how they had trailed the marauders, being much delayed
at times, though, by faulty tracks where the party had passed over hard
ground.
“By ginger, I never noticed till now, that we are in the same canyon
we came through with that outfit of Ramon’s late yesterday!” exclaimed
Pete. “Gloomy place, ain’t it? And it seemed pretty glum to me last
night, I can tell you.”
He gazed at the cliff and shuddered a little. He could not help it.
“Say, Jack, hez my hair turned white?” he asked suddenly.
“No,” laughed the boy, “why?”
“Arter what I went through, I hearn tell of such things. Me for a nice
snug place in a stampede, or the front rank in a shooting scrape arter
this. I’ve no more use for exciting sports.”
“Senors,” interrupted the leader of the Rangers presently, “we had
better be proceeding. Ramon may have broken camp and gone on by this
time, and again he may have——”
“May have what?” asked Jack, for the capitano paused and seemed
unwilling to proceed.
“I do not wish to alarm you unduly, senor,” said the young officer,
“but I know the character of that notorious outlaw well. It is possible
that if we do not hurry we may arrive too late to save your friends
from a terrible fate.”
The thought was maddening to Jack.
“Oh, that we have been fooling away time here!” he exclaimed
impatiently; “Pete, you can mount behind me. There. Are you all right?
Yes? Then forward!”
“Forward!” shouted the officer, and the bugle rang shrilly out.
Amidst a cloud of dust the Mexican Rangers swept on down the canyon,
intent on their errand of vengeance.