Jimmy Hayes became a favourite in the ranger camp. He had an endless
store of good-nature, and a mild, perennial quality of humour that is
well adapted to camp life. He was never without his horned frog. In the
bosom of his shirt during rides, on his knee or shoulder in camp, under
his blankets at night, the ugly little beast never left him.
Jimmy was a humourist of a type that prevails in the rural South and
West. Unskilled in originating methods of amusing or in witty
conceptions, he had hit upon a comical idea and clung to it reverently.
It had seemed to Jimmy a very funny thing to have about his person,
with which to amuse his friends, a tame horned frog with a red ribbon
around its neck. As it was a happy idea, why not perpetuate it?
The sentiments existing between Jimmy and the frog cannot be exactly
determined. The capability of the horned frog for lasting affection is
a subject upon which we have had no symposiums. It is easier to guess
Jimmy’s feelings. Muriel was his _chef d’œuvre_ of wit, and as such he
cherished her. He caught flies for her, and shielded her from sudden
northers. Yet his care was half selfish, and when the time came she
repaid him a thousand fold. Other Muriels have thus overbalanced the
light attentions of other Jimmies.
Not at once did Jimmy Hayes attain full brotherhood with his comrades.
They loved him for his simplicity and drollness, but there hung above
him a great sword of suspended judgment. To make merry in camp is not
all of a ranger’s life. There are horse-thieves to trail, desperate
criminals to run down, bravos to battle with, bandits to rout out of
the chaparral, peace and order to be compelled at the muzzle of a
six-shooter. Jimmy had been “’most generally a cow-puncher,” he said;
he was inexperienced in ranger methods of warfare. Therefore the
rangers speculated apart and solemnly as to how he would stand fire.
For, let it be known, the honour and pride of each ranger company is
the individual bravery of its members.
For two months the border was quiet. The rangers lolled, listless, in
camp. And then—bringing joy to the rusting guardians of the
frontier—Sebastiano Saldar, an eminent Mexican desperado and
cattle-thief, crossed the Rio Grande with his gang and began to lay
waste the Texas side. There were indications that Jimmy Hayes would
soon have the opportunity to show his mettle. The rangers patrolled
with alacrity, but Saldar’s men were mounted like Lochinvar, and were
hard to catch.
One evening, about sundown, the rangers halted for supper after a long
ride. Their horses stood panting, with their saddles on. The men were
frying bacon and boiling coffee. Suddenly, out of the brush, Sebastiano
Saldar and his gang dashed upon them with blazing six-shooters and
high-voiced yells. It was a neat surprise. The rangers swore in annoyed
tones, and got their Winchesters busy; but the attack was only a
spectacular dash of the purest Mexican type. After the florid
demonstration the raiders galloped away, yelling, down the river. The
rangers mounted and pursued; but in less than two miles the fagged
ponies laboured so that Lieutenant Manning gave the word to abandon the
chase and return to the camp.
Then it was discovered that Jimmy Hayes was missing. Some one
remembered having seen him run for his pony when the attack began, but
no one had set eyes on him since. Morning came, but no Jimmy. They
searched the country around, on the theory that he had been killed or
wounded, but without success. Then they followed after Saldar’s gang,
but it seemed to have disappeared. Manning concluded that the wily
Mexican had recrossed the river after his theatric farewell. And,
indeed, no further depredations from him were reported.
This gave the rangers time to nurse a soreness they had. As has been
said, the pride and honour of the company is the individual bravery of
its members. And now they believed that Jimmy Hayes had turned coward
at the whiz of Mexican bullets. There was no other deduction. Buck
Davis pointed out that not a shot was fired by Saldar’s gang after
Jimmy was seen running for his horse. There was no way for him to have
been shot. No, he had fled from his first fight, and afterward he would
not return, aware that the scorn of his comrades would be a worse thing
to face than the muzzles of many rifles.
So Manning’s detachment of McLean’s company, Frontier Battalion, was
gloomy. It was the first blot on its escutcheon. Never before in the
history of the service had a ranger shown the white feather. All of
them had liked Jimmy Hayes, and that made it worse.
Days, weeks, and months went by, and still that little cloud of
unforgotten cowardice hung above the camp.