THE DESTROYER
"Who's that good-lookin' Indian, Jerry?" asked Fred, as the light of
Fort Bayard came into sight.
"Araviapa Apache," came the reply. "He's been chasing around the Post
'most all his life. Came from the San Carlos agency, I guess, so folks
called him Carl. Used to be a Dutchman named Carl here, and the Greasers
called the Injun Carlito, or Little Carl. He goes by both names. He's
the cool guy, you bet, and a wise one, too."
"But what does he do?" persisted the practical Fred. "He can't live on
air, can he? Does he get his living for nothing?"
"Don't you think it! Not him," returned Dunk warmly. "He does a lot of
work for us--trailin', and things like that. He's a bird at it."
"Yes, and he's learned to read and write," added Fly. "You kids ought to
see some of the books and stuff he's got."
There was no more time for conversation, as they now drew into the Post
grounds and drove up to the house occupied by the Crawfords, where the
guests were to stay. The captain and two or three of his brother
officers met the new arrivals. At the tale of the runaway there was
great excitement on the veranda and Captain Crawford called Ike up from
the drive. After examining the teamster and the boys, he gave up the
effort he was making to solve the mystery of the runaway.
"It must have been a bird," laughed Dr. Rivers, who bore the title of
lieutenant.
"That seems to be the only explanation," admitted the captain. "Are you
sure the thing hit you, Ike?"
"Yessah," maintained the teamster stoutly. "It was the s'prise more'n
anythin' else that knocked me off, Cap'n. Felt like a bird, though."
"It was too large, father," protested Jerry. "There ain't no bird as big
as that. Mebbe it was an aeroplane."
The officers laughed, but Jerry stuck to it that the "thing" was not a
bird. The examination ended in nothing. The boys had brought the mail
over with them, so as soon as the ladies had retired the officers went
over to the quartermaster's office while the four boys separated for the
night.
The next day was a perfect one such as only the New Mexican hills can
produce. To the north and west of Fort Bayard stretched a wilderness of
deep valleys and mountain peaks as far as the Rio Gila. The Bread
Pudding ranch, as the Circle B P was locally known, lay five miles to
the east.
After breakfasting, Fred and his mother were driven around the garrison.
There was plenty to be seen, and neither Jerry nor Fred realized how the
time was flying until Dunk approached.
"Hey, Jerry," called the latter, with some show of indignation. "What's
the mater with you? We've been waiting more'n an hour."
After hastily explaining to the older members of the party that they
were going over to the ranch for the day, Jerry and Fred accompanied
Dunk to the stables. Here they found Fly and Carlito waiting and after
saddling up they speedily left Fort Bayard behind.
"Ever ride much?" asked Dunk, seeing that Fred experienced a little
difficulty with his saddle.
"Sure, lots!" replied the Cleveland boy.
"Never ran up against this kind of saddle, though. Spanish, ain't it?"
"Used to be," grinned Jerry. "Good U. S. now. Say, Carlito, what was
that thing that scared our horses last night?"
"You'll hear more of that when we get to the ranch," replied the Apache,
looking away. Fred noticed that Carlito spoke slowly and used exact
English, probably gained from books. "I do not know what it was but--"
"Well, but what?" prodded Dunk.
"I think it must have been the Thunder Bird!" concluded Carlito.
A shout went up from all except Fred, who asked wonderingly what the
Thunder Bird was.
"It's one of the old Injun gods, Windy," explained Dunk. "He made the
lightning and thunder and had something to do with the rain and crops.
General boss of the gods, wasn't he, Carlo?"
"Pretty near," nodded the Apache gravely. "The Thunder Bird not only
represented the Deity but he had great power over rain, which is
important in this part of the country. Our people used to have great
sacrifices to him twice a year."
"Human sacrifices?" asked Fred innocently. At this even Carlito burst
out laughing.
"Where'm I off now?" cried Fred.
"There were no human sacrifices," replied the Indian boy. "Only the
Aztecs used to have them. Our people and the other Apaches, the Navajos,
Moqui and neighboring tribes used to appoint deputies twice each year.
They'd go to a certain place where the medicine men went through
elaborate rituals, the deputies representing the tribes. No people is so
symbolical as we are--or were. I mean by that in religious rites. For
instance, every line of paint and every article used has a symbolical
and often mystical meaning."
"That Gov'ment shark from Washington," said Jerry, "who was here last
summer, knew a lot about that. He sent dad one of his books, and the
whole thing explained a single six-day Zuni corn feast!"
"Say, speed up, fellows. You jog along as though we had all day and
to-morrow," and Fly spurred up his pony, calling back, "Race you to the
turn of the road."
For a few minutes the boys made the dust fly, and, despite the good
start Fly had made, Windy came in first with Carlito a close second.
They kept up a brisk canter all the way to the ranch.
"Here come the other fellows, Windy," said Dunk, as they reached the B.
P. Windy saw two horses leave the corral now only a few hundred feet
away. The two approached at a gallop and a moment later met the Post
boys with a yell. One of the B. P. boys was roughly and carelessly
dressed and was brown as an Indian. He was introduced to Fred as Herb
Phipps. The second wore a Boy Scout tenderfoot emblem on his flannel
shirt. This was Howard Graystock, the New Yorker. His face lit up as he
saw the first-class and merit badges that decorated Fred's shirt.
"How long you been a scout, Windham?" he asked as the party whirled and
rode up to the corral.
"'Bout three years," replied Fred, dismounting.
"Wish I was first-class!" rejoined Gray. "I swore in about a week before
I come out here." He lowered his voice slightly, "Say, you back me an'
Phipps up strong, will you? Don't say anything--you'll see pretty
quick."
Fred laughed assent as all dismounted, and they joined the others. After
turning the horses into the corral the party started up to the house but
were stopped by a hail. Looking around, they saw a large man striding
around the opposite end of the corral. The boys from the Fort gave him a
shout of greeting and all waited for him to come up.
Brett Phipps was big in every sense of the word. He had fought his way
up from cowpuncher to millionaire by sheer strength of will and brains.
Although he had started on a Texas ranch and fully shared the prejudices
of the cow-men against the sheepmen, he realized that there was big
money in sheep. Therefore he had started the large Circle B. P. sheep
ranch near Fort Bayard where there was good water, although he owned a
large cow range in the Taos country as well.
Like the boys he was dressed in flannel shirt and wide Stetson. Over his
trousers he wore chaps of plain leather, to protect his clothes from the
wear of the saddle, and his legs from rattlers. He greeted the party
vigorously.
"Well, I'm sure glad to see yuh, boys! Hullo, new member? Windham? Glad
to meet yuh! Hang up on the veranda, boys, till I get these chaps off.
Right back."
He disappeared inside the house, and the boys "hung up" on the wide
veranda which was littered with canvas, reed and other easy-chairs.
Indeed, the veranda of the ranch-house served largely as an office and
living room combined. Both Mr. Phipps and the boys spent a large share
of their time there.
In a few moments the rancher returned minus his chaps, followed by a
Chinaman, the ranch-house cook, who greeted the boys with a cheerful
grin of recognition.
"What'll it be?" inquired Mr. Phipps, as he sank into a big chair and
glanced around.
"Lemonade!" arose the shout, and the "Chink" vanished.
"Carl hinted last night that you had something special on, Herb," began
Dunk to the rancher's son. Herb grinned and looked at his father.
"Not me," he said. "I reckon dad has somethin' under his hat, though."
At this moment the Celestial returned with a gigantic olla or Mexican
jar full of lemonade, together with glasses.
"Well, John, didn't take you long," said Mr. Phipps, as he tossed off a
glass with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Him all leddy," grinned the Chinaman.
"Let's get together, boys," commanded Mr. Phipps, with a sweep of his
broad hand. "I've got to get over to Three Mile Crick after lunch, so I
reckon we'll hold a confab right now."
The boys hitched their chairs up closer to Mr. Phipps and the lemonade,
and when their glasses had been refilled the ranchman continued.
"Mebbe y'all don't know it, but there's been a lot o' devilment goin' on
for quite a spell back. We've kep' it dark, hopin' to catch whoever done
it, but no chance. There's somethin' or some one raisin' Cain with my
sheep. We've missed a lot o' lambs, plumb gone. We've found sheep with
pieces o' their backs clean torn out, an' last week I come across a big
ram all smashed to bits like he'd been dropped off a cliff.
"Night 'fore last young Morales who has a hut ten mile north of here,
hears somethin' doin' and rushes out of his hut. Bein' a Greaser he
don't know any better than to yell. Somethin' jabs him in the shoulder
and he lets off his sixgun. Then, he swears he heard wings an' was
carried up in the air for a minute and was dropped. O' course all that's
pure guff--yuh can't believe what a Greaser says nohow. But Jap Fisher,
my foreman, finds him yesterday lyin' with his leg broke, a couple
hundred yards from the hut."
"Mebbe he wasn't lyin', Mr. Phipps!" broke in Jerry excitedly. "Listen."
And he rapidly sketched their adventure of the night before. It was now
the turn of Herb and Gray to stare, while Mr. Phipps listened in growing
surprise.
"Jehosaphat!" he exclaimed when Jerry finished. "That sure beats me! I
figured Morales was doin' a heap o' fabricatin', but he may 'a' told the
truth for once. Anyhow, here's what I had in mind. Gray has been fillin'
me and Herb up with his Boy Scout stuff, so I want to know why y'all
don't get busy? If yuh will, I'll put up for the equipment on condition
that yuh get right after what's raisin' thunder with them sheep. You
boys have a heap o' time hangin' heavy on your young hands, and yuh
might as well be doin' somethin' useful. It'll save me bringin' in a lot
o' men from Silver City, an' as far as brain goes yuh'll have 'em beat a
mile. How about it?"
Fred caught an appealing glance from Gray, and though he hesitated to
put himself forward, he was a loyal scout, and as he had taken a decided
liking to the clean-cut New Yorker, he felt obliged to comply with the
earnest request Gray had made when they met.
"I think it's bully, Mr. Phipps," Fred gathered courage to say. "Of
course I'm new out here an' all that, but I've been in the scouts pretty
near three years now and it's done me a heap of good. More fun than a
circus too."
"Sure, we'll do it!" cried Dunk. "We'll lay for that Thunder Bird of
yours, Carl, eh, Jerry?"
"Bet your life!" answered Jerry fervently.
"Here wait a minute," cried Mr. Phipps. "What's this about the Thunder
Bird, Carlito? What do you know 'bout this thing?"
"Nothing, sir," replied the young Apache with a smile. "I just guessed
that it was the Thunder Bird. Of course, I don't believe that. We could
certainly have some fun besides being of possible use to you."
"Count me in too," cried Fly. "Aviator's badge for mine!"
"Same here," "Me too." "That's what I say," came from all the boys.
"Good," shouted Jerry enthusiastically. "Carl can run the trailin' end
of it an' Dunk can boss the first-aid work an' Windy'll be chief cook
and bottle washer o' the whole bunch!"
"There's the lunch gong," laughed Mr. Phipps, springing to his feet.
"Come on to grub pile! I've got to get away pretty quick, but y'all can
have the ranch to yourselves all day. Comin', Hop Sing, comin'. Chase
along, boys!"