HAIL
The storm drifted steadily northward over the valley with its
accompanying flashes of lightning, followed by volleys of rain mingled
with the shot of hail. As soon as the boys heard the hail on the
canvas roof of their tent they hustled out to put blankets on their
horses, so as to protect them from the beating hail. They moved them
under the protecting branches as much as possible and made them as
snug as they could.
"Remember the time we got into a hail storm in Kansas?" questioned Jo,
as they walked back through the beating white pellets, that were
getting larger every minute.
"That was fun," laughed Tom. "We pretended that the hail was bullets
and the one who was struck on the head was to be dead."
"You were it," declared Jo.
"I was not," said Tom decidedly.
"We will leave it to this storm to decide," said Jo.
"All right," agreed Tom.
"Jeems to be the referee," said Jo.
This was likewise acceptable to Tom. The hail was now coming faster
and of good size, about as big as the end of one's thumb, but the boys
did not seem to mind as they slouched along with their sombreros
pulled down around their ears, thus affording pretty fair protection.
Just then a big bullet of hail struck fairly on top of Tom's skull and
bounced, the others saw, about six inches into the air.
"Hurrah!" yelled Jo, "that proves it. You are it again. Isn't he
judge?" this to Jeems.
"You mean hit again, not 'it. I fear you are English," replied Jeems.
"Don't insult me," said Jo, "I'm plain U. S. Southwest. But isn't Tom
out?"
"Yes," replied Jeems, "he is."
"What!" cried Tom in great surprise, "did something strike me."
"I always thought your head was thick," replied Jo contemptuously,
"now I'm sure of it."
By this time they had reached the shelter of the tent and stood
looking out at the antics of the hail as it danced upon the hard
ground and leaped from the surface of the rocks, and spatted into fire
until a steam arose into the air. In a short time the ground was
covered with several inches of whiteness.
"Did you boys ever hear that old circus joke?" inquired Jeems, looking
musingly out at the jumping hail.
"Not recently," said Jo. "Fire away, Jeems, and relieve your mind."
"Well, in the circus they have a king rigged up on a throne. Him in
a red robe and a tinsel crown. All the varlets come in and bow low
before his majesty. Then comes the clown and bows lower than the
others.
"'Hail! Hail!' he cries.
"'How dare you hail,' roars the king, 'when I'm reigning!' Then the
crowd yells."
"That isn't so worse, Jeems," laughed Jo, and the rest joined in.
"What's the difference, boys," questioned Jim, "between rain and a
hen?"
"Give it up," said the chorus.
"The one lays the dust and the other dost lay."
Then Jim leaped out of the tent to get away from the boys, who
would have combined and given him a good licking in token of their
appreciation of his brilliant wit. It was his turn to keep watch,
anyway, and so he stayed out under a tree, while the boys went
peacefully to sleep, with the hail beating on the canvas roof of their
tent, confident that with Jim on deck they would be safe enough.
How about the vanished Mexican? He had made his escape as Jim had
said. Though stiff from being tightly bound and suffering from the
blow he had got from the stone that Jo had thrown at him, he made
quick time to the pine-clad slope of the mountain. He seemed to know
the way even through the darkness of the forest of pine. After going
half a mile he saw the outline of his horse hitched to a sapling.
As soon as he was mounted he turned his animal's head down the slope
until he came to the edge of the meadow. There he stopped for a moment
and looked towards the star of the boys' campfire upon the hill, then
he shook his fist in their direction, with an imprecation and a threat
of what was going to happen to them in a short time. Finally he turned
his mustang's head up the valley and rode at a slow dog trot through
the darkness, groaning considerably with the pain that the jolting
gave him.
In a short time the storm overtook him and the falling hail made his
pony hump himself threateningly, but his rider gave him a dig with his
long and cruel spurs in the flank and that furnished the broncho with
something else to think about. After several miles of hard travel, the
two began going up steadily, along a narrow and steep trail, with the
brawling stream below. The valley had narrowed into a deep canyon with
great walls of pale granite, and uncountable black pines growing
everywhere.
The hail made the trail slippery and once the horse came near slipping
into the depths of the gorge below, but with a tremendous straining
effort the plucky animal scrambled back to safety. It was evident that
his rider was born to be hanged, for he seemed able to escape every
other form of death. Having regained the trail, he rode on for some
distance, then he turned into a side canyon, and his knowing horse
took him through the labyrinth of trees, until there appeared a light
of a campfire at the end of the trail. The gaunt forms of some men
could be seen moving around it.
One of the men heard the approach of the Mexican and gave the alarm.
In an instant no one was in sight, but there were a number of guns
ready to take the number of the stranger whoever he might be. But the
Mexican was on to their little ways. He reined in his horse, gave a
low whistle, and called out something in Spanish and then rode up to
the group.
There were eight in the gang, including the stout red-necked man who
had given the boys a chase early in the morning. The evident leader of
the crowd was a lanky young fellow whose unusual length of limb did
not indicate any frailty of physique. He was a man to be dreaded in
any encounter. Gus Gols had a rather shock head of light hair, one
bunch always sticking up; high cheek bones, a skin of dully burnished
red, and rather small blue eyes, both keen and insolent in their gaze.
He had a queer, aggressive way of hooking his head forward when
speaking that was very noticeable.
He was not vicious in speech, but he was in action, and was one of the
most dangerous characters in the West. He had been cowboy, cattle
rustler and road agent in different parts of the country west of the
Missouri. Now he was at the head of a desperate gang who raided far
and wide, taking gold from the pack trains or from the individual
miner, where he had struck it rich; even making raids on the
settlements on the western slope of the Sierras.
It appeared as though the Frontier Boys were walking directly into
the jaws of this desperate gang. They were already trailing them and
might pounce upon them at any time. Physically it would seem that Jim
himself would be no match for "Big Gus," as he was generally known in
that section of the woods, but two of them, say Jim and Juarez, would
have made it interesting for him.
Gus Gols listened to his Mexican's story of adventure with much
impassiveness, then he got slowly to his feet. He had made no comment
to break the course of the Greaser's narrative, only eyeing him
occasionally with a squint of his hard blue eyes.
"I don't see, Mike" (his true name was Miguel Jose Maria, etc.), "why
them fellars down there in the valley didn't choke the breath out of
your black carcass; they must be soft ones, and I'm going to git their
horses pretty soon now. I'm going to turn in, and I don't want you
boys raising Cain around here. If you want to do any chawing be quiet
about it, understand?"
They understood perfectly; Miguel Jose Maria, better known as "Mike,"
looking blackly at the slouching figure of "the boss," as the giant
stooped his head through the low doorway of the cabin. What he
muttered to himself was complimentary neither to Big Gus' character
nor career, but he stood in great fear of him nevertheless. It was
characteristic of Gus Gols' shrewdness that his gang was made up for
the most part of Mexicans and half-breeds, with only two white men for
lieutenants.
He could dominate these mongrels and make them subservient. Also they
had to be satisfied with a small part of the spoils, while with a gang
of white men he would have been obliged to have divided up evenly and
he would constantly have had to prove his right to leadership. He had
drilled his motley crew until they were a very dangerous band of
outlaws. Naturally the Mexicans and half-breeds were poor shots, but
Big Gus had trained them until he had made good marksmen out of them,
and cool under fire. He had used threats, cajolery and even occasional
money prizes to obtain this result.
From this it was evident that the Frontier Boys had their work cut out
for them, with this dangerous gang barring their way and liable to
attack them at any time. Gus Gols was even now making his plans for an
ambush or a raid. The reports that his scouts had brought him in
regard to the boys' horses had made him greedy to get hold of them.
His own horseflesh was not in the best of shape. Besides, he needed
ammunition and other supplies which the boys had so thoughtfully
brought along. He chuckled to himself as he saw how easy it all was.
What chance would those tenderfoot kids have against his cunning
courage, strength and the odds of numbers? He would eat them alive. In
truth there seemed excellent ground for his confidence and it would
take something besides luck to save Jim and his followers at this
crisis. It would require hard fighting and skillful strategy.
"The Boss is planning some devilment or ruther," said the red-faced
scout to the other white man. "It's a sartain sign when he chuckles
to himself that a-way."
"Your diagnosis is correct, Ephraim," replied his pal, giving his
black moustache a delicate twist.
"Better not let Big Gus hear you use such language, Edgar," said Eph,
"because he's kind of tetchy sometimes."
Edgar only laughed. He was an odd sheep to be in such a fold, for he
looked more like a consumptive than an outlaw; his face had a decided
pallor, and he was subject to a hacking cough. It was evident that he
also gave some attention to dress and a real diamond shone in his
shirt front, once white, but now of a dubious grime.
But make no mistake. Next to the Boss he was the most dangerous man in
the pack. He was a man with a certain amount of education, but it did
him no good, and if he got near a piano, he could make it hum with
harmony. His chief accomplishment, however, and one which made him
valuable to his chief, was his ability to use a revolver with rapidity
and precision.
"You fellars better turn in;" it was the voice of Gus Gols; "I'm
liable to give yer somethin' besides conversation in a day or two. I
want yer to look pink and purty if we should happen to meet them swell
tenderfeet. Shet up now." They "shet."