BORDER CITY ONCE MORE
The observation car of the Pullman train speeding swiftly across the
state of Wyoming had perhaps never held a livelier crowd than the
Ramblers and their friends. All but Tom Clifton and Willie Sloan seemed
bubbling over with good spirits, and were perfectly willing that every
one in the car should know it.
Tommy, however, feeling that exhibitions of mirth and glee were hardly
dignified in one who had so nearly reached the stupendous height of
six feet, only occasionally forgot himself sufficiently to join in
their merry laughter. During the trip the look of discontent had often
vanished from Willie’s face. He opened his eyes in wonderment as the
train lumbered up steep grades and across magnificent mountain ranges.
The ever-changing views of rugged, gigantic heights, of masses of
bald rocks and forest-clad slopes, of cascades and rushing torrents
fiercely foaming and lashing their way between barriers which sometimes
approached the tracks, even awakened within Willie a feeling of
enthusiasm. But he said very little, and sat back in his seat sedately
when there was nothing particularly awe-inspiring to be seen.
The wonderful mountain views were finally left behind, and the heavy,
labored puffing of the locomotive resolved itself into swift pulsating
notes as more level stretches of track were reached. Between low-lying
hills, their long undulating summits dropping nearer and nearer to
the plain, the Ramblers were carried, until the train shot through an
opening in the final range and out upon a great stretch of loam-covered
prairie.
There were but few passengers on the car, and the boys changed from
side to side, or walked about to suit their pleasure. Eagerness showed
in their bright expression and voices as the miles were dropped behind,
each instant bringing them nearer to Border City.
“I can hardly believe it’s true,” said Cranny, hilariously. “Isn’t it
great, Willie? Just think--say, what you are staring at so hard, eh?”
“I was just wondering if Mr. Clifton uses hair varnish,” piped Willie.
“Hasn’t he got the glossiest mop ever! Did you shave this morning, Mr.
Clifton?”
“Oh, get out!” mumbled Tommy.
“Not while we’re cuttin’ along at this rate,” grinned Willie. “Say,
Cran, is it really true that the earth turns on its axle? I----”
“There’s the town, sure as I live!” called out Sam Randall, excitedly,
waving a field-glass. “Yes siree, Bob Somers, it is.”
“Where away?” cried Cranny.
“To the right; see it?--Border City, fellows, looking twice as natural
as it ever did. My! the place must have grown just as fast as Tommy.
Hooray! Won’t be long, now, before we’re there.”
“And I’ll bet Jed Warren’ll be waiting for us with the buckboard and
some lively bronchos,” roared Cranny. “You wrote Mr. Follett when we’d
arrive, eh, Bob? I thought so. Yes; I can make out some buildings now.”
“And, just think, to-night--old Circle T Ranch again,” remarked Bob.
“Won’t that be jolly?”
With eager impatience the boys watched the town of Border City coming
into view. There was no need of the field-glass now. Outlined against a
line of hills beyond, the pale-colored buildings in the full glare of
the noonday sun were assuming definite form.
“Border City terminal!”
The conductor’s voice came to their ears above the rumble of wheels. A
sharp, crisp blast from the locomotive whistle shrieked its way across
the plains; and the happy and expectant crowd promptly flung to the
breeze a ringing chorus of shouts to keep it company.
“I see something I never saw here before,” cried Sam, a few moments
later. “Look, Bob.”
“That’s right, Sam--the gas works; and--and--by Jove”--he seized
the field-glass from the other’s hand--“the hangar of a dirigible
balloon--must be Major Warfield Carroll’s, eh? See it--just beyond that
clump of trees?”
“Sure thing!” cried Dick; “and there’s a long line of sheds; most
likely to house the aeroplanes.”
“And I notice mills of some kind, too”--the voice came from Dave. “No
mistake about Border City taking a big boom, fellows.”
“Just wait till Cran gets in his licks,” grinned Willie. “I’m here to
keep him right on the job. He was getting stale in Tacoma. Did you
speak, Mr. Clifton?”
“Not to you, William,” returned Tommy, freezingly. “Bob, I can see the
Black Bear Hotel now.”
“And the Cattlemen’s Retreat, too,” shouted Cranny. “Whoop! Don’t let
the cow-punchers scare you, Willie. There’s always some loafing around.”
Another rasping whistle came over the air as the train began to slacken
its speed. Straight ahead, the boys could see the shining steel rails
disappear beneath a train shed, while above the roof rose a slender
tower. The platform was crowded.
“My goodness, how different from the Border City we knew!” cried Bob.
“Looks like a real live town, now, eh, Dave?”
“Remarkable change,” murmured the stout lad. “Wonder if the crowd will
have as lively a time out here as they did before.”
“Not the slightest doubt about it. The Ramblers always manage to get
mixed up in some stirring events.”
Guns, suit cases and bundles were seized by their respective owners;
and when the cars had given their final lurch, and the last grind of
the wheels had echoed sharply through the train shed, the seven stood
ready to swing themselves off the platform.
They had scarcely alighted when a young man dressed in regulation
cowboy fashion, wearing a blue shirt, leather chaps, a flowing yellow
handkerchief about his neck, and a huge, broad-brimmed sombrero, made a
dash toward them, at the same time uttering a glad shout of welcome.
“Jed Warren!” cried Bob, his face aglow with pleasure.
“Wal--wal, I reckon you’re sure right, pard,” exclaimed the cowboy,
gleefully. And in the attempt of the enthusiastic lads to shake his
hand at the same time bundles were dropped and suit cases knocked over.
Several of the loungers who made it a point to meet nearly every train
were vastly entertained by this spectacle.
There were so many words and exclamations crowded into the next few
seconds that no one knew exactly what any one else had said, and the
first distinct sentence came in a shrill voice:
“My! What magazine cover did you escape from, anyway?”
Jed Warren’s grinning face was immediately turned toward the speaker.
“My father’s ward, Willie Sloan, Jed,” said Cranny. “He’s out here to
get some ginger into his composition.”
“Say, do you wear those clothes because they look nice, or because they
feel good?” asked Willie, when the operation of shaking hands was over.
“Both,” answered Jed, with a good-natured laugh.
“Well, you make me think of a moving picture show. Are you going to
stay here all day? I never saw chins wag so fast in all my life before.”
“Most as fast as that chap has grow’d up,” grinned Jed, jerking his
finger in the direction of Tommy. “Wal, there’s somethin’ I ain’t never
seen the eq’al of--I sure ain’t.”
“And no one else has either, I guess,” mumbled Willie, as he started
off.
Outside the station, which was situated close to the Black Bear
Hotel, the general store and post-office, the boys found Border City
presenting a busy scene. Several “rigs” stood close by, and among them
they saw the familiar buckboard belonging to Circle T Ranch. Back of
it, tied to hitching-posts, were four curiously-spotted bronchos, their
stamping hoofs and lashing tails giving sufficient indication of their
fiery, untamed spirit.
“Whoop! If that isn’t the greatest ever!” cried Cranny. “I know that
bunch. No buckboard for little Cranny.”
“Or for me,” added Bob.
“I feel in a generous mood,” laughed Dave; “I’ll let Willie take my
nag.”
“You’d get pinched for cruelty to animals, if you ever tried to ride
one of those poor little beasts,” grunted Willie. “What makes ’em so
full of ginger, Warren?”
“Them critters is the pick o’ Circle T Ranch, young un,” responded Jed,
impressively. “Thar ain’t one but what’s a reg’lar tornado an’ cyclone
mixed together when he gits hisself a-goin’ good. Don’t walk too
clos’t; their heels is liable to fly. I declare I can’t git over seein’
this bunch ag’in.”
“When the Ramblers have been around it generally takes an awful long
time for some one to recover,” said Willie. “I’ve been through it
myself. Oh, sugar! Is this town rented out to a moving picture concern?”
“I ain’t never seen one o’ them picters,” admitted Jed; “but if yer
refer to cow-punchers an’ sheep-men, thar’s a few still left; an’ most
of ’em are good, squar’ fellers.”
The boys were quick to notice that the appearance of the people
of Border City had also been considerably affected by the changed
conditions. The typical plainsman could still be seen lounging around
the Black Bear Hotel and general store; but men in less picturesque
garb, and with an unmistakable air of the East, or middle West
predominated.
Substantial buildings of brick and frame had sprung up on all sides,
making the original ramshackle houses of Border City appear, by
contrast, smaller and more forlorn-looking than ever.
The sun, just overhead, blazed down on the winding street; a yellow
glare, full of simmering heat waves, enveloped the surroundings; and
every foot or horse’s hoof that struck the ground raised its little
cloud of choking dust.
“Say, fellows, I see they call this Carroll Avenue now,” sang out Bob,
pointing to a sign-post opposite.
“Major Carroll’s a fine chap,” pronounced Jed. “Thar’s a-goin’ ter be
some great doin’s hyar purty soon, lads; an’ him an’ them aeroplane
fellers are the ones we kin thank fur it. An’ say, Bob, mebbe them Lone
Piners weren’t glad to know your bunch was coming!”
“I remember the time when they weren’t so glad to see us,” chirped
Cranny, with a reminiscent grin.
“An’ that’s whar ye’re just right,” laughed Jed. “But things is
different now. What’s that, young un?”
“I were a-sayin’, pard, as how I’m hotter’n a fried egg,” grunted
Willie, with fine mimicry. “Let’s go somewhere.”
“Sure--over to that hangar; we might get a peep at Mr. Carroll’s
dirigible,” cried Dick.
“Oh, goodness; not now,” demurred Dave. “I’m ’most famished; and
uncommonly sleepy, besides. Aren’t you hungry, Willie?”
“Kinder.”
“Would ye like ter hit the trail fur Circle T Ranch, youngster?” asked
Jed, with a quizzical smile.
“Don’t mind.”
“Say something else once or twice a day,” snapped Cranny. “Sure, Jed,
we’d better hike over there as fast as we can.”
“Hip, hip, hurrah for the ranch!” cried Sam, making a break toward the
bronchos.
The crowd, with their guns, suit cases and bundles, attracted
considerable attention, but only Tommy Clifton seemed to be disturbed
by the sounds of laughter which came from several cattlemen lounging in
front of the Black Bear Hotel.
The discontented look had returned with full force to Willie Sloan’s
face. He was tired; and the yellow glare and yellow dust made him
devoutly wish that he and Border City were miles apart.
Tommy had intended to take a seat in the buckboard, but upon hearing
a remark from Willie which seemed to indicate no great opinion of his
prowess as a broncho rider, he reconsidered.
“What, Mr. Clifton, air ye a-goin’ ter ride?” asked Willie, mockingly.
“Why, say, pard, ye’ll hev ter hold yer feet up, or ye’ll furrow the
prairie.”
“I’ll make you an astronomer some day, William--astronomers see stars,
you know,” quoth Tom, highly exasperated.
“I guess I’ll never see a star in you,” retorted Willie, impudently.
Dave had already seated himself in the buckboard, and Willie climbed
indolently up beside him, while Sam, yielding to Dick Travers’ earnest
request to ride one of the bronchos, also took his place in the rig.
It wasn’t an easy matter to dispose of their belongings, especially
as some of them had to be strapped to the mustangs’ backs, and these
little beasts were absolutely averse to such a proceeding. But, in
spite of wildly gyrating bodies, wicked snorts and glaring eyes, the
work was finally accomplished.
Even Willie’s tired air vanished, as he watched the boys spring into
the saddle and stick there, although their mounts seemed to jump about
as though endowed by nature with springs of steel.
“Oh, just look at Mr. Clifton!” roared Willie. “My, oh, my! Hold your
feet up, Thomas. Gee! There’ll be seventeen hundred holes in the earth
by the time we reach the farmhouse. Look----”
The sharp cracking of Jed Warren’s quirt, followed by a sudden jolt of
the buckboard, ended Willie’s sentence. There was a clatter of horses’
hoofs and the swift whirr of rapidly-revolving wheels, and thick clouds
of dust began to trail behind them.
The extent of Border City’s development surprised the Ramblers. They
were quickly whirled past the new Carroll Inn, a grain elevator, the
Wyoming Flour Company’s big mill adjoining, and, upon turning a bend in
the crooked street, saw rows of neat little houses.
“The wheels of industry have surely begun to turn in earnest here,”
laughed Dave. “Doesn’t it show what a real live-wire man can do?”
“Cran will short-circuit that chap all right,” grunted Willie, “an’
then they’ll have another street--Cranberry Bog Avenue. Gee! I don’t
believe that careless driver’ll ever let us reach the farmhouse alive.”
Presently the prairie opened out before them, hemmed in by a line
of hills. Over its broad, flat surface the buckboard traveled at a
rattling pace. The boys on the bronchos rode far in advance, their
shouts of glee often flung to the air. By the time the vehicle had
crossed a rocky pass in the hills the riders were no longer in sight.
Within a short time Jed was driving close to great herds of cattle,
some browsing amidst the buffalo grass, while others ambled slowly
through fields of tumbleweed.
Even the jolting of the buckboard could not prevent Dave from falling
into a doze, and Willie, taking little interest in his surroundings,
sat huddled up, his eyes half closed.
“Hip, hip, hooray!” yelled Sam Randall, with startling abruptness.
“Hooray! There it is! Whoop!”
“What--what?” cried Willie, in affright.
“Circle T Ranch, you little goose!” snapped Sam. “Look--just beyond
that rise.”
And Willie, with his eyes now wide open, saw straight ahead a long, low
building shining brightly in the sunlight.