ON THE TRAIL
With Bud in the advance, urging his pony to topmost speed, Nort and
Dick followed. Bud shot along the trail, up one rise, down another,
all the while coming nearer to the noise which increased in intensity.
Clearly something was wrong either among a bunch of Diamond X cattle,
or with some of the horses belonging to the ranch outfit. And that
some human individual was concerned in the "fracas" was evident by the
shouts and yells that, now and then, punctured the air.
"By the Great Horned Toad! Look at that!" cried Bud, when he was
within viewing distance.
"He'll be killed!" added Nort.
"No, he's out of it now!" yelled Dick. "But maybe it's the end of him!"
As the three boy ranchers thus gave vent to their surprise, and almost
while they were in the act of exclaiming, a ragged figure of a man had
shot over a stout corral fence, and had fallen in a heap just on the
other side and out of the reach of the teeth and hoofs of a number of
half wild cow ponies. The thud of the animals' bodies, as they threw
themselves against the fence, in the stoppage of their mad race to get
the ragged man, could plainly be heard.
"Whew!" cried Bud, reigning his pony to a sliding stop, as he saw that,
for the present at least, the man was safe, though his inert form might
indicate serious injury. "That was a close call!"
"What was he doing in that corral?" asked Nort, and his hand, almost by
instinct, slid to the handle of his .45 protruding from the holster.
"And who is he?" asked Dick, who had followed his brother's lead.
"That's what we've got to find out," said Bud, who, perhaps from longer
association with western conditions, had manifested no inclination to
draw his gun. "Guess he'll wait for us," he added, as he slid from the
saddle, having ridden close to the prostrate form.
But, even as Bud spoke, and as Dick and Nort dismounted, the stranger
rose to a sitting position, rubbed his hand across his forehead, tried
to smile at the boys and then, in what would have been a jolly voice
under other circumstances said:
"I'm supposed to ask 'Where am I?' I believe, but we'll pass that up,
and I'll substitute 'what time is it?' Just as a variation you know,"
and he actually chuckled. "Not that it matters," he added, as he saw
Bud fishing out a sturdy silver watch--the only kind it is safe to
carry on a cattle range. "Doesn't matter in the least."
"Then why--" began Nort. But the stranger stopped him with a friendly
gesture.
"Don't ask me that!" he begged, smiling broadly, as he scrambled to his
feet, thereby disclosing the fact that he was even more ragged as to
garments than at first appeared when he was lying down. "Don't ask me
that. The question has been fired at me ever since I was old enough to
decide whether I'd have butter on my bread or take it in the natural
state. It was 'why did I do this'--'why didn't I do that' until, in
very desperation I gave up trying to answer. I do now. I don't know
why I ask the time. I really don't want to know. There are other
questions more to the point. Don't trouble to answer. And please
don't ask me 'why' this, that--or anything. Frankly I don't know, and
I care less. I am here. Where I'll be to-morrow no one knows, and no
one cares. It is my philosophy--the philosophy of a rolling stone. I
assure you, gentlemen--"
This time it was Bud who interrupted. There was a look on the face and
in the eyes of the young ranchman that his cousins could well
interpret. It meant that fooling, nonsense or an evasion of the issue
was at an end.
"Look here, stranger," said Bud, and, though his voice was stern it was
not unfriendly. "Maybe you are a tenderfoot, but you don't look it,
and I reckon you've been around here long enough to assimilate the fact
that when a stranger is found among other men's horses that stranger is
due to make an explanation."
"My boy, you are right!" laughed the ragged man. "Absolutely and
tetotally right! Of course you recognize the fact that I am no longer
'_among_' your horses. I _was_, but I am _not_. I came out, so to
speak," and he indicated, by a tumbling motion of his hands, that he
had leaped the fence to get away from the half wild ponies.
"That's all right," spoke Bud, his voice still stern. His cousins were
leaving this matter entirely to him. "That's all right. But you
_were_ among them, and it may be more to our good luck than our good
management that you aren't astride one of them now, and riding off.
What's your name and where are you from?"
These were vital, western questions.
"You are right in your surmise," said the man, limping toward the boys,
and still smiling, which occupation he had not left off since arising
to his feet. "If luck had been with me I would have ridden on one of
your horses. Not off--far be it from me to do that. But I would have
ridden to the nearest ranch, tried to get work and so have paid for the
use of the animal.
"However, fate had other things in store for me. I never saw such wild
animals! They came at me like so many fiends, and after trying in vain
to quiet them, and I may say I have some skill with wild beasts, I
thought discretion the better part of foolhardiness, and--made for the
fence!"
He chuckled at the recollection.
"Then you weren't going to steal a horse?" asked Nort.
"Far from it, kind sir," and the man bowed with just the slightest
suggestion of mockery, at which Bud frowned. "I am a lone traveler,
and I sought help on my way--help for which I would have paid in work."
"Who are you?" snapped out Bud.
"I have told you my name," said the stranger, in gentle contrast to
Bud's harsh tone. "Rolling Stone, at your service," and he bowed
again, this time with no trace of mockery.
"Rolling Stone!" ejaculated Nort.
"That isn't a name," complained Bud, but his voice had lost some of its
stern quality, and his lips trembled on the verge of a smile.
"I realize that it is more a state of being, or a quality," the man
admitted. "But it happens to be a sort of paraphrase of my title. I
am Roland Stone, at your service, but my taste, inclination and the
action of disheartened friends has fastened the other appellation on
me. Rolling Stone I am by name and by nature."
He said it in a way that left little room for doubt, and the boy
ranchers seemed to realize this. They could understand how such a
character could easily change Roland into "Rolling," if such was his
nature. And "Stone" was a common enough name.
"All right, Mr. Rolling Stone," said Bud. "If that's your choice it
still leaves the other question unanswered. Where are you from?"
"Everywhere and anywhere, which is to say nowhere," came the reply.
"You need only to look at me to tell what I am--a happy-go-lucky
individual, a tramp, a hobo, and yet I am willing to work when the
spirit is on me. I never stole a dollar or a dollar's worth in all my
life. I have harmed neither man, woman or child. I am my own worst
enemy, and I am--frankly--hungry! If you will give me food I'll pay
for it in work to the best of my ability--"
"You said you had some skill with wild animals," interrupted Bud. "Do
you mean--"
"I don't mean _horses_, if you will excuse the interruption," the man
said. "There is my one failing. I used to be with a circus, and the
lion and I were good friends. Perhaps some taint of the wild beast
odor clings to me, which causes horses to rear up and tear. Or else--"
"That didn't cause these ponies to act that way," laughed Bud, who,
with his cousins, was rapidly forming a liking for the stranger.
"They're half wild themselves. Just in off the range, and they haven't
been broken yet. I doubt if Yellin' Kid would tackle one. It isn't
anything to your discredit that you got out in a hurry. But you say
you're hungry?"
That was an appeal which never went unheeded in the west.
"Mightily hungry, fair sir!" and, though Rolling Stone smiled, there
was an appealing note in his voice. "The last meal I had for nothing
was given me by Hank Fowler."
"Hank Fowler!" cried Bud.
"The sheriff?" added Nort.
"Who sent on to Mr. Merkel the message from Rosemary?" completed Dick.
"Rosemary--that's for remembrance," quoted Rolling Stone with a smile.
"I know her not, and yet Hank Fowler is a sheriff to my certain
knowledge."
"Do you mean the one from La Nogalique?" persisted Bud.
"That same. I appealed to him when I was down on my luck, as I nearly
always am, and he befriended me. I have known him for years."
"Then there can't be much wrong with you," decided Bud. "If you want
work, my father can fix you up. We'll need some extra hands if we pull
out a lot to take the trail after the Yaquis. So--"
"Excuse me, young man. But did you say--_Yaquis_?" asked Rolling
Stone, and there was a new and eager note in his voice.
"Yes," supplemented Nort. "The Yaquis--Indians you know--have gone
wild again and they've raided a town and carried off some of our
friends. We're going to--"
"You can't tell me anything about the Yaquis that I don't know, young
man!" exclaimed Rolling Stone, and he seemed imbued with new life. "I
know they're Indians, of a sort, though a very rotten sort. They
killed my best friend years ago. I haven't heard anything about a raid
lately. Been too lazy to look for news, I reckon. But if it's true
that they're on the rampage, and you're on the trail after them let me,
I beg of you, have a hand in it. I asked for _work_ just now. Change
that to a _fight_ and I'm with you at the fall of the hat and until I
drop! Let me come! Let me help pay back the debt I have against these
infernal Yaquis. Will you?" he asked eagerly.
Bud looked at his cousins. Here was a new element. And with all his
light manner, and ragged clothes, there was something very satisfying
about Rolling Stone, as he asked to be called.
"We'll need all the help we can get," said Bud, slowly. "If Hank
Fowler says you're all right, that goes with us. Sure it isn't Hank
_Fisher_ who vouches for you?" he asked sharply.
"Hank _Fisher_--I don't know the man," was the answer.
"You're better off not to," spoke Bud grimly, for Fisher was a ranchman
of unsavory reputation, who was believed to have figured in more than
one affair with the half breed Del Pinzo, to the discomfort of Diamond
X.
"Hank Fowler, the sheriff, will tell you I'm straight," said Rolling
Stone. "I don't say I haven't faults," he went on. "But when I say
I'm my own worst enemy I've spilled an earful," and he laughed genially.
"We'll let it go at that," Bud answered. "If Mr. Fowler says you're on
the level that's sufficient. And you can come with us."
"Thanks," was the laconic reply. "Will one of your ponies carry
double?" and he looked over his shoulder at the corral.
"We won't ask you to ride one of those mustangs," laughed Bud. "And
it's too much to double up. I'll go back and get one of dad's ponies.
It isn't far. You stay here," he added to his cousins and Rolling
Stone. "I'll be back soon."
Riding rapidly, Bud was quickly back at Diamond X. He told the story
of the meeting with Rolling Stone. At first Mr. Merkel was a bit
suspicious, but it happened that one of the cowboys had heard of
Rolling Stone, and knew him to be what he laid claim to.
"I reckon he's all right," assented the ranchman. "Take him with you,
Bud. You'll need help, and if he knows anything about the Yaquis he'll
be of value."
"All right," remarked Bud. "He's on. What horse can I take for him?"
One was selected. Together the boy ranchers and Rolling Stone rode out
to Happy Valley, for certain matters must be adjusted there before the
start could be made after the Indians who had carried off Rosemary and
Floyd.
Work went on at top speed, and a day later our young heroes, with
Rolling Stone, better dressed, but the same unconventional spirit,
started forth.
"On the trail!" grimly remarked Bud as they started to join forces with
those from Diamond X.
"On the trail!" echoed Nort and Dick.
"And we can't meet with those Yaquis any too soon for me!" added
Rolling Stone.
"You seem to have it in for them rather hard," observed Dick.
"It can't be any too hard," answered the man with a grim tightening of
the muscles around his mouth. "When I think of all they did--"
He paused and gazed at the distant horizon. That there was a story
connected with his hate of the Yaquis none of the boys doubted, and
they were eager to hear it. But this was not the time and place. Too
much remained to be done, and there was too little time in which to do
it.
"I wonder when we'll meet up with the imps?" spoke Nort, as they ambled
easily along.
"No telling," said Bud. "We've got things in shape back there so that
we can remain away all summer if need be," and he glanced back toward
their ranch which they had just left. "But I'd like to clean up this
bunch of 'onery' Yaquis, and then get back on the job. Cattle raising
is our business."
"But just now we're following a side line of rescuing Rosemary and
Floyd," observed Nort. "And I think we can do it!"
Well it was that Fate veiled the Future.