The Rambler Club on the Texas border
Date: 2023-06-29T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Mystery and detective stories; Mexico -- Juvenile fiction; Texas -- Juvenile fiction; Texas Rangers -- Juvenile fiction; Thieves -- Juvenile fiction; Rio Grande (Colo.-Mexico and Tex.) -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: The Rambler Club on the Texas border

Author: W. Crispin Sheppard

Release date: June 29, 2023 [eBook #71068]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Penn Publishing Company

Credits: David Edwards, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAMBLER CLUB ON THE TEXAS BORDER ***

THE CROWD WATCHED THE POLICEMEN

The Rambler Club on
the Texas Border

BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

AUTHOR OF

“THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S WINTER CAMP”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S AEROPLANE”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S HOUSEBOAT,” etc.

Illustrated by the Author

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMXV

COPYRIGHT
1915 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

The Rambler Club on the Texas Border

Introduction

The members of the Rambler Club of Kingswood, Wisconsin,—Bob Somers, Dave Brandon, Tom Clifton, Dick Travers and Sam Randall,—have taken advantage of an opportunity to visit the state of Texas. Shortly after their arrival, Cranny Beaumont, an old-time friend, comes on to pay them a visit. And whenever Cranny is around adventures and excitement of some sort always seem to follow.

The crowd is thrown a great deal in the company of the Texas Rangers, the “policemen of the plains,” who have many achievements to their credit in the suppression of lawlessness along the border and elsewhere in the Lone Star State.

Four of the lads, in the company of two travelers, cross the famous Rio Grande del Norte and enter Mexico, which at this time is shaken by some of the most troublous events in all of its stormy and eventful history.

In a little frontier town they meet a newspaper man and a mysterious young pianist, and through a peculiar combination of circumstances are plunged into the midst of a series of thrilling adventures.

What happens to the pianist and how a certain event plays a very important part in the career of Cranny Beaumont is related in this story.

Other books telling of the adventures of the club are:

“The Rambler Club Afloat,” “The Rambler Club’s Winter Camp,” “The Rambler Club in the Mountains,” “The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch,” “The Rambler Club Among the Lumberjacks,” “The Rambler Club’s Gold Mine,” “The Rambler Club’s Aeroplane,” “The Rambler Club’s Houseboat,” “The Rambler Club’s Motor Car,” “The Rambler Club’s Ball Nine,” “The Rambler Club’s Football Team,” “The Rambler Club With the Northwest Mounted,” “The Rambler Club’s Motor Yacht.”

Contents

I. | Cranny | 9
II. | Machine Guns | 21
III. | The Rangers | 33
IV. | The Invaders | 46
V. | New Friends | 53
VI. | In the Saddle | 65
VII. | Scouting | 77
VIII. | In Mexico | 89
IX. | A Lone Horseman | 99
X. | Moving Pictures | 108
XI. | Soldiers | 117
XII. | Rifle Shots | 129
XIII. | The Storm Breaks | 134
XIV. | The Stampede | 148
XV. | The Fight | 154
XVI. | A Wild Race | 167
XVII. | A Night in the Open | 174
XVIII. | On the Track of “Rustlers” | 186
XIX. | Captured by Cowboys | 204
XX. | Under Fire | 223
XXI. | The Fusillade | 238
XXII. | Kidnapping Jimmy | 257
XXIII. | Safe Again in Texas | 273
XXIV. | Jimmy Gets Back | 289
XXV. | Capturing the “Rustlers” | 307
XXVI. | Good-Bye to the Rangers | 315

Illustrations

PAGE
The Crowd Watched the Policemen | Frontispiece
“Into the Saddle, Boys!” | 73
Once More He Turned | 149
“Own Up—Now!” | 206
Silently the Lads Observed Them | 261

The Rambler Club on the
Texas Border

CHAPTER I
CRANNY

“Honestly, fellows, I can hardly keep from shouting hip, hip, hurrah—rah, rah, rah, all the time. Just think, here we are, out for adventure. Yes, I’ve got to let it go. Rah, rah, rah for the Ramblers, and ditto for the Texas Rangers!”

It was a big, husky-looking chap who uttered this rapid flow of words, and the shout which ended his sentence rang through the spacious square room of the ranch-house so lustily that his hearers, a crowd of six boys and two men, broke into a storm of laughter.

The shining eyes of Cranny Beaumont, once of Kingswood, Wisconsin, and later of Tacoma, Washington, would have told of his delight and exuberant spirits without this corroborative evidence. And his companions, or at least the boys, looked just as happy as he.

The Rambler Club and Cranny Beaumont, the impetuous, the reckless, the daring but always rollicking, light-hearted lad, were once more in each other’s company and eager for the adventurous life which they hoped would be theirs for a few weeks to come.

It was rather an odd assortment of boys and men which lounged informally about the room. Beside the five Ramblers,—Bob Somers, Dave Brandon, Tom Clifton, Dick Travers, Sam Randall and their friend Don Stratton, the son of a New Orleans financier,—there were present Sergeant Robson Howell and Private Carl Alvin of the Ranger force at Texas.

Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton were easily the most conspicuous members of the club. The former, stout, round-faced, with twinkling eyes that betrayed a wealth of good humor, was an excellent foil to the tall, active Tom, whose shoulders, now broadening out, gave him quite the appearance of a formidable athlete.

All the lads with the exception of Don Stratton showed the beneficial effects of outdoor life. Clear skins, cheeks flushed with the ruddy hue of health, and keen steady eyes stamped each with an air of vigor and strength.

Cranny Beaumont hadn’t lived out in the open as much as his friends, but to none did that life hold a stronger appeal. As he ceased pacing the floor, to come to a halt before the window, his eyes rested upon two brown-patched mustangs tethered to hitching-posts near the broad flight of steps which led to the entrance. To him these restless, stamping animals, surcharged with life, dynamic with force and energy, seemed fairly to breathe the spirit of the plains. In his mind’s eye he could see those vast reaches, the great herds of cattle roaming over them and the cowboys on their lonely rounds. It was a pleasant picture to contemplate, even though it loomed only in the shadowy depths of his imagination, and a loud whoop almost involuntarily escaped his lips.

“I suppose that means a contented spirit,” remarked Sergeant Howell with a grin.

“I should say so,” gurgled Cranny. “Now, fellows——”

“Look here, let’s get down to business,” interrupted Tom Clifton, in a voice which almost possessed the depth and gruffness of the burly sergeant’s. “Fire away, Cranny. You know——”

“I know that I don’t know a whole lot of things about your last trip,” said the Tacoma lad, with a shake of his head. “Go ahead, somebody. I’m listening.”

When Cranny Beaumont spoke in a certain tone and squared his jaw there was generally nothing to do but to accede to his wishes, and Tom, knowing this, figuratively stepped into the spot-light. He told about the business which had brought the crowd to New Orleans, of their unexpected voyage on the Gulf of Mexico aboard Mr. Stratton’s power yacht, and of their still more unexpected and thrilling adventures in the troubled land of Mexico.

It was there the crowd had fallen in with Carl Alvin, the Texas Ranger, at that time on a furlough, and the idea had come to them to spend a few weeks among those famous policemen of the Lone Star State. Alvin was delighted at the idea, and this, in connection with the lure of the open-air life, proved irresistible.

So, in the Ranger’s company, the Ramblers and Don, who succeeded in gaining his father’s permission, had journeyed from the oil district of Tampico, Mexico, to Brownsville, Texas, and thence to a small town on the Rio Grande.

“My, what a great time you’ve had!” exclaimed Cranny. “By George, I only hope I’ll run into something just as full of ginger.”

“Not for me,” said Don Stratton, decidedly. “Gingery affairs of that kind are all well enough to read about, but when it comes to the real thing I’d rather be excused.”

“Well, boys,” broke in the sergeant, “we must be getting along now. Just stepped in to say howdy-do.” A grin crossed his weather-beaten face which was burned to a coppery hue by the sun’s hot rays. “Ride over to headquarters whenever you feel like it,” his glance fell on Cranny—“and don’t try too hard to run into adventures, my lad, or——”

His sentence, concluded by a significant gesture of a big brown hand, plainly conveyed his meaning, and caused the Ramblers to chuckle with mirth.

“The sergeant has you sized up all right, Cranny,” exclaimed Tom. He intended to speak in a low, confidential tone, but every one in the room plainly heard his words. “I say, old chap, it wouldn’t be possible to have a nice, quiet time with you along, eh?”

“Not if I could help it,” grinned Cranny. He faced the burly Howell. “You’ll see us come over, Sergeant. Honestly, I’m just pinin’ to get a glimpse o’ that bunch o’ Rangers.”

“An’ I guess all of ’em will be just as glad to see you,” remarked Carl Alvin. “If there’s anything a Ranger likes, it’s a chap brimful of grit.” He eyed the big Tacoma lad critically. “And if I’m not mistaken you’ve got the goods.”

“Thanks!” laughed Cranny.

The two Rangers picked up their rifles, which rested in a near-by corner, and with the crowd following at their heels walked out on the wide veranda which extended entirely around the old rambling building.

Good-byes were said. Then the crowd watched the policemen untie their fiery mustangs and swing themselves into the saddle. The animals kicked up their heels, shot forward, then settling into a loping trot carried them swiftly away.

On all sides of the house stretched a broad undulating prairie covered with long waving grass which sparkled in the light of a cloudless day. To the southwest, seen as flat, gray masses against a sky of dazzling brilliancy, rose the low, irregular hills of Mexico, just across the Rio Grande. Northward, a line of cottonwoods and oaks fringed the border of an unseen watercourse, and dotted over the great expanse were groups of trees or other vegetation.

Amid this immensity of space the figures of the rapidly retreating horsemen seemed to be dwarfed to mere pigmy proportions; but even from afar the rays of the sun, striking on pistol butts or trappings, continued to send back spots of flashing light.

Cranny Beaumont drew a long breath. With all the eagerness of a bird which sees the door of its cage open and freedom before it he observed these vast reaches extending off to a hazy distance. How different it was from being cooped up in a city office, a din of clicking typewriters continually sounding in his ears!

“Well, fellows!” he said.

And then such a curiously sober look chased away his expression of whole-hearted enjoyment that Tom spoke up:

“What’s the matter, Cranny?”

“Tell us the secret sorrow,” chirped Dick.

The big Tacoma lad seated himself on the veranda railing, where with one foot swinging forth and back like a pendulum, he began to grin almost sheepishly.

“Say, fellows, the fact is I’m a—a—oh, hang it all, you might as well know—a—a—failure.”

“For goodness’ sake!” cried Tom—“a failure?”

“Terrible indeed to hear such a confession from one so old!” mused Dave.

“Yes, sir—or sirs—a flat failure; even a steam roller couldn’t make it flatter.”

“Hist—hist! Another case of life’s young dream forever shattered!” gurgled Don Stratton.

“Oh, it may sound very funny to you chaps,” said Cranny, “but honest to goodness, I feel pretty serious—or at least I do sometimes.”

“Go ahead, Cranny,” laughed Bob. “We’re listening now.”

“I’ve been intending to tell you ever since the train dropped me, about an hour ago, at that station back yonder and your nag, Bob, carried us over here—a hefty weight for one little horse-power, eh?”

“Stick to the point at issue,” said the Rambler, in judicial tones.

“I’ve been working in dad’s real estate office off an’ on for a long time, you know; but I couldn’t get down to the clockwork thing. It was late in the morning—late gettin’ back at lunch time, an’—an’——”

“Early leaving at night, I s’pose?” suggested Dick.

“Rather. Well, at last dad simply wouldn’t stand for it any longer, an’—an’ I don’t blame him.”

“Neither do we,” grinned Sam.

“When I received a letter from Bob Somers telling me the crowd was going to spend a short time with the Texas Rangers I got an idea.”

“Fine! Let’s share it,” cried Dick.

“Dad could have found me a job in a big wholesale house. But after thinkin’ things over a bit I put it up to him like this: ‘Father’ I said, ‘the Ramblers are in Texas.’ An’—— Say, boys, maybe he didn’t laugh!”

“Why?” demanded Tom, suspiciously.

Cranny regarded the tall lad with a quizzical air. Then, like a flash, the thoughtful expression flitted from his face. He laughed in his old, boisterous fashion.

“Because he knew what I was going to say, Tom,” he chuckled. “Both he and I think you’re the greatest bunch ever.”

“Off the subject again, Cranny,” Bob reminded him, severely.

“Ob, pardon me, your Honor. I told dad I simply must see the crowd. Say, but didn’t he look—er—er——”

“Flabbergasted?” said Dick, helpfully.

“You’ve struck it. Anyway, to boil three days’ conversation down into three minutes’ talk,—what do you think he did?” Before the others had had a chance to put in even a single word Cranny resumed speaking. “Why, good old dad actually consented to lend me three hundred plunks.

“Yes, sir. An’ he said”—the big lad fairly bubbled over with glee—“‘I consent. Join Bob Somers an’ his club in Texas; but remember, Cranny, henceforth’”—a suggestion of the sober look returned,—“‘you must carve out your own future.’”

“Help!” grinned Dick.

“And when is the carving to begin?” asked Don.

“That’s just it,” confessed Cranny. “I—I—don’t know.”

“One thing’s sure,” pronounced Don: “your pater must be very kind and indulgent.”

“You’re right,” agreed Cranny. “An’ you can just believe he did a whole lot o’ thinkin’. Oh, I know.” He jumped from his perch, to begin striding up and down. “Dad thinks I need a jolly good lesson. I reckon he figures it out this way: In about a month or two the money’ll be all gone—and then! But, by Jove, I won’t, no sir—I’ll—I’ll—— Say, fellows—honest, I don’t know what I’m good for. Speak up, philosopher.”

Stout Dave Brandon smiled genially as his eyes met Cranny’s.

“A few days’ riding about the plains with the Texas Rangers is my prescription,” he said. “The pure fresh air, the illimitable distances, the communing with nature in all its varied aspects, the——”

“Hold on—hold on!” chortled Cranny. “You’re the same old Dave. Fellows”—his tone changed to one of seriousness—“I want to make good at something. But for a few weeks I’ll just chuck all the worry stuff to the Texas winds. Dave’s right. Hooray for the Rambler Club and life with the Rangers!”

CHAPTER II
MACHINE GUNS

The crowd had arrived in the Lone Star State only a few days before. Traveling by rail, they reached a little town on the Rio Grande, visited the company headquarters of the Texas Rangers, for the time being stationed there, then put up at the rather pretentious Ledaro Hotel.

The first thing the boys did was to hire horses and provide themselves with firearms; the second, to ride off on a tour of the surrounding country. A few miles out of town, crowning the summit of a gentle rise, an abandoned ranch-house claimed their attention. Old and dilapidated, a suggestion of romance seemed to hover about its cracked and yellowed adobe walls. To those poetically inclined it conjured up thoughts of the long ago, when the sun shone on a fresh, clean structure situated amid a grassy field. But now rank weeds and scraggly bushes flourished unchecked, while vines climbed about the wooden steps or trailed over the veranda railing, as if to flaunt their disdain of the ruin which time and neglect had wrought.

Dave suggested renting the place. His idea received enthusiastic support. With Carl Alvin’s aid, they succeeded in finding the owner; and he, possessing that hospitality for which the Southern people are noted, promptly gave his consent, though the crowd had a difficult task to persuade him to accept remuneration.

Don Stratton had always been accustomed to ease and luxury, and though he couldn’t understand why the crowd should deliberately cast aside the comforts of hotel life, he proved his gameness by offering no objection to the plan.

So the ancient interior, in which perhaps for years the dreary silence had only been occasionally broken by intruding rodents scurrying across the floors or bats flapping in circular flights about the rooms, now became the temporary home of lusty, enthusiastic youths.

According to Tom, the task of putting the lower floor into habitable shape was jolly good fun. Many willing hands made the cleaning and dusting occupy but a surprisingly short time. From a clump of timber close by the boys gathered great quantities of fragrant cedar boughs; and these, skilfully fashioned, became their beds. Then, from the old, tumble-down stable in the rear, they obtained a supply of boards which enabled them to construct a table and several benches, rough and uncouth in appearance, yet strong and serviceable.

It was just about this time that the crowd had received a letter from Cranny telling them to be on the lookout for him. And now the Tacoma boy was actually there.

“Hooray for the Rambler Club!” repeated Cranny. “What a perfectly rippin’ time we’re goin’ to have, fellows! Just let me get a horse, a few shootin’ irons—then I’ll be so jolly happy I’ll——” He paused. “Just happened to think o’ that makin’-a-livin’ business,” he explained.

“Oh, cheer up!” laughed Don. “Come along. We’ll conduct you through the palace.”

“I’d be more cheerful than a song-bird in spring,” declared Cranny, “if I only knew what to do.”

The tread of many feet and the sound of voices echoed uncannily through the rooms as the lads passed from one to another. Everywhere their eyes lighted on broken plaster, decaying boards, and many a thick festoon of cobwebs dimly revealed itself in shadowy corners. Up a twisting stairway they climbed to the second floor. Here Cranny, to his surprise, always found himself coming upon unexpected rooms and passageways,—these last, dark, somber-looking places, where the accumulated dust of ages rose up in choking clouds.

“Been up on the roof yet, fellows?” he asked, suddenly noting in one of the rooms a ladder resting against a trap-door.

“Of course. It was about the second thing we did,” answered Tom. “There’s a dandy view, too.”

“Me for the roof, then,” declared Cranny.

He briskly crossed the floor; sprang up the rungs of the ladder; then the door, in response to a vigorous shove, banged on the roof, while a flood of whitish light poured through the opening.

Cranny immediately scrambled upward. For an instant his figure was sharply outlined against the blue sky, then he disappeared from view.

One by one the others followed until all stood on the gently-sloping roof, the target for a fresh, strong breeze which swept directly toward them from the land of Mexico.

Tom’s description was not exaggerated. Here and there bright spots of a yellowish color traced the course of the Rio Grande, and the low hills on the opposite side were now touched with delicate purple shadows and glowing lights.

In the vast sweep of country which their lofty perch embraced, not a living thing was in sight. The undulating surfaces stretched far off with the grasses billowing like waves of the sea, and finally melted softly into a hazy sky.

“Superb!” murmured Dave.

“Gettin’ an inspiration for a poem?” asked Cranny with a chuckle.

“Almost,” laughed the stout lad, seating himself with a sigh of satisfaction. His example was quickly followed.

Cranny still had a number of questions to ask. He wanted to know all about their experiences since they had been in Wyoming together; and the Ramblers, too, felt a keen interest to hear some further particulars in regard to his own affairs at Tacoma. Naturally all this took some time. The sun rose to the zenith and continued on its slow journey toward the west while lively tongues rattled on. Cranny was in the midst of a graphic description of his “failure” when a sound—a very faint sound coming from the distance—abruptly caused him to break off in the middle of a sentence. He glanced inquiringly toward his companions.

“What in thunder was that?” he demanded, raising his hand. “Listen!”

“Great Scott!” cried Tom, springing to his feet, and gazing intently toward the Mexican hills. “That must mean trouble not so very far away.”

Once more the sound, borne on the sweeping wind, came to their ears. It was unmistakably the rattle of a machine gun, and presently a continuous series of ominous reports convinced every one that somewhere across the Rio Grande an engagement was taking place between Federal and Revolutionary forces.

“By George! Fellows, I reckon if we ever got over there, we’d see some excitement!” Cranny Beaumont’s eyes, as he spoke, were shining with excitement. “Sounds like a hot scrap, eh?”

The Ramblers all knew the Tacoma lad’s reckless, daring nature. Wherever any excitement was going on, there Cranny wanted to be. And the eagerness of his expression plainly revealed the thoughts running through his mind.

“I’d rather stay on this side of the river,” drawled Dave. He grinned faintly. “It’s no fun, Cranny, to be anywhere in the vicinity of bursting shells, or to hear bullets singing past one’s head.”

“We know by experience, too,” said Tom loftily.

“You bet,” chimed in Don Stratton.

“A chap wouldn’t have to run into any danger,” declared Cranny, rising to join Tom, who stood near the edge of the roof. “Some day——” The lad paused, but the sparkle hadn’t faded from his eyes, nor the notes of suppressed excitement from his voice.

“He’s always out for adventure,” said Bob to Dave.

“Yes, and always bound to find it,” returned the other.

As the faint notes of warfare continued, sometimes barely perceptible above the sighing of the breeze, then again booming forth clearly, the nerves of all were tingling.

“How glad I am we’re neutral,” remarked Dave.

“How I’d like to be in an aeroplane lookin’ down upon it,” declared Cranny.

Finally the distant guns spoke at longer intervals, and at length ceased altogether.

“Yes,” said the Tacoma lad reflectively, “a jaunt into old Mexico would—— Oh, don’t shake your head, Dave—I reckon I’ll have to go—so near, you know. What! Lunch time already? By Jove! I’d almost forgotten about it. Let’s hurry—I want to hire that nag this afternoon.”

Recklessly he sprang for the trap-door, and several times the ladder threatened to collapse beneath the weight of the boys as they piled back into the room.

When they reached the lower floor, Tom explained to Cranny that he was “chef” for the afternoon.

“To-night Don takes a crack at it,” he added.

“And I reckon you’ll all want to take a crack at me after the frost is over,” grinned Don.

The Ramblers immediately got things under way. Dick kindled a fire in the old-fashioned open-grate; Bob brought forth the provisions and tin dishes, while stout Dave and Sam attended to various odds and ends.

Tom went about his duties with a stern and determined air, and Cranny, watching him with twinkling eyes, was before very long sniffing some delicious odors. A monster coffee-pot generously let the nature of its contents be known, and beans baked the day before in true lumberman’s style, now having the finishing touches supplied, helped to indicate that this meal at least would be no “frost.”

When the chef finally cried, “Fall in, fellows,” the others obeyed his summons with wonderful alacrity, and in a few moments the good things began to vanish like a flurry of snowflakes in the early spring.

About an hour later the boys were in the stable.

“Ho, for that little Mexican town, and the Texas Rangers!” exclaimed Cranny. Then his eyes traveling over the mustangs he added, “A corkin’ fine pony o’ yours, Bob.” He critically examined the brown-patched animal when the Rambler a moment later led it forth into the light.

No friendly look greeted Cranny from a pair of dark, intelligent eyes. And at almost every sound the mustang’s shaggy sides quivered; its ears were thrown back, while four active hoofs suggested the advisability of keeping a considerable distance away.

“H’m—a jolly bad-tempered little beast,” commented the lad.

“Here’s the horse-dealer’s description of him,” laughed Bob. “‘He’s hardy as a cactus, vicious as a rattler, and as ungrateful as a coyote, but he certainly can go.’”

“Well, I only hope that I can find one just like him,” declared Cranny. “They can’t be too gingery for me.”

It was a pretty difficult job to saddle “Whirly-gig,” but Bob accomplished the task with an ease that brought an admiring comment from the big Tacoma lad.

“You’re as clever as a cow-puncher in a wild-west show, Bob,” he chuckled.

“Thanks,” laughed the other. “Whoa! old boy,” he patted the pony’s neck. “Ready, fellows? Whoa—come along then!”

A clatter of hoofs echoed noisily throughout the dingy old building as the horses one by one were led outside.

“Into the saddle, boys,” cried Bob, springing into his own. “Jump up, Cranny—look out.”

Cranny, active, alert, his eyes shining with pleasure, had need to heed this caution. The mustang, “Whirly-gig,” apparently having no desire for a repetition of his early morning experience, was exhibiting a tendency to buck and dance.

Seizing a favorable moment, he matched his speed with the pony’s and won. Then almost simultaneously six mustangs leaped forward, soon to settle down into a steady, loping trot.

And a few minutes later, bathed in the bright clear sunlight, horses and riders became but tiny, far-off specks amid the ever-billowing grasses of the plain.

CHAPTER III
THE RANGERS

The importance of the little Texas town on the Rio Grande could not in justice be estimated by the size of its population. Situated in a thriving agricultural district, and near a stock-raising region, with ore deposits and coal lands to be found not far away, it had gradually developed into a center of trade for the surrounding country.

Founded by the Spaniards almost one hundred and fifty years before, some portions of the town still bore a faint impress of their domination in the quaint, pleasing architecture of the buildings. Others again were as characteristically Mexican in appearance as though belonging to towns on the other side of the Rio.

The demands of a rapid, hustling, up-to-date age, however, was bringing about a change. Modern buildings sprang up, overtopping their primitive, adobe neighbors, and, like the cattlemen retreating before the steady advance of the homesteaders and farmers, a certain element of charm was slowly vanishing from this frontier town.

Its inhabitants, too, were as varied in character as the streets. Cow-punchers, Mexican vaqueros and men of business, such as might be seen in any Eastern city, mingled together. The Mexicans, usually long-haired and swarthy, their costumes often enlivened by gaudily-colored sashes or handkerchiefs, furnished perhaps the most picturesque note.

The traveler who stopped here was apt to have his ears assailed by a strange jargon of tongues. Sometimes it was English, sometimes Spanish, or it might be a curious combination of the two.

An International bridge connected the town with another, considerably smaller in size, on the Mexican side of the river. The railroad also crossed at this point.

A company headquarters of Texas Rangers which had been located in this section of Texas for some time was in charge of Captain Julius Braddock. The officer, an old-time cattleman, had passed most of his life on the plains. In the early part of his career the “bad man” of the border and elsewhere occupied a far more conspicuous position than he does in this age, when civilization is constantly reaching farther and farther afield. And he could tell, and often did, stories of actual experiences with cattle rustlers and other desperate characters, which made the usual motion-picture drama on the same subject appear by comparison quite tame indeed.

Captain Braddock was sitting at his desk in one corner of the big room, when the door suddenly opened, and, on looking up in surprise, he saw a great crowd of boys pushing their way inside.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, the stern lines on his rugged, weather-beaten face relaxed into a smile of welcome. “You all here again, and—’pon my word—what? Still another?”

He rose to his feet and advanced to a rail, his keen gray eyes fixed on Cranny Beaumont’s smiling face.

“Yes, sir; still another,” echoed the lad with a chuckle. “How are you, Captain Braddock?—the boys have told me all about you.”

After a more formal introduction by Bob Somers, breezy Cranny began to chat with all his accustomed ease and frankness. He told him about his plans; about the “cracker-jack” nag called “Starlight” he had just hired from a horse-dealer in town; he mentioned a rifle and revolver bought but a few minutes before, and altogether managed to impress the bluff old captain most favorably.

“So you’re out for adventure before settling down to the more serious pursuits of life,” he said finally, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Yes, sir,” replied Cranny. “I say, Captain, has there been anythin’ doin’ around here lately?”

The officer looked thoughtful.

“Quite a great deal,” he answered slowly.

“To-day, from the roof of our ranch-house, we heard the sound of firing!” broke in Tom.

“I am not surprised,” said Captain Braddock. “Reports to the effect that the Mexicans were fighting close to the river reached us. The Federals are now in possession of the opposite town, but I understand that an army of Constitutionalists is encamped not twenty miles away.”

“Gracious!” murmured Cranny.

“What an unfortunate state of affairs!” put in Dave. “If the warring factions could only get together and put as much energy in developing the wonderful resources of their country as they do in fighting, how much more sensible it would be!”

The Tacoma lad scarcely heard this observation. To one of his reckless, adventurous temperament, the thought of actually visiting a town where such stirring events were possible held an irresistible attraction for him. He made up his mind to run over to the other side of the Rio before very long—even if he had to make the trip alone.

The sound of their voices presently brought several of the Rangers, Carl Alvin among them, from an adjoining room.

The members of the force did not have the spick and span appearance of the scarlet-coated Royal Northwest Mounted Police of Canada, among whom the Ramblers had spent some time the summer before. A certain bearing, however, gained through years of hard service, was sufficiently authoritative without additional embellishments.

“Hello, fellows! Mighty glad to see you,” hailed Carl Alvin. He turned to the others. “These are the chaps I told you about.”

Thereupon he introduced the crowd to big Tom Raulings, Oscar Chaney and Jack Stovall.

“Well, what do you youngsters think you’re goin’ to do out here, anyway?” drawled Jack, chuckling audibly.

“For one thing—trail the Rangers a bit,” grinned Cranny. “We want to find out what their job’s like. My—it must be dandy fun, ridin’ around the country all day, an’——”

“I’ll wager them there notions won’t stick long in your head,” put in Jim. “’Tain’t no easy snap.”

“But in the old days things was a heap worse,” exclaimed Stovall, the youngest of the four. “Then Texas was full o’ outlaw bands an’ cattle rustlers. The ranchmen and cow-punchers used to have some mighty hot times, an’ the man who was slow on the draw didn’t stan’ much show!”

“You’re right there, Jack,” affirmed Captain Braddock. “I know, for I’ve seen a bit of gun play in my time.”

“Here’s what I mean, fellers,” went on Stovall.

Walking to the center of the room he began to give an exhibition of “the draw.” From almost every conceivable position, both on the ground and standing, the tall, raw-boned Texan showed with what remarkable rapidity and dexterity a man can draw his pistol and aim.

The boys enthusiastically applauded his efforts.

“Thanks; glad ye like it,” said Stovall, with a broad grin. “Whew! Maybe I ain’t some hot after all that.”

“Say, Jack, do you chaps have any drills?” asked Tom Clifton.

“Drills?” repeated Stovall. “An’ what for, I’d like to know?”

Captain Braddock, with a laugh at the scorn expressed in the Ranger’s voice, now excused himself, a proceeding which Dave promptly took advantage of by starting toward the nearest bench.

“I’m uncommonly tired, fellows,” he explained.

“Drills!” remarked Jack a second time, when all were comfortably seated. “No siree! An’ why? ’cause no chap ever gits appointed to the force unless he’s shown beforehand he’s got the goods!”

“How many men are in this company?” asked Bob.

“Besides the cap’n and sergeant, there’s fifteen privates. Altogether we have four companies o’ Rangers. One quartermaster acts as commissary an’ paymaster for the whole business.”

“That’s a pretty big job, eh?”

“You can just believe it is. He has to make his accounting to the adjutant-general of the state. An’ of course the company commanders send in their reports to him, too. Whenever a detail from a company or detachment headquarters is forced to be away longer’n twenty-four hours the cap’n must report the object of the expedition, the reasons for it and the name of the Ranger in charge.”

“Yes; an’ this company is about as busy as any,” put in Chaney. “You see, onct in a while, when Mexican bandits find it gettin’ too hot for ’em in their own country they take a little trip over the Rio Grande, an’ our job is to see that they don’t stay here long.”

“How much authority have you?” asked Tom.

“Enough to make a whole lot of tough characters fight mighty shy of us,” spoke up Alvin. “The act of the legislature covering our case speaks of a ‘rangers force for the protection of the frontier against marauding and thieving parties and for the suppression of lawlessness and crime throughout the state.’”

“We aid the regular civil authorities,” explained Raulings. “When an arrest is made the Rangers must convey the prisoner to the county in whose jurisdiction he was at the time of the commission of the crime.”

“Then sometimes you get a bully chance to see the country,” said Don.

“Yes. I’ve even ridden in real trains while in the discharge of my duties,” laughed Oscar Chaney.

“What weapons do you carry?” asked Cranny.

“A Winchester rifle and a pistol,” answered Alvin. “They are supplied to us at cost.”

“But we’ve got to furnish our own horses an’ clothing,” said Raulings.

“Suppose somebody should draw a bead on your nag, and the next minute he keeled over; what then?” inquired Cranny.

“When a horse is killed in action the state gives another free of charge.”

“There’s a detachment from this company temporarily located many miles from here, an’ this bunch is detailed to take a ride over there to-morrow,” put in Stovall. “We’ll be ridin’ within sight o’ your old ranch-house early in the morning. Want to come along?”

“I should say so!” declared Cranny, enthusiastically.

“Yes siree,” said Tom.

“We’re off on scoutin’ expeditions all the time,” explained Raulings. “An’ that means roughin’ it enough to suit anybody. This here one——” The Ranger stopped suddenly, his eyes roved in the direction of the captain; then, seeing no movement on the latter’s part he resumed in a lower tone, “An’ this here one——”

“Oh, pshaw! Man—there isn’t any secret about it,” interrupted Stovall, impatiently. “Speak up!”

“Yes; fire away!” urged Cranny, the flashing light which so often came into his eyes now strongly in evidence.

“Wal, rustlers have started up work ag’in! Cattle is gettin’ stole right an’ left.”

“Rustlers!” broke in Tom, interestedly.

“Yes. An’ the job o’ this here bunch o’ Texas Rangers is to ketch them fellers or run ’em out o’ the state,” declared Stovall. The lines on his youthful face became hard and stern. “The ranchmen are mighty hot about it, too. There’s Colonel Sylvester of the ‘Eagle Pass’ Ranch—some o’ his stock is missin’ an’——”

Cranny Beaumont rose to his feet.

“Fellows!” he exclaimed impressively. “I wonder if we’re going to run into any excitement!”

“Don’t think of such things, Cranny,” begged Dave. “I’m just longing for a nice quiet trip.”

“Haven’t you any clues?” asked Bob.

“Nary a one,” responded Jack. “I reckon, though, it’s the work of a purty well organized band o’ outlaws.”

“An’ to change the subject, boys,” interposed Raulings, “don’t forget that little job we have on hand for Colonel Sylvester. The last time I saw him he was all worked-up about that kid.”

Ranger Chaney was the only one who heard this speech, for at that precise moment all the boys rose to their feet, which, together with Cranny’s boisterous laughter at some observation of Dave’s, and a lively rattle of tongues, proved quite sufficient to distract the others’ attention.

“I reckon he’s skipped from these parts a’ready,” remarked Chaney.

“An’ I reckon he ain’t,” returned the other.

A few minutes later the crowd took leave of the Rangers, promising to keep a sharp lookout for them on the following morning.

Cranny Beaumont was in a very happy frame of mind. The Tacoma lad had another interesting subject to occupy his mind just now—the cattle rustlers. And it would be a mighty strange thing, he thought, if between them and a visit to the Mexican side of the “Rio Bravo” he didn’t run into some kind of excitement before his visit to Texas was over. And excitement to Cranny seemed almost as necessary to existence as food and drink.

CHAPTER IV
THE INVADERS

The moon had risen and was casting a pale, greenish radiance over the picturesque little town, when the seven, who had been seated on the spacious veranda of a restaurant, reluctantly decided that it was time to go. Under the magic of the soft illumination the harshness of line and color had departed. Even the grim-looking grain elevator near the railroad tracks, a flat mass of bluish gray rising against a luminous sky, wore an aspect of calm serenity which fitted well into a scene full of silvery lights and mysterious shadows.

“Ah, how superb is nature,” sighed Dave.

“What a superb meal we had,” chuckled Don.

“An’ what a superb ride is before us,” chimed in Cranny.

He was the first to dash down the wooden steps, the first to spring into the saddle, and he also led the procession of riders which presently swung into the broad white road.

Waving their hands in response to salutations from several interested spectators, the boys allowed the mustangs to break into a lively gallop, which they kept up until the railroad crossing was reached. There, a long line of slowly-moving freight cars filled with crates of onions barred their way.

“Huh!” said Tom, “I guess there’s enough of ’em to melt the whole world to tears.”

“This little Texas town,” remarked Sam quite solemnly, “enjoys the distinction of being one of the largest onion-shipping points in the world.”

“Do tell,” grinned Cranny.

“And you might as well learn that the soil is good for all sorts of truck and farm products. Figs, grapes, watermelons, cantaloupes, and cabbages.”

“That sounds like a Chamber of Commerce booklet,” laughed Dick.

“When knowledge is being disseminated, don’t interrupt,” said Sam severely.

“I say, Mr. Speaker, where did you capture that last word?” gurgled Cranny. “Don’t spring anythin’ like that again so suddenly or——”

The lad did not complete his sentence for the cars had rattled by and the impatient mustangs, like hounds unleashed, abruptly started off on their own accord.

At a rapid pace the seven clattered along. The houses became farther and farther apart until finally the last one was reached and left behind, and they saw stretching before them a broad undulating country.

Beneath a grove of cottonwoods by the side of the road they reined up.

“Hello!” exclaimed Cranny, looking behind. “There’s that little Mexican town.”

“So it is,” said Tom.

They could see a few twinkling lights, some apparently poised in space, and a darkish patch stretching across the Rio—the International bridge.

Half an hour later, now on the open prairie, the boys had halted once more. Their eyes were following a train on the railroad, which had its terminus at a rapidly growing settlement on the river about twenty-five miles away. They watched the tiny starlike points of light blinking from the car windows, now flashing into view, now blotted from sight, as intervening objects came between, with an interest born of the solitude and silence which surrounded them.

“Fine,” said Cranny, “but I’m glad I’m not aboard. Ha, ha! Just think, Sergeant Howell doesn’t want us to go out huntin’ for adventures.”

“We never have to,” returned Sam, quite truthfully, “for our crowd is always running into them.”

“I do hope this trip will be an exception,” said Dave, with a yawn. “What do you say, Bob?”

“Either way suits me,” laughed the other.

“I’m watchfully waiting for something to start pretty soon,” remarked Dick, laughingly. “Better be prepared, Dave, old chap.”

“Come on, fellows,” cried Cranny.

The boys were soon following an old cattle trail. The hoofs of countless animals, which for years had followed this route to the town, had beaten a path almost as plainly marked in places as though the hand of man had taken part in its making.

“Just think of the thousands and thousands,” said Tom, thoughtfully. “My, mustn’t it take an awful number of cattle to supply the world?”

“The state of Texas does its share,” declared Dave. “Why, in San Antonio County alone, an area as great as Belgium, Holland and Denmark could be tucked away and still there would be plenty of space to spare.”

“Well,” said Cranny, “no wonder everything around here looks so big.”

Soon the party reached a dense thicket of chaparral, which merged into a brake of cottonwoods and willows, interspersed with mesquite and prickly pears. The moonbeams filtered through the dense masses of vegetation in silvery streaks; here spotting the tree trunks, there detaching branches and leaves from the shadowy, mysterious background.

The soft, musical sighings and rustlings, as the breeze stole through this leafy coverlet, made of it a place conducive to thought and reflections, and even Cranny Beaumont fell under its spell. And what was more natural than that he should recall the time when, with three hundred dollars in his pocket, he had left home henceforth to depend upon himself.

Three hundred dollars! Why, at that time it had seemed like a fortune, enough to go forth and conquer the world. Yet now—he didn’t like to think of it—his finances were dwindling rapidly. The hiring of “Starlight” and the purchasing of firearms had cut a pretty big hole in his resources. Was he to go back to his father—a failure?

“No, never!” he murmured. He bit his lip almost savagely. “I must find a way!”

And despite the lively conversation of his companions and the bantering remarks which his continued silence brought from them, the Tacoma lad continued to ponder over the important problem.

A few miles beyond the timber they began to see familiar objects.

“Not far now, fellows,” sang out Tom, at length. “The old ranch-house is just beyond the next rise.”

“And after such a glorious ride, how glorious it will be to crawl under a blanket and reflect upon the lovely things we have seen,” said Dave.

“I’d rather steer away from reflections,” declared Cranny, who was beginning to recover his spirits. “I’ll race you to the top, Tom.”

The Ramblers promptly accepted this challenge, and the two, cracking their quirts, started off. The distance, only a few hundred feet, was quickly covered; “Starlight,” to Cranny’s extreme gratification, leading by a head. But the first glance he took toward the ranch-house stifled his shout of triumph and made him utter an exclamation of surprise instead.

“Just look at that, Tom!” he gasped. “Did you ever see anythin’ to beat it?”

Tom was staring in open-mouthed wonder.

The grim, square outlines of the ancient ranch-house made a dark silhouette against the cloudless sky. All of its windows but two appeared as dark, gloomy patches; and from these exceptions a dull glow of yellowish light struggled forth.

Their castle had been invaded.

CHAPTER V
NEW FRIENDS

A chorus of exclamations arose when the others rode up.

“Great Scott!” exclaimed Dick. “Say! Maybe this isn’t some surprise.”

“Well, I like that,” cried Tom, fiercely.

“I don’t,” said Don, with decided frankness.

“We’ll just dash right down and see what it all means. Come on, fellows.”

The impetuous Tom, quite as indignant as though the ranch-house were his own private property, was about to act upon his own suggestion, when Don hastily voiced an emphatic protest.

“Wait—hold on!” he cried.

Don had been thinking about Jim Raulings’ revelation regarding the cattle rustlers. Was it safe, he demanded, to rush heedlessly ahead, not knowing who might be there to confront them? Suppose, for instance, they should belong to a band such as the Texas Rangers had described—what then?

“Oh, pshaw!” scoffed Cranny, his eyes sparkling with interest. “It’s no use to call for the police. I’ll bet there isn’t one due on this beat for another moon. Besides we’re seven—all armed—— That for the cattle rustlers!” He snapped his fingers.

“Let ’er rip!” cried Tom.

And then Don saw the others flash away from his side and go swinging down the gentle incline. With a feeling of apprehension the lad slowly followed.

The moonlight falling across the dusky figures of the horsemen who had drawn rein before the windows produced a decidedly picturesque effect. Long greenish shadows straggled over the grass, details merged themselves together, though glinting lights on spurs and horses’ trappings occasionally shot forth from the half obscurity with singular clearness.

“Hello there; inside the house!” yelled Tom.

Almost instantly the broad, yellow spaces of light behind the windows were broken. Two figures flashed against it. Then the highly expectant crowd heard the creaking of the heavy window-frame as it was slowly raised.

“Hello! Who are you?” demanded a loud clear voice. The speaker leaning far out of the window gazed upon them earnestly.

“The question is—who are you?” called back Tom. “That’s our house.”

“Ah, indeed! Then, in that case, you may come in.”

Don Stratton’s visions of cattle rustlers and desperados immediately vanished. Surely the tones of that voice, a hearty, musical one, had nothing in them suggestive of the characters he had so vividly pictured in his mind.

Joining in the ripple of laughter which the man’s response had caused, he, like the others, tied his pony to a hitching-post, and right behind them bounded up the steps.

At the entrance the mysterious visitors looming up in the doorway faced the crowd.

“Thunderation! What a big bunch it is!” cried one, evidently the younger. “I say—— Great Cæsar, Professor! Am I right—nothing but a lot of boys?”

“Boys!” echoed Tom, stiffly. “We’re——”

“All explanations inside, if you please,” interrupted the man who had spoken to them from the window. “Parry,” he slapped his companion good-naturedly on the shoulder, “in spite of all my traveling, I’m not over the faculty of being surprised. Well, well—I am again!”

“And so were we,” remarked Tom, rather grimly.

They followed the men into the dining-room, where the rays from a couple of lanterns resting on the table revealed their faces clearly.

The taller and elder of the two appeared to be a man of about forty-five. And though his face was bronzed by exposure to the elements, a dark, pointed beard and eye-glasses served to give him an air quite in accord with the title of “professor.”

The most conspicuous features about the other, evidently but a few years older than the lads, at whom he stared with a mingled look of wonder and amusement, were a pair of clear blue eyes, and dark, chestnut hair.

“Now, fire away, fellows!” he began easily.

“Yes, do! Really this is a most welcome surprise,” interjected the other. Then, dropping his bantering tone for one of seriousness, he added, “But do kindly assuage my feeling of overwhelming curiosity. How does it happen that a crowd of boys——”

“Oh, yes; we know just what you’re going to ask,” Tom’s voice had a weary note in it—“that kind of question has been often tossed to us before. But I think, sir——”

“Quite right,” replied the man, smilingly. “Our explanations should come first. Besides, we owe you an apology for so unceremoniously entering your house.”

All this, spoken in a jovial tone, had the effect of prepossessing the crowd in the visitors’ favor.

“My name is Horatio Kent,” he explained. “And I am a lecturer. Every year I deliver a series of travelogues in the large Eastern cities, which are illustrated by motion-pictures.”

“What a great job!” cried Cranny.

“It has its advantages. This is my assistant—an expert motion-picture photographer.”

“Glad to meet you, I’m sure,” grinned Parry. “At present we are traveling rather unconventionally on horseback, with a little burro to help us carry our stuff. Passing this old ranch, about sundown, en route to the town yonder,” he waved his hand toward the south, “and, being rather weary, after a long day in the saddle, the idea struck us that we might stop here for the night. The door wasn’t fastened, you know. Our horses are back there in the stable.”

“You’re most welcome, I’m sure,” declared Bob, heartily.

“Thanks.”

“And say, maybe we weren’t surprised when all these evidences of civilization struck our eyes,” laughed Parry. “Both the professor and I thought somebody would be moseying along pretty soon, but we never expected——”

“Of course you didn’t,” broke in Tom, a bit scornfully. “Nobody ever does. The idea—a pack of kids out on the plains at this time of night; why—— Sir”—he swung around to face the older man who had addressed him—“shall I tell you who we are, and where we come from?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sit down, fellows,” grinned Dave; “here’s where the history of the Rambler Club is wound off once more.”

Dave was quite right. Tom’s lips lost their sarcastic droop as he plunged ahead, and, for fully half an hour, his deep-toned voice held almost undisputed sway. At the last, pleased with the exclamation of surprise, and the brief comments which occasionally punctuated his words, he drew from his breast pocket a well-bethumbed copy of “The Kingswood High School Reflector.” “That’s published in our home town,” he explained loftily. “There’s an account in it, too, of some of the adventures of the club written by Dave Brandon, our historian.”

“Parry, how dreadful it would have been if we had missed all this!” laughed the lecturer, glancing over the sheet, which Tom placed in his hand. “Dear me, I’m glad I never lost the faculty of being surprised.”

“I’ll never get over this,” chuckled Parry. “You’ll have to put this crowd into your next lecture, Professor. Now you chaps will get some fame!”

“We’re pretty well known already,” remarked Tom, modestly.

Now the boys began to ask a few questions themselves, and the lecturer, in the clear, resonant tones of one long accustomed to speak on the public platform, obliged. Rapidly he told them something about the various countries they had visited in quest of material for his work, ending up with the explanation that this year he had decided to make an exploration of Mexico, and on his way to that country study conditions along the Texas border.

“I think some of our people in the East would like to have visualized scenes and incidents connected with the work of the United States soldiers who are patrolling this section,” he said. “I expect also to get some pictures of a more stirring nature on the other side of the Rio.”

“What!” cried Cranny, his eyes opening wide with astonishment, “the scrappin’, you mean?”

“To be sure; why not? The lecturer and motion-picture photographer are attended by risks of many sorts. Our comfortably-seated audiences, while viewing pictures of lands taken in various quarters of the globe, and of wild and ferocious animals prowling about their native haunts, probably seldom realize the dangers and hardships which are encountered by the men who have traveled thousands of miles to get them.”

“They don’t indeed!” agreed George Parry.

“I shouldn’t care to tackle that job in Mexico,” commented Sam Randall, reflectively.

“Nor I, either,” confirmed Don.

“Count me out of such adventurous proceedings, too,” said Dave.

“And I’m right in for ’em!” exclaimed Cranny, so emphatically that the two men looked at him with a smile. “I say—are you goin’ across the Rio pretty soon?”

“Very shortly,” replied the lecturer. He shifted his position on the rough, wooden bench, and the glow from the lanterns falling across his bronzed features with picturesque effect revealed a thoughtful look in his eyes. “Judging from what has been told to us on the way,” he continued slowly, “that little Mexican town over yonder and its surroundings will be the theater of some exciting events before many days have passed.”

“And if it does turn out that way, we ought to get some bully films,” remarked the photographer.

There was no room in Cranny Beaumont’s mind just now for troublesome thoughts of the future.

“I’m mighty glad these chaps happened along,” he reflected. “It’ll make it easier for me to skip across into old Mexico; and, by Jove, maybe I’ll go with ’em.”

The unusual meeting of the two parties at the old ranch-house proved to be a most pleasant one for all concerned. They talked so many hours, too, that by the time it was decided to turn in, the stout historian sat dozing in a corner.

He complained energetically at being disturbed, but Tom and Dick cruelly hustled him, sleepy-eyed and yawning, to his feet.

“We have to stable our ponies, you know,” Dick reminded him.

“And get up mighty early in the morning,” chimed in Tom. “We don’t want to miss that trip with the Texas Rangers.”

“The Texas Rangers?” queried Professor Kent.

“Yes, sir,” answered Cranny. Then in a few words he explained about their plans for the following day.

“I wonder if they’d object to our accompanying the expedition?” mused the lecturer. “I declare, Parry”—he turned to his assistant—“it would suit me capitally.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Parry.

“The Rangers will be glad to have you, I’m sure,” declared Bob, confidently.

“Good. Anyway, a word in our favor from the Ramblers ought to have great weight with them,” laughed the other.

Within another half hour the crowd had attended to their mustangs, besides examining those of the visitors, which, together with a sturdy little burro, they found very interesting. Then each took a hasty look at the motion-picture cameras and other paraphernalia necessary to the travelers’ profession.

“Oh, my! Don’t I wish I could lecture,” sighed Cranny. Disturbing thoughts concerning that bothersome subject—his future—flashed into his mind once more, but Tom’s loud, gruff remark: “Step along lively, fellows! We ought to be hitting those balsam boughs—the Rangers, you know!” drove them away on the instant.

“Don’t worry, Tom, we won’t miss ’em,” he gurgled.

On their way to the house the group stopped for a few moments to study the calm and poetic aspect of nature. The far-off hills on the Mexican shores rose faintly against a bluish-green sky unflecked with clouds, while the tall grasses of the prairie, still waving and tossing under the influence of a gusty breeze, were edged with delicate touches of silvery light.

“Glorious!” pronounced Dave.

“And yet only a few miles away, perhaps amid just such another peaceful scene, rival armies are encamped ready to hurl themselves upon each other at the first opportunity,” remarked the professor, with a thoughtful look.

Presently inside the ranch-house the crowd set to work, and taking a portion of the fragrant balsam boughs from each bed made up two for the travelers. This being accomplished, they promptly lay down and before long were sound asleep, heedless alike to the beauty of the night or the sound of rifle shots which for some time sounded faintly from afar.

CHAPTER VI
IN THE SADDLE

Next morning after breakfast the entire crowd was on the roof.

Tom Clifton, with Bob Somers’ field-glass pressed to his eyes, at last uttered an exclamation which attracted general attention.

“See anythin’?” demanded Cranny.

“Yes. Hooray, fellows! There come the Rangers!” he answered.

“Maybe it’s only a bunch o’ cattle rustlers!” chirped Cranny. “Quick, Tom; let me have a squint.”

Though the sun had risen some distance above the horizon, streamers of grayish mist still hung low over the landscape, completely blotting from view the hills beyond the Rio. But by the aid of the powerful binoculars which penetrated this fast dissolving curtain, Cranny saw the specks assume the definite form of horsemen.

“Correct, Tom, old chap,” he affirmed. “Hustle! We don’t want to keep ’em waitin’.”

“I scarcely think you will,” said the lecturer with a smile.

Nimbly the crowd piled through the trap-door. Down-stairs they buckled on cartridge belts, adjusted revolvers, holsters, and lastly slung glistening rifles over their shoulders, while Professor Kent and George Parry looked on with twinkling eyes.

“Never in all my life did I see a peaceable bunch look more warlike!” chuckled the latter. “Boys, if you ever cut across the river in that rig, you’ll have the Mexicans surely thinking that the United States is tired of ‘watchful waiting’ at last.”

“That’s all right,” laughed Cranny.

A few minutes later the party was in the stable. Then followed a lively scene. The mustangs whirled and danced about, but all the activity on their part failed to impress the little burro, which had to be prodded and coaxed vigorously before he would consent to leave the mellow shadows of the interior.

Quickly the boys sprang into the saddles, fastened their rifles across the pommels, and in a due westerly direction galloped off, occasionally uttering yells which no doubt easily carried against the slight breeze to the ears of the approaching Rangers. In the crest of a gentle rise they drew rein, to gaze long and earnestly over the prairie. But the only other human beings in sight besides themselves were the lecturer and his assistant, who, hampered by the obstinate burro, had been left far to the rear.

“Give another whoop, fellows!” commanded Tom.

The others obeyed, and immediately following their lusty chorus came a faint, answering hail.

“Ha, ha!” laughed Cranny. “We’ll soon be on the way.”

Before the other travelers had time to reach them, the four Rangers, with Jack Stovall in the lead, came into view over a ridge.

“I was mighty certain ye’d never let us git by ye!” shouted the young Ranger, the moment he had come within speaking distance. Then, glancing toward the two men, urging the burro to a faster gait, he added with a quizzical smile, “Say, pards! I reckon that’s some more o’ your gang, eh?”

“You’ll know in a minute,” Cranny shouted back.

With the sunlight playing over them and horses’ trappings and spurs catching and holding myriad gleams of light, the policemen of the plains presented quite an impressive appearance.

Carl Alvin in charge of the detail warmly saluted the boys, and looked inquiringly toward Professor Kent and the photographer, who were now rapidly approaching.

Bob Somers quickly introduced the Easterners, and the Rangers, with the exception of Jim Raulings, greeted them in hearty fashion.

“Sure, you can go along with us,” declared Alvin, after a moment’s conversation. “We’ll be glad to have you.”

“Big Jim,” a zealous, conscientious officer, feared that the advent of so many strangers among them might in some way interfere with their duties. And at present they had a very important assignment, for complaints of the activities of cattle rustlers as well as smugglers were steadily coming in to headquarters.

“I wish them fellers would hike off somewheres else,” he confided in a low tone to Chaney. The other, however, merely shrugged his broad shoulders and grinned.

“Come ahead, men,” came in Carl Alvin’s clear voice.

The restive, mettlesome mustangs, glad to be on the move once more, shot forward at the word of command, and breaking into a loping trot presently carried the riders over another rise which shut from their view the gray, adobe walls of the ancient ranch-house.

The weather was warmer than on the day before and lacked the fresh, keen breeze to temper the heat. The sun shone from a cloudless sky and as it climbed higher and higher all nature became enveloped in a yellowish glare, which, with the clouds of dust kicked up by the ponies’ heels, made the travelers long for a bit of woods and shade.

And this longing was soon gratified. Clumps of cottonwood began to be encountered and beyond the horsemen could see a line of timber stretching off in a northeasterly direction. This they knew marked the course of one of the tributaries of the Rio Grande.

Even Cranny Beaumont uttered a sigh of satisfaction when the mustangs, their shaggy brown-patched coats flecked with foam, finally threaded a passageway leading into this thick brake, where grateful shade at last shielded them from the sun’s hot rays.

“Ah, this is a jolly nice change!” he remarked, wiping his perspiring face.

“I should say so,” murmured Don Stratton, still too much of a tenderfoot to be enjoying the situation with as keen a relish as his companions.

“We’ll give our nags a chance to rest at the first likely place, boys,” announced Alvin.

To the lads it didn’t look as though any “likely place” could be found. The cottonwoods, willows, prickly pears and mesquite were so densely matted together that progress became slow and difficult. Occasionally a streak of light trailed over the ground, touching up with a golden luster vegetation which lay in its path.

Had the boys been alone it is doubtful if they could have found their way through the depths of the lonely haunts at this particular point. The Rangers, however, thoroughly familiar with the locality, led the way in single file, following winding paths which only an experienced eye could have detected. It was difficult work, for treacherous roots trailed over the ground, and often low-hanging boughs, pushed aside by riders in advance, snapping back into place smartly lashed those following close behind.

“Well, this is some job, sure enough!” declared Cranny, after a particularly violent impact.

“Never mind, lad,” Alvin called back. “We’ll have it easier in another minute.”

“Thank goodness!” murmured Don.

Not many yards farther on the long file of horsemen entered a little glade, pleasantly shaded.

“Hooray!” cried Cranny. “Isn’t this fine?”

“Great!” responded Dave. “I could stay here all day!”

The steady crashing of horses’ hoofs in the underbrush suddenly ceased, and men and boys dismounted. After securing their mounts to convenient saplings they sought the cool, greenish shadows, where each, with expressions of satisfaction, immediately stretched himself out on the ground.

The party quickly found, however, that they were not destined to remain there long in peace. Hordes of mosquitoes swarmed down upon them; and though a vigorous defense was offered to the vicious attacks, the immense numbers of the little buzzing insects made such efforts almost futile.

“Mercy, help!” murmured Don.

“Kill ’em and they come right back,” grumbled Dick; “eh, Tom?”

Tom, however, merely nodded. He expected discomforts out in the open and when they came generally bore them with heroic fortitude.

“I say, Carl,” he exclaimed, “where is the ranch of this Colonel Brookes Sylvester, who has been having trouble with the rustlers?”

“INTO THE SADDLE, BOYS!”

“About fifty miles from the town,” replied the Ranger. “And it’s one of the finest in southwestern Texas. The colonel, besides being a cattleman, is a farmer, and has some of the best artesian wells in this section.”

“He’s sure a fine man too,” put in Raulings, “an’ the last time I seen him, he was all broke up. ‘I’m bankin’ on the Texas Rangers to help me out,’ he says; an’——”

“Was he talking about the cattle rustlers?” queried Tom.

“No—somethin’ that worried him a heap sight more’n them critters,” grunted the Ranger in reply.

Tom, whose curiosity had been greatly aroused, might have asked some other questions but for the fact that Don jumped to his feet, exclaiming in disgusted tones:

“Say, fellows, I can’t stand these torments a minute longer!” He looked toward Alvin, who nodded.

“Into the saddle, boys!” said the Ranger.

Through openings here and there in the break they could see the river, a narrow and muddy stream. In a straight line the distance was short, but the route which the riders soon followed proved to be so winding and irregular that a considerable time elapsed before they reached its bank. In places the trees on either shore met to form a leafy archway, which sparkled and glittered in the sunlight.

The gravel bottom of the stream enabled the mustangs and burro to wade across.

Entering the brake at a point farther down-stream Carl Alvin led the advance so skilfully that nowhere were they forced by barricades of green to retrace their steps.

Probably no one among the party was more relieved to see the thicket opening out than George Parry, who had charge of the burro. The clumsy, intractable animal either halted with annoying frequency or managed to get his stocky little form tangled up in the vegetation.

“That was certainly tough work!” he puffed as they rode out on higher ground.

“I should say so,” laughed Cranny. His twinkling eyes sought Don’s. “Fun, I call it.”

“Well, I’m generous enough to let you have all my share,” chuckled the New Orleans lad.

The country through which the travelers rode during the next few hours was of a diversified nature. Sometimes it was over sandy ridges crowned with Yucca or mesquite, at others along rolling stretches of country which extended for miles and miles.

Carl Alvin explained that near the Rio Grande the ground was mostly very rough, with only a few irrigation farms along the river.

“I should think outlaws would have an easy time of it out here,” remarked Don.

“Some years ago they did, an’ then there was plenty of ’em,” declared Jack Stovall. “Believe me, the Texas Rangers have made western and southern Texas a white man’s country. But naturally ye can’t expect us to clear ’em all out.”

“Do you think you’ll round up this new bunch of rustlers?” asked Bob.

“Certainly, though in a vast country like this, it’s mighty hard to watch the frontier; an’ there’s many a good hidin’ place along the Rio—all that makes it hard.”

“Maybe the Ramblers will help us,” drawled Chaney with a broad grin.

“If our crowd had the authority, and stayed here long enough we might,” laughed Tom.

A few miles farther on they came to a branch of the river recently crossed, and entered another brake, almost as dense as the other. Half an hour’s travel beyond this brought them in sight of a horse and rider. On catching sight of the advancing party, the man cracked his rawhide quirt and galloped forward.

“That’s Jim Roland,” announced Carl Alvin.

“Another Ranger?” asked Professor Kent.

“Yes, sir, and a good one.”

Jim Roland was of course astonished to see so many boys among the horsemen, a fact which brought forth several humorous observations from Tom. Finally, after having his curiosity partially satisfied, the Ranger led the crowd toward a hut which nestled near the base of a low hill. Almost hidden behind a grove of cottonwoods it seemed to be an ideal situation for the quarters of the Ranger detachment.

CHAPTER VII
SCOUTING

They found the policeman in charge making out a report to the adjutant-general at Austin.

He was a very tall Texan, a man over six feet in height, correspondingly broad, and possessing a pair of stern-looking gray eyes which matched well the stern, determined lines of his face.

The name of Fred Cole, the Texas Ranger, was known and respected all over that section where his activities took him. Absolutely devoid of fear, it was generally conceded that he had been the means of driving more desperate characters from that part of Texas than any other single member of the Ranger force.

Cole, however, was not in a very happy frame of mind these days.

After a long interval of comparative peace, the ranchmen were again suffering at the hands of an outlaw band, the most troublesome which that section west of the Nueches River had known for years. It was apparently a well perfected organization, for stock had recently disappeared in wholesale numbers.

It was naturally inferred that such work could not go on without the assistance of some unscrupulous stockmen, and men were becoming suspicious of one another.

Altogether it was a very bad state of affairs. There was talk of organizing posses; there was even criticism of the Rangers, men who every day of their lives were exposed to grave perils and hardships; and many of whom could show scars, the result of encounters with just the same sort of men that were now giving them so much concern.

Under the circumstances Fred Cole was not in a very good humor, but he neither gave evidence of this, nor surprise when so many boys descended upon his camp. He received them all in a pleasant offhand fashion, as though such visits were a common every-day occurrence; then excusing himself began to talk earnestly with Carl Alvin.

Four other Rangers, however, did not hesitate to express their astonishment, and, as the hut was far too small to accommodate such a large crowd, the lads and Professor Kent and his assistant accompanied the men toward a long shed at the rear, in which a number of horses were stabled. Just outside they paused.

Tom, to whom the rôle of spokesman now always seemed to fall, obliged once more, giving some details of the history and adventures of the “Rambler Club,” which the wondering Rangers listened to with great attention.

“I sure never did hear the beat o’ it!” declared Bart Eagan, some time later. “But say, pards, ain’t ye hungry after all that ride?”

“Famished!” murmured Dave.

The Rangers looked at his stout form and laughed.

“The fattest is always the hungriest,” remarked Joe Kane sagely. “Boys,” he made a gesture over his shoulder, “a water-hole’s back there, so ye kin wash up a bit.”

“Oh, joy!” sighed Don.

“We’ve had our grub a’ready but I reckon there’s a bite or two left for each of ye.”

Ten minutes later the travelers, refreshed by a liberal use of the clear, cool water, and with travel-stains removed, sat down before a rough board table placed at one end of the shed. Every one of them, too, partook of the food set before him with that keen appetite which only those who have lived much out in the open seem to possess.

A little while after, Cole, in the company of Alvin, coming outside “the office,” entered into the conversation. As a rule he was rather a taciturn man, but the presence of so many bright, youthful faces caused him to depart for the time being from his reserve.

“I’ve no doubt that the life of a Texas Ranger to you boys seems to be a very romantic and enjoyable one,” he remarked with a grim smile. “Though in reality it’s just plain hard work.”

“You’re right there, Fred,” grunted Raulings.

“And there is no doubt that the state of Texas owes you a great deal,” said Dave. “I’ve read how the Rangers made it possible for homesteaders and farmers to settle in parts of the state which before were overrun with desperate characters. And the resources of the earth being put into use, of course, means advancement and prosperity for any section.”

“Quite true,” said Cole. “And we mean to make it a safer and better place all the time.” He turned to Alvin. “Though to police efficiently such a vast territory would require a very much larger force.” Then seating himself on a bench near by, he, in answer to a question from Dick, told him that another company of Rangers had their headquarters at a town nearly three hundred miles to the north.

“Whew! What a jump between police stations,” chuckled Cranny. “Why—that’s away above the big bend of the Rio!”

“It certainly is,” said Jim Roland.

“That there river ain’t much good for navigation,” volunteered Raulings. “Ye see, for five hundred miles along its crooked course only small steamers can use it.”

“All the same I reckon the stream’s been a mighty handy thing for rustlers,” said Stovall. “I’ll bet many a drove o’ steers has been shipped on to boats, taken down-stream an’ loaded on ships.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Jim.

“I’m a-goin’ to stick up for the Old Rio,” grinned Joe Kane; “it’s sure all right for irrigation purposes anyway.”

“Yes, an’ the United States an’ the Greaser Government are always a-scrappin’ over it,” growled Raulings. “But none o’ ye ain’t hit the nail on the head yet.”

“Smash it,” pleaded Cranny.

“Without no fear of contradiction I can say that for helpin’ the Chinese to git on our side of the border that there stream is a bird! Yes, sir! There’s gangs what smuggle ’em over at so much a head. An’ the slant-eyed chinks is only too willin’ to pay.”

“Did you ever?” murmured Don.

“It’s true, boys,” came from Stovall. “We ain’t got enough customs officers or other authorities to keep an eye on things; but let me tell ye—it may be kind o’ easy for ’em a-gettin’ in; but when it comes to stayin’ that ain’t the same.”

“How?” asked Dick.

“Well, ye see, the custom officials know every chink in the border towns, an’ just as soon as a new face is spotted they get busy. If the feller can’t give a straight account of himself an’ show proper certificates, it’s good-bye to the States for that particular chap.”

“An’ maybe they ain’t a wily lot,” grunted Raulings. “Most of ’em know enough to beat it for the interior to onct. They’ve ketched ’em many a time in trains an’ on the brake beams o’ freight cars.”

“Yes, for a fact they have,” asserted another Ranger named Roy Cooper, “an’, say—didn’t I even hear tell of a case where they nabbed a lot who had smuggled themselves into barrels. The officers found ’em aboard a freight wagon bound for the interior.”

“There’s always somethin’ doin’ in this old world,” said Cranny.

For another half hour the boys talked with the Rangers, then after that began a tour of exploration around the immediate vicinity. To roam about on foot proved to be such an interesting experience that it was almost supper time before they returned hungry and tired to camp.

“I say,” remarked Cranny, as after a good meal he lolled indolently by the side of the cheerful blaze, “too much of this life isn’t enough, eh?”

“No,” admitted Don, “though I’d like it better if some of the mosquitoes would nose into the next state.”

They turned in rather early, probably because the Rangers did, and were up with the sun.

Immediately after breakfast George Parry set up his camera and took several motion-pictures of the Rangers performing various duties. He also filmed a detail of mounted men, and the Ramblers and Cranny exhibiting some fancy tricks on horseback, “stunts” which had been taught to them by the Wyoming cowboys, Cranny explained.

When the last picture had been taken and the detail in charge of Carl Alvin was starting off, Parry called after them:

“I’ll label one of these, ‘Departure of the Texas Rangers and the Rambler Club in search of cattle rustlers.’”

“I only hope we run across ’em,” yelled Cranny in reply. “If we do, then some of us will see a moving picture in real life.”

That day the scouting party made a journey which embraced many miles of territory. They met several cowboys and saw herds of cattle. That, however, was the extent of their experiences. So far as could be learned the bandits were keeping quiet; though none of the men, with whom they talked, thought it would be for long.

On the succeeding days the boys again accompanied the scouts, and these long, fatiguing rides over all sorts of country, with the sun’s hot rays beating down upon them, gave every one a good insight into the hardships and discomforts which the policemen of the plains were often obliged to face.

This sort of life was making a remarkable change in the appearance of Don Stratton. His face had now become fully as bronzed as that of any Rambler, and a new strength and vigor seemed to have been imparted to his frame.

On two occasions when night came upon them the party camped under the star-studded heavens; and both times lay awake for over an hour, listening to Dave Brandon as he talked entertainingly about the wonders of the stars and constellations so many millions of miles away.

Returning to camp early one evening they found two things to interest them. One was the arrival of Sergeant Robson Howell to take command of the detachment; the other an announcement by Professor Kent that he and George Parry intended to leave on the following morning for Mexico.

Hearing this Cranny Beaumont became strangely silent. For some time he paid little attention to what was going on around him. Then suddenly he looked up to blurt out:

“Fellows, I’m goin’ to Mexico, too!”

Tom stared hard at him.

“What!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, sir; it may be my only chance. Who wants to go along?”

There was silence—a dense silence for an instant. Then Tom spoke up.

“I,” was the sound that Cranny heard him utter.

“And I.”

“And I.”

These last two replies coming from Bob Somers and Dick Travers increased the smile of joy which had begun to overspread the Tacoma lad’s face.

“Hooray!” he shouted enthusiastically. “Won’t we just have a——”

“Oh—look here!” interposed Don hastily.

Those words started a discussion. It was a lively, earnest one, in which Dave, Sam and Don spoke in the negative, while the others upholding Cranny’s side of the case and incidentally their own, met logic with logic, facts with facts, and so successfully, too, that Sam at last threw up his hands as a token of surrender.

“Of course, I knew from the start it wasn’t any use to argue,” he laughed, “but say, Bob, won’t you promise to come back in a day or two?”

“Sure thing,” said Bob.

A smaller sized argument thereupon ensued. Bob and Tom readily agreed, the former even naming the day, but Cranny hedged.

“Honest to goodness, fellows,” he protested, “it’s most certain I’ll come back, too, but——”

“Boys!” remarked Dave, solemnly, “we might as well get at some more useful occupation.”

And this is how it happened that on the following morning the detachment quarters of the Texas Rangers lost, for the time being, six of its party of interesting visitors.

CHAPTER VIII
IN MEXICO

In the little settlement on the Rio Grande, situated at the terminus of the short line of railroad, the five encountered a Mexican, who, for a few coins, piloted them to a place along the river where the banks were so shelving that for a great part of the way horses could wade across.

At a lonely, deserted spot the Americans set foot in Mexico—that land of revolution and turmoil—a land that may truthfully boast of the most wonderful resources, yet within the confines of which can be found the greatest of poverty and misery.

After riding over a rough and rugged trail, nearly always in sight of a range of distant snow-clad mountains, the men and boys, hot, dusty and tired, reached the quaint little frontier town about four o’clock in the afternoon.

The action of the United States Government in sending war-ships to Vera Cruz and landing marines and soldiers at that port was of a too recent occurrence for the hot-headed Mexicans to have forgotten their anger and resentment. Therefore as the foam-flecked, steaming mustangs jogged slowly along the main street an occasional cry of “Gringo” generally uttered by some youthful voice rose above the sound of trampling hoofs.

Here and there picturesque little towers rose against the sky. Then the characteristic Mexican balconies, over the railings of which many a gaudily-colored rug was thrown; the pots of flowers in bloom; the semi-tropical vegetation and the traces, still to be seen on many sides, of the days when the Spaniards held control, all combined to form scenes full of interest and color.

Every one seemed to be moving about the sun-baked streets with an air of indolence. Men and youths were occasionally seen, sprawled out in the bluish shadows, some with high conical hats pulled well down over their eyes. The very atmosphere of the place suggested languor and inaction; yet those well informed knew that behind this air of tranquillity lay grave fears for the safety of the town. Encamped only twenty miles away, the Constitutionalists’ line of steel might at any moment advance and attack the Federal garrison.

As they rode slowly along Professor Kent spoke about these things to the boys, causing a sparkle to replace the fatigued look in Cranny Beaumont’s eye.

“Fellows, it’s just like living in a place near a sleepin’ volcano,” he exclaimed.

“I am thinking of something else,” said Dave. “I’ll take some chile con carne, frijoles, tortillas, and a whole lot of——”

“Have mercy,” pleaded George Parry, with a weary smile.

“I’m not going to have any on my pocket-book,” declared Dick.

The travelers were now turning into a big plaza. On one side the bell tower of the cathedral rising dazzlingly white against the deep blue sky was the dominating note of the scene. Flocks of pigeons fluttered about the belfry or swarmed over the ground.

It was market day and plenty of the stands were still heaped up with fruits and vegetables of many sorts. In their chairs, sheltered by dingy awnings from the torrid rays of heat which made the plaza fairly sizzle, fat old market women and men sat dozing. They awakened very quickly, however, as the horsemen clattered along.

Their voices suddenly broke the silence; heads popped out of windows; from various quarters people appeared to stare, apparently in great astonishment, at this new American invasion.

Goats walked unconcernedly over piles of refuse. A little yellow cur trotted past, showing its teeth and giving vent to a challenging growl. Then from beneath the shadows of a line of mulberry trees a mounted rurale galloped forth.

The riders pulled up to listen to a string of words which had less meaning to them than the bark of the yellow dog. By means of some extraordinary signs, however, Cranny managed to convey to the officer’s brain an understanding of what they required. Then like a general at the head of his troops, he conducted the party, now surrounded by a curious gaping crowd, to a near-by hotel and restaurant.

A fat Mexican, evidently the proprietor, greeted them with an ingratiating smile. In the proceedings which immediately followed, the use of language on their part was fortunately not required. In a deep bass voice he called a man from the stable in the rear, who took charge of the mustangs; then he with many polite bows conducted the visitors inside.

“What a relief it is to be in a cool retreat at last,” exclaimed Professor Kent, mopping his perspiring brow.

“It’s worth all the discomforts we’ve gone through,” declared Dave.

The next hour was a busy one. After selecting rooms and stowing away their belongings, they washed; then, having made themselves thoroughly comfortable, gathered down-stairs in the shady patio or courtyard, where a characteristically Mexican meal was served by the proprietor himself—the most active man they had seen so far in town.

“By Jove! This grub is great stuff!” declared Cranny, enthusiastically. “It may taste as though some one had accidentally spilled a package of pepper in it, but it’s the kind that lingers in the memory.”

“A confoundedly hot sensation in my throat certainly has,” laughed Parry.

“Boys, I’m mighty glad to be alive.”

“And we’re very glad you are,” said the professor smilingly. “You’ll add much to the gayety of Mexico.”

“Fellows, now what are we going to do?” demanded Dick, pushing his chair back in a very contented frame of mind.

“Take a nap,” suggested the lecturer.

“A nap!” echoed Tom, in horrified tones. “I should say not—I want to see the town.”

“You’ll need a body-guard, so I’ll go along,” grinned Dick.

“Then another will be required for you,” said Bob.

“That means I’ll have to look after the whole bunch,” declared Cranny. “Let’s beat it.”

Professor Kent and Parry, succumbing to drowsy feeling, nodded sleepily when the lads a few moments later said good-bye and started off.

They found that the fierce heat had begun to wane and that mellow softened lights replaced the unpleasant glare of the midday sun. There were many more people on the streets, too. Many of the men wore bright colored sashes and handkerchiefs about their waists and necks, while the appearance of the dark-eyed women and girls was often greatly enhanced by long, flowing shawls or flowers stuck in their hair.

“They look more Spanish than the Spanish,” chuckled Cranny.

“And I should judge by the way everybody stares at us that we look awfully United States,” grinned Dick.

In leisurely fashion the crowd tramped along, often stopping to look in store windows filled with all sorts of articles of Mexican workmanship. Dainty little necklaces made of shells strung together, gold and silver ornaments of exquisite design, and quaint and extraordinarily ugly clay figures, the work of Indians, excited their admiration.

The proprietors of shops had no hesitation in rushing out and calling attention to their goods.

“Well, fellows,” remarked Cranny, in rueful tones, “I’d like to buy some trinket, but honest to goodness,” he shook his head, “I think more of a nickel now than I used to of a dollar.”

“Hit upon any scheme yet?” asked Bob sympathetically.

“Yes, plenty of ’em.”

“Made any decision?”

“No I haven’t!” answered Cranny, almost fiercely. Then for fully five minutes his brow remained clouded as disturbing thoughts ran through his mind.

“There’s one word I’ll never forget, and that’s Gringo,” laughed Dick. He glanced around with a cheerful grin, to survey a small group of frankly hostile boys.

“Nor I,” said Bob, “but if we don’t run up against anything worse than that, I’ll be satisfied.”

Following a number of twisting streets, they slowly retraced their steps to the hotel where Professor Kent and his assistant were anxiously awaiting their appearance.

“Thank goodness, you’ve come at last,” exclaimed the latter. “Hungry! Why, boys—I’m getting almost as big an appetite as that stout historian of yours.”

It didn’t take long for them to gather around a table in the patio, this time full of a noisy, jabbering crowd. Then, after another spicy and highly seasoned meal which was lingered over in the same leisurely manner which characterized the Mexicans near by, they strolled out on the veranda.

The moon from an unbroken expanse of greenish gray poured a flood of light over gaily chattering throngs. In and out of the shadows cast by the mulberry trees they ceaselessly marched, and among them were laughing, dark-eyed señoritas and Federal soldiers whose uniforms added touches of color to the scene.

It all made a very entrancing picture; for neither the moonlight nor the brighter glare from the electric lamps was sufficiently strong to reveal the crudeness on all sides so evident in the hot cruel glare of the day.

And now over the languorous air, filled with the scene of flowers and shrubs, came the soft strains of music, catchy, inspiring. Many a foot beat time, and many a couple, light-hearted and laughing, danced near the mulberry trees.

“Ah, this is simply great,” declared Cranny, with a sigh of pleasure, “and yet——” he paused.

“Yes?” said Professor Kent interrogatively.

“One certainly wouldn’t think——”

“What?”

“That all this still makes me think of the dangers one runs when staying near a sleeping volcano.”

CHAPTER IX
A LONE HORSEMAN

Early next afternoon a lone horseman rode slowly into the plaza. Both the appearance of horse and rider gave evidence of a long hard journey. The man’s sunburned face, shadowed by the broad brim of his sombrero, looked lined and haggard; his clothes, too, were torn and dusty.

The animal’s shaggy body was steaming, while his slow, spiritless movements and dejected mien showed plainly that food, water, and rest were urgently needed.

“Hello!” exclaimed Tom, with the others standing on the veranda. “What’s that?”

“Forsooth—if I mistake not a man—a horse,” laughed Cranny.

“And, by Jove, best of all, an American!” cried Bob Somers, who had been gazing intently toward the approaching rider. One good look at the man’s clean-cut features convinced the others that Bob was right. They observed something else, too; he held the reins in his left hand; the other was swathed in bandages.

“H’m; looks as though he’d been in some kind of muss,” commented Tom.

“So it does,” agreed Dick.

The rider as he came up, on discovering so many of his compatriots facing him, appeared so surprised that for a moment he allowed their cheery salutations to go unanswered.

“Well, well,” he began at last. “I didn’t——”

“Of course not,” said Tom, cheerfully. “Nobody ever does. But I say”—he pointed to the young man’s arm—“is it——?”

“It is!” answered the other in grim tones. “Quite badly, too.” Slowly he dismounted, shook a cloud of dust from his clothes, then patted the mustang’s shaggy head.

“I’m mighty curious to know what a crowd like you is doing in this out-of-the-way spot,” he continued, “but my desire for a bite to eat and rest is, for the moment, so much greater that—— Hello, here he is now!”

The fat proprietor had appeared on the scene, and it became apparent to the boys that the men were well acquainted. The American switched off into the Spanish language, speaking it with ease and fluency. When the man came from the stable to lead his weary horse away, he stepped up on the veranda.

The crowd, sympathizing with his tired condition, made no attempt to question him, though Cranny found it difficult to check the flow of words which were ready to gush forth at the slightest encouragement.

An hour and a half later, however, the aspect of the situation had changed. The young man, having attended to his various needs, was just as anxious to talk as they.

In a few words Tom told him something about the club. Then abruptly he demanded, “How about your hand?”

“I’ll tell you,” said the young man. “My name is Ralph Edmunds and I am a special correspondent for an Eastern newspaper syndicate.”

“Say, that’s a fine job,” said Cranny.

“You might not think so, if you’d been mixed up in some of the scraps I have!” remarked Edmunds dryly. “It’s a dangerous game.” The lines of his face became hard and stern. “I’ve been with the Federal troops and just last night we ran across a scouting party of Constitutionalists—whew—say—maybe it wasn’t some hot scrap. Rifles crack easily in this country, you know! Well, a stray bullet scraped my wrist. At first I thought it had ploughed clean through; but luckily it didn’t do any more than temporarily put it out of commission,—which is bad enough, and made me take a long wearisome ride back here.”

Expressions of sympathy came from the crowd.

“And—confound the luck, one of my most important articles is only half finished—what am I to do?” To emphasize his disgust Edmunds’ well hand came down on the table with a bang.

“First of all, let me take a look at your wrist,” said Tom in professional tones. “I’m going to be a doctor some day, you know.”

“I do now, at any rate,” remarked the newspaper man. “And I’m glad to hear it. You may save me the trouble of hunting up a Mexican medico.”

Tom always carried with him a small case containing all the necessary articles for the first aid to the injured treatment, and being deeply interested in the subject had received instructions from a physician in his home town, Kingswood. He left the room to return a moment later with the precious case tucked under his arm.

“Who bandaged it up for you?” demanded Tom, as he unwrapped the gauze.

“A good-natured Mexican.”

“Well, he may have been good-natured enough; but I reckon he never even saw the book—here, let me show you!”

An admiring crowd watched the physician-to-be skilfully bathe and bind an ugly wound; a proceeding which caused Cranny once more to become the victim of disturbing thoughts.

Tom’s career was all settled upon. He had wisely made a selection and with a definite purpose in view could look forward to the future without fear or worry. Deep in the midst of gloomy reflections he lifted his head, as these words spoken by the newspaper man reached his ears.

“I say! Is there any chap in the crowd who’d like to help me finish my article?”

On the spur of the moment Cranny answered:

“Sure thing! I’ll do it.”

“Well, isn’t this simply fine? Can you write fast?”

“So fast that when it’s done nobody can read it,” grinned Cranny.

“Never mind. I’ll risk it. When will you start?”

“Right away.”

Probably Cranny’s quick decision was caused by the strong liking he had taken to the youthful newspaper man. He felt that he was one of those “red-blooded” chaps, full of grit and determination.

The crowd was certainly astonished. It seemed most unlike Cranny to proffer his services for any kind of work when he could just as easily go off on a pleasure jaunt. So with puzzled expressions they watched him and the correspondent presently leave the room.

“Remarkable,” whispered Dick.

“Being with us is doing Cranny lots of good,” said Tom.

“It isn’t making him any worse, at least,” said Bob, with a smile.

Two hours later the Tacoma lad reappeared, carrying a manuscript.

“I sailed through it like a breeze, fellows,” he chuckled gleefully. “A whole two cent lead pencil’s gone. I’m off to despatch it to the newspaper syndicate. Comin’ along? Good.”

The post and telegraph office was in the same building as the general store. Situated in the liveliest section of the frontier town, with a spacious porch surrounding the entire structure, it had become a convenient lounging place for a considerable number of the idle poor.

“It was like running a gauntlet,” Dick declared, to pass before the dark glittering eyes of the Mexicans.

While Cranny attended to his mission the others waited outside. The view they saw was characteristic of border towns. Saddled horses were hitched to posts at intervals along the sidewalks. A buckboard and other vehicles, some of the most primitive sort, formed a little group near by. On both sides of the wide, tree-shaded streets were hotels or stores of various sorts, but the most conspicuous building, both on account of its design and the flaming posters which adorned its front, was a moving picture theater.

When Cranny rejoined them with a peculiar look of satisfaction on his face, they wandered across the street to study the place at closer range.

“H’m, looks kind of good to me,” remarked Tom. “Let’s take it in to-night.”

“Do just let’s,” chortled Dick.

“Good idea,” approved Cranny.

“The ayes have it, so we’ll go,” declared Bob.

Arriving at the hotel they found Professor Kent and Edmunds engaged in conversation, and a few words which the lads overheard before the others were aware of their presence made Cranny Beaumont’s face light up with pleasure.

“Yes, sir! He’s a smart one; writes from dictation like a streak, and scarcely ever makes a error.”

“Bully for you, Cranny,” said Bob softly.

After taking their evening meal in the cool patio, and writing letters home, the crowd set out for the motion-picture theater.

CHAPTER X
MOVING PICTURES

Although the performance had already started the four managed to find seats on the front row.

The audience was a noisy, talkative one. A constant jabbering of tongues sounded on all sides; laughter rang out at frequent intervals, and the pianist, sitting opposite the boys, had difficulty in making the melodious notes of his instrument heard.

One of the first things the Americans noticed was the excellence of his playing. With fascinated attention they watched his deft fingers moving over the keyboard, even while the first part of a three reel thriller was flashing on the big white screen above.

“Some music that!” declared Cranny. “It’s better’n the canned variety.”

“Simply great,” said Dick.

When the lights flashed up during an interval all three lads uttered exclamations of surprise.

“Great Scott! another American,” exclaimed Tom, in a voice which he intended to be low, though his words easily carried to the pianist’s ears. The latter looked toward them earnestly. He was an extremely good-looking young chap—only a lad, and he seemed to be entirely out of place amid such surroundings.

“Hello!” he greeted them with a smile. “Yes, another American!”

In an instant they were chatting with delightful informality, unheeding either the stares or the gruff remarks of several Mexicans near at hand.

“My name is Jimmy Raymond,” the pianist informed them. “What’s yours?”

Tom supplied the information.

“A club,” began Jimmy. “Why, I never——”

“Of course not,” said Tom graciously. “We’ve heard that before. Now for goodness’ sake tell us what you are doing here?”

“Playing the piano.”

“Oh, please don’t joke—— Say, boys, we’ll have to tell the Texas Rangers about this meeting.”

A peculiar change came over Jimmy’s face at these words, though the tones of his voice remained the same as he said: “The Texas Rangers—what do you mean?”

The observant Tom, ever ready to scent a mystery, began to wonder if they hadn’t come across one here. It seemed to him very strange indeed that a boy of Jimmy’s refined appearance should be making his living in a little Mexican motion-picture theater. But before he had a chance to say any more the lights faded, and the second reel of the tragedy was flashing on the screen.

Tom lost all his interest in the pictures. His detective instincts were aroused, and by the time the interior was aglow with light for the last time that night he had managed to convince himself that it was his duty to learn as much as possible about Jimmy Raymond.

When the lad stood up Tom Clifton made a discovery that sent a little jarring note through him. He could see even when the pianist had been seated that he was tall, but that he should actually be as tall as himself was never dreamed of. Tom even felt a little aggrieved. So long accustomed to looking down upon his fellows he had almost come to regard it as a right not to be infringed upon.

“I guess you two chaps are the highest humans of your age in Mexico,” gurgled Cranny. “Come on, Raymond, we want to have a conversation with you.”

When compatriots meet in a foreign land the ties of country, the common tongue, are often the means of forming warm friendships in a remarkably brief space of time. Such was the case of Jimmy Raymond and the others. And they quickly found that the lad had a lively tongue, but apparently a strong disinclination to talk about himself.

“Really, fellows,” he told them, as they walked out on the street together, “I haven’t much to tell you. I’m from Texas. You see,” he hesitated, “I got confoundedly hard up in this town, and, as an awful lot of good money was spent on my musical education, I hit upon the melody business as a way to keep me alive.”

“You play like a bird; you touch the heart-strings,” chirped Dick.

“Thanks, old chap. Whatever ability I have has proven a mighty good thing for me. I believe every one ought to learn something so he can turn it to account in case of necessity.”

“There it goes again,” grumbled Cranny to himself. Then the old joyous light came back into his eyes, and he chuckled without any apparent reason. “You’re mighty right, Jimmy,” he said aloud.

If Jimmy was not prodigal in dispensing information about himself, he proved decidedly inquisitive regarding the lives and adventures of each of his companions. A continual flow of questions was constantly receiving answers. Jimmy seemed profoundly happy, though at times a curious expression flitted over his face, half sad, half discontented, as if life to his mind was not altogether what it should be.

Of course the atmosphere of mystery which, to Tom at least, surrounded the Texas lad, made him all the more interesting to the Rambler, and having found one who listened to his tales of the club with unconcealed delight he was eloquent on the subject of life in the open. His descriptions of cowboy life in Wyoming especially pleased the lad.

“Crickets! What a dandy time you must have had,” he exclaimed, a wistful note in his voice. “But come along to my room. You’ve no idea, fellows, what a relief it is to hear English spoken.”

“Then why are you staying in Mexico?” asked Tom bluntly.

Jimmy eyed him for a second, with a most curious expression: then, shrugging his shoulders, he replied, “I’ve got a job.”

The hotel at which he had put up was situated not far from the plaza. In the moonlight, with its grim old adobe walls partly shadowed by towering cottonwoods, and artistic balconies to relieve the grimness of square, severe outlines, it bore almost an inviting aspect. A dim, yellowish glimmer shone from the open door, and from somewhere inside came the musical, twanging notes of a guitar.

“What a comic-opera country it seems,” grinned Dick.

“Except at times, I suppose,” said Cranny.

To the intense astonishment of the proprietor, Jimmy led the crowd up a flight of stairs to a large room, facing the street.

“Here’s where I hang out, fellows,” he said, lighting a lamp.

The boys looked about them with interest. Several prints, mostly American, decorated the walls. The furnishings were dingy, and almost every article of furniture had suffered some sort of injury during the course of its apparently long existence. Certainly it was not at all the place which seemed suited to the requirements of a lad like Jimmy.

“Sit down, fellows, and make yourselves miserable,” he laughed. “Oh, by the way, Tom”—he walked to a table in the middle of the room—“here’s a cracker-jack book on cowboy life—want it?”

“Sure thing,” answered Tom, accepting the proffered volume. He looked approvingly at the picture of a wonderfully rearing bronco on the cover; such a horse as he had never seen in nature, or ever expected to. “I reckon this tale’s got the punch all right,” he exclaimed, slipping the book into his pocket. “Say, Jimmy, how long are you going to stay on this side of the Rio?”

“Until I get tired of it, Tom.”

“But don’t you know that livin’ here is ’most as bad as bein’ in a house stored full of dynamite bombs, an’ havin’ a careless chap in charge?” asked Cranny.

“I guess I’m no more afraid than you.”

“Good boy! You’ll do.”

It was getting late, but no one paid any attention to this, until the solemn notes of a distant bell, ringing out the hours of midnight, warned them of the passage of time.

“We are now being introduced to another day,” remarked Bob.

“And we’ll be introduced to a mighty sleepy feeling in the morning unless we hit the trail for the plaza,” chirped Dick.

Even then it was hard to tear themselves away, and, when at last they did so, Jimmy’s face lost some of its cheerful expression.

“I’ll see you some time again to-morrow,” he said in eager tones—“so-long!”

A moment later the four were out on the street. The town seemed wrapped in slumber. Their footsteps echoed noisily; voices in the dreamy silence rose startlingly clear.

“Jimmy Raymond’s a mighty fine chap,” began Tom. “But say, boys—don’t you think——”

“Of course,” interrupted Cranny, with a laugh.

“What?”

“A mighty mysterious one, as well.”

CHAPTER XI
SOLDIERS

In the meanwhile Dave, Sam and Don, who had elected to remain with the Rangers, were learning many new things about Texan life.

A breezy day, white clouds skimming over an expanse of the purest blue, a vast rolling country stretching off and off until it cut in faint, grayish tones against the sky, and in the midst of this several horsemen, was the picture which Dave Brandon contemplated from the top of a gentle rise. It was as refreshing to his artistic nature as the ozone to his lungs.

But he could not linger long, as the horsemen were already drawing far away; so cracking his quirt, he cantered down through the thick grasses, while a pleasant, cooling breeze swept past, toying playfully in its passage with stray locks of hair.

With Sergeant Robson Howell leading the detail, the Rangers, accompanied by Dave, Sam and Don, had been riding since early morning. And now they were approaching the site of a new town, situated not far from the famous “Eagle Pass” Ranch of Colonel Brookes Sylvester. Crowning the summit of a gentle elevation, the center of a fifty thousand acre tract of land which was rapidly being disposed of to home-seekers, they saw the beginning of what might some day become a large and flourishing city.

“The birth of a new town!” remarked Dave quite solemnly.

“And when Colonel Sylvester backs anything, it’s sure to be a success,” exclaimed Sergeant Howell who was riding close by. “Come here five years from now and I’ll wager you’ll be surprised. Sylvester, when the new line of railroad reaches it, is going to take on a boom, which will be heard throughout the state!”

“I believe it,” said Dave.

On all sides were evidences to show that the workers, full of the same enthusiasm that had inspired the early pioneers, would make the Ranger’s prediction come true. Land was being cleared, artesian wells bored, irrigation ditches dug and houses built.

“Yes, sir,” said a man with whom they stopped to talk, “I reckon that within another year thousands of acres will be under cultivation. Nowadays when a town is started it’s started right. Town planning commissions look ahead. They plan so that future generations may be left a heritage which should inspire them to still greater efforts.”

“I don’t believe Sylvester will ever have any narrow, twisting streets like those we see in some of the border towns,” said Sam.

“No, sir, it certainly won’t.”

“This is a good illustration of the way in which the old-time ranchman is being driven farther and farther away,” remarked Dave. “The railroads pushing their way into his territory; the consequent springing up of towns along the route, and the army of home-seekers taking over the tillable lands have made wonderful changes within recent years.”

“Quite right, son,” agreed the man. “But it means only that two things are being done now instead of one.”

“And the ranchers and the live-stock companies are now conducting their business on more scientific principles,” explained Sergeant Howell. “Efficiency and economy are words much in use to-day. Pasture lands are well taken care of and cattle and sheep shipped to market in the best possible condition.”

“Sure, it’s all fine and dandy,” grinned Jim Roland. “But if the time ever comes when they git scientific Rangers I’ll quit the force.”

“I say, Sergeant,” a man mounted on a little sorrel pony came jogging up. “Ketched any o’ them there rustlers yit?”

“No,” answered the officer.

“Too bad! I heard the colonel was all-fired mad; says if his stock is raided ag’in, he’ll git up a posse, sure.”

Talking of posses always annoyed the veteran policeman, for it implied an inability on the Rangers’ part to enforce law and order. His deeply bronzed face became suddenly stern.

“We don’t need any help on the job,” he growled in reply. “If you run across the colonel tell him from me that the Texas Rangers will soon clean up this bunch!”

“I certainly hope you do, Sergeant; otherwise it may keep a whole lot of people away from this town.”

“Sylvester could do better without that kind of citizen,” retorted the officer. “Come ahead, boys.”

After riding around the town-site for a short time, occasionally halting either to watch the various operations or to talk with some of the busy workers, the scouting party headed toward the “Rio Grande.” For miles the horses pounded over an undulating country dotted with thick clumps of timber. And on this grassy range they came across great herds of cattle, the property of Colonel Sylvester.

One moment their forms glistened in the bright clear sunlight, the next were softened by the shadows of the swiftly flying clouds.

The two Ramblers had often ridden in the midst of great herds of longhorns on the Wyoming plains, but this experience was an entirely new one to Don Stratton. He found it hard to repress an uneasy feeling. Hundreds of cattle lifted up their heads to gaze inquiringly toward them. Some began to paw the ground belligerently; from various directions came hoarse bellowings. Everywhere, along their course, animals were sent scampering away, and these little currents, setting others into motion, made Don fully realize what a fearful, irresistible force these cattle would make in a wild stampede across the plains.

Several times he stood up in his stirrups to look earnestly over the backs of the vast army of animals that completely hemmed them in.

“Well, if they ever got started, we’d be in a fine pickle, that’s all,” he murmured, studying with critical attention a gigantic steer, which defiantly forced his mustang to make a detour around him. As his stirrup leathers brushed against the animal’s side he gave a muffled snort of anger, and for an instant stood with lowered head as though about to charge.

Nothing more than an unpleasant jar to Don Stratton’s nerves resulted, however. This part of the journey seemed to drag out interminably, and as they finally rode out of the main herd, to see only scattered groups between them and the vast open range beyond, he felt like shouting with relief.

“I don’t wonder rustlers manage to get away with stock now and then,” he said to Sam, some time later. “So far we haven’t seen a single cowboy.”

“It probably isn’t as easy as it looks,” replied Sam. “Cow-punchers, no doubt, very quickly discover when any of the stock is missing, and in these days of telegraph and telephone, it doesn’t take long to notify the authorities.”

“Then again, cattle can be driven only at a certain rate of speed,” put in Dave, who had overheard. “There is always a chance, too, that the animals may leave a trail, which expert plainsmen can easily pick up.”

A few miles farther on the rolling, verdured prairie began to be replaced by a rougher country. Yucca, mesquite and cactus grew in greater profusion, and here their mustangs were often obliged to thread a tortuous passage at the bottom of dark, narrow ravines or climb steep slopes, where the great spiked stems of the cactus seemed to bristle threateningly at their approach. The ponies’ hoofs, dislodging stones and earth at almost every step, sent miniature avalanches slipping and sliding down to the bottom.

This progress was slow but steady; therefore none of the lads was surprised when on reaching the crest of a high ridge they saw not far beyond the yellow, sluggish water of the Rio Grande, winding its way through a broad grassy valley.

“That’s certainly a fine sight,” commented Dave. Through half-closed eyes he looked at the sun, a glittering ball, slowly approaching the irregular contours of the Mexican hills. The sky was full of gorgeous color, which, sending a glow over the succession of barren ridges rolling off to the distance, transformed them into objects of delicate and poetic beauty.

“Say ‘glorious,’ Dave, do,” said Sam with a smile.

“That word seems scarcely strong enough to suit the present case,” laughed the other.

“Really, fellows, I’m almost too tired to notice anything,” remarked Don frankly.

“For a tenderfoot, you’re a wonder, Don,” said Carl Alvin. “Eh, Jack?”

“Yes, sir, an’ that there word doesn’t seem strong enough to suit his case either,” grinned Stovall.

Don, his perspiring face streaked with dust, smiled his acknowledgments. He really was a mighty tired lad, and shooting pains and various aches began to run through his frame with decided force. Ten minutes later, however, these discomforts were partially forgotten, for around a bend of the river they suddenly came in sight of a great number of white tents pitched in regular rows amid a grassy, bowl-shaped valley.

“Hello!” he exclaimed.

“An encampment of United States soldiers guarding the border!” explained Joe Kane.

“Mighty interesting,” commented Dave.

“I should say so,” said Sam. “It also seems to remind us of the fact that the relations between our country and its sister Republic across the Rio may become a bit more strained at any moment. Whoa, boy! whoa!”

Boys and Rangers halted, while Sam drew his field-glass from its case.

“Those are the lads that’ll keep the Mexicans on the side they belong,” remarked Roy Cooper.

“But for them they might have been a-swarmin’ across the river like flies,” growled Raulings.

“Don’t forget we’re on the job too,” grinned Chaney.

Sam Randall raised the glass to his eyes. What a marvelous change the powerful instrument wrought. Details as clear and distinct as though the camp were right before them flashed before his eyes. Several big commissary wagons with rounded tops, resembling prairie schooners, all drawn by four-mule teams, stood motionless in a row.

Nearer the foreground a rude structure open at the sides, built of boxes and poles, with a thatched roof of branches and twigs, was evidently the kitchen, for a stove and other accessories of the culinary department reposed in the center. On the outside, a miscellaneous collection of boxes, sacks, and tarpaulin-covered goods was scattered all about.

To the left, a group of soldiers busily unloaded the nearest wagon, while close to the shore of the river a long line of horses grazed in a patch of grass.

“I declare, I almost expect to hear a sentry challenge me!” cried Sam.

“Do let me have a look,” pleaded Don.

After another moment spent in studying the form of a shaggy dog, which having discovered their presence was barking vigorously, the Rambler handed over the glass.

“Ah, jolly fine!” exclaimed Don. “There’s a chap who tipped me a wink—honest it looked so, anyway. Guess he wants us to pay ’em a visit.”

“Nothing doing,” said the sergeant. “This is about the nearest we’ll get to the boys in khaki.”

The binocular was passed from hand to hand until all had had a turn, then the column set into motion again.

A few miles farther on, when all nature but a few streamers of cloud hanging low over the western horizon was enveloped in pearly grays, the horsemen drew rein in an amphitheater formed by low, rugged hills.

Portions of the valley floor were overrun with dense thickets, and on the gray, rocky ridges above were groups of cactus and other plants.

“A jolly nice place to spend the night,” exclaimed Don.

“Fine!” agreed Sam.

“Yes,” drawled Dave as he dismounted and stretched his weary limbs. “And I do hope that it will be a quiet and restful one.”

CHAPTER XII
RIFLE SHOTS

With all the skill and celerity which long experience had given them, the Rangers began their preparations for the long hours before them. The boys, too, got busy. Immediately after attending to the wants of their mustangs, the three, using the leather buckets they always carried, brought water from the river. Then fuel was gathered and a fire started.

It was Dave Brandon’s turn to cook for his companions. Though very often slow in his movements, the stout, round-faced historian always managed to cast aside this tendency when anything called for action. Now at work among the pots and pans he stepped about with a lightness and agility which scarcely seemed compatible with his avoirdupois.

“You’re a wonder, Dave,” declared Don.

“Thanks,” laughed the Rambler. “I hope you’ll think my flapjacks are.”

“What! did I hear aright?” cried Don. “Flapjacks!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, joy!” gurgled Sam.

“And do make at least two or three pailfuls,” pleaded Don.

The fire crackling noisily sent columns of bluish smoke rising high above the hills. As the shadows deepened and stars began to twinkle in the sky, the dancing light crept farther and farther out until objects in a vast circle were lifted from the surrounding gloom.

Dave with his frying-pan was the object of universal attention. The lad had learned the art of making flapjacks from the Wyoming cowboys. With a skill almost equal to theirs he cooked panful after panful, while enthusiastic comments were continually heard. Carl Alvin, acting for the Rangers, joined in.

“I’ll give you fair warning, boys,” he grinned. “We’re going to be flapjack rustlers to-night; eh, Chaney?”

“Believe me, that’s true,” responded the Ranger.

Men and boys certainly had a great meal that night; at least, every one said so; and furthermore all agreed, too, that the finest dinner in the finest restaurant on earth could never have tasted any better.

When all the dishes were cleared away, they lolled about on blankets or marched to and fro, the flickering firelight casting fantastic lights and shadows over figures and surroundings. An incessant chant and hum of insects accompanied the never ending rustlings and sighings of leaves and grasses, while occasionally louder sounds told them that some wild creature was scurrying through the underbrush.

When the moon rose above the eastern hills, paling by its majesty the stars and constellations, Dave Brandon rose to his feet.

“Boys,” he announced, “I’m going to take a stroll.”

“Goodness, what a surprise,” said Don. “Why, you’re generally the first to turn in.”

“I know, but the effects to-night are symphonies in color, too beautiful to miss. Who’s coming along?”

Both lads promptly accepted his invitation.

“I’ll wait up for you,” chuckled Carl Alvin. “I’m standing the first watch.”

The three presently skirted the base of a hill, soon coming out on a broad flat stretch bordering the famous river.

Five minutes later it seemed as though they were absolutely alone in a vast solitude, for neither firelight nor sound betrayed the presence of the Texas Rangers.

“Grand, indeed, is nature,” commented Dave. “Just look at the poetic lights and shadows playing over yonder hills. Doesn’t it look wonderfully peaceful? How can there be any trouble in such a world?”

“Ask the Mexicans,” grinned Dick.

“They are authorities on the subject of trouble,” said Sam. “Large chunks of it come their way every day.”

In order to obtain better views of the surroundings the lads at times climbed the steep, rugged hills, on the heights of which they nearly always paused to rest, and the historian continually discovering some new beauty in the landscape let the others share his pleasure.

Finally the walking became more difficult, the hills much higher. Panting with exertion they struggled to the top of one, immediately to seat themselves by the side of a mass of cactus.

“I guess this is far enough, boys,” panted Dave. His eyes wandered over the forms on the slopes, which in the moonlight suggested miniature gorges or beetling cliffs. Then, lastly, he looked with sleepy eyes at the earth’s satellite, showing with wonderful brilliancy from a field of greenish blue. Directly beneath, its shimmering reflection appeared in the water of the Rio. And then—everything faded from the stout historian’s sight; reality no longer confronted him, the vague fancies of the dreamer taking its place.

Aroused by a touch on his arm, he sat bolt upright.

“Gracious!” he exclaimed. He had expected to see the moon in a certain position in the heavens, and instead of that discovered it to be in altogether another. “How long——?”

“Is it possible you didn’t hear, Dave?” queried Sam in earnest tones.

“Hear what?”

No reply was necessary.

Ominous and startling, a fusillade of rifle shots, coming from the Mexican border, rang out on the still night air.

CHAPTER XIII
THE STORM BREAKS

The boys in the little Mexican town, on the day following their meeting with Jimmy Raymond, “the boy pianist,” as Tom called him, began to see trouble. The air of peace and tranquillity was partly gone. Soldiers in great numbers, both mounted and afoot, swarmed through the narrow twisting streets. Slouchy-looking citizens deserted for the time being pleasant lounging places, to assist in the work of placing sand-bags and beams on the roofs of some of the higher buildings.

Walking to the outskirts of the city in the company of Professor Kent, George Parry, and the special correspondent, the boys watched sappers at work digging additional trenches, while to the left of these more breastworks were being thrown up.

“It’s just like living over a powder magazine, with somebody goin’ to touch off the fuse, only one doesn’t know just when,” declared Cranny.

“That’s the delightful part of it,” commented Dick. “Expectancy in a case like this is all the pleasure.”

“Speaking seriously, boys, I think you had better cross the International bridge to-day,” put in the professor. “The United States Consul has advised all Americans to leave the town.”

“I agree with you,” declared Bob. “There is no use in our taking unnecessary risks.”

“Very sensible, indeed,” said George Parry, nodding his head approvingly. “Our business, however, keeps us here. A moving picture of a real, red-hot Mexican scrap ought to prove a winner.”

“How about you, Mr. Edmunds?” demanded Cranny.

A gloomy expression came over the special correspondent’s face. He shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll stay, of course,” he replied. “Ah! What wouldn’t I give just now for a perfectly good hand! Why—this is just the kind of stuff I get paid to write about.”

“Wasn’t my work satisfactory?” asked Cranny, almost aggressively.

“Satisfactory? Well, I should say so; son, you’re a bird.”

“Then that settles it.”

“Settles what?”

“I’m goin’ to stay here too.”

Tom Clifton, who had taken no part in this conversation, was the only one among the group who uttered any word of approval at this announcement, which Cranny Beaumont made with all the energy of his positive nature.

“No one has anything on you for grit, Cranny,” he said, admiringly.

All the others, however, shook their heads. They pointed out the dangers, the consequences that might result if the Tacoma lad stuck to his resolution, and none was more earnest in his arguments than Ralph Edmunds. Cranny listened to all with a peculiar smile—the Ramblers knew that smile,—it meant defeat for them from the start.

“Mr. Edmunds is goin’ to supply the words an’ I’ll push the pencil,” he declared emphatically. “I’m gettin’ ’em cheap now—by the dozen.”

The newspaper man slapped him on the shoulder. “You don’t know how much I appreciate your offer, Cranny,” he exclaimed. “But won’t you——”

“No, I won’t,” laughed Cranny.

Several times during the day the discussion was renewed, without, however, altering in the least the lad’s decision.

As hour after hour passed without the expected attack materializing, the town resumed its normal aspect, and those of its inhabitants whose systems seemed to require a great deal of sleep went back to that pleasant occupation in the most shady places they could find.

“You chaps can see now what a good thing it was we didn’t make an awful rush for the International bridge,” commented Cranny, as they sat out on the veranda that night. “I’m beginnin’ to weaken on that sleepin’ volcano stuff.”

“I guess it was all a false alarm,” remarked Dick.

“One never can tell what may happen in Mexico, though,” remarked Edmunds, meditatively.

At last the day on which Bob Somers had promised Dave and the others to return rolled around.

Cranny balked again.

“Yes, Bob; I know you made an iron-clad agreement to slip away from Mexico,” he said, “but just recollect, old chap, I didn’t.”

“Actually going to stay here longer?” queried Dick in surprise.

“Bet your life, son. I’ve just bought another dozen pencils—got ’em cheaper yet.”

Of course there was another argument—a long and earnest one. The peculiar smile once more on Cranny’s face warned them of the futility of their efforts; but duty, they considered, required them to plead.

“No, gentlemen, very sorry, I’m sure,” grinned Cranny. “But you see Edmunds has a whole lot o’ articles half finished. I can’t desert him now—I just simply can’t.”

“Mighty good of you, I’m sure, Cranny,” declared Bob, heartily. “And now having used up all my stock of ‘buts’ and ‘ifs’ I’ll quit.”

“Bother the thing,” growled Tom. “I wish to thunder we hadn’t made any promise.”

On this occasion Cranny’s decision did not so disturb his companions’ peace of mind, for now it seemed almost certain that the Constitutionalists had definitely decided to let such a well-defended town alone. Still, Bob Somers could not reconcile himself to the thought of allowing the Tacoma lad to remain there by himself.

“I have a solution to the question, fellows,” he announced.

“Oh, do let it solute at once,” cried Tom.

“I was really the only one to promise Dave to skip back, and the way things have turned out you three chaps are justified in staying.”

“And let you go all the way back alone; no, sir!” declared Dick, emphatically.

“I have another suggestion,” spoke up Tom. “Let one stay here with Cranny, the other ride off with Bob. We can settle it by drawing lots.”

This compromise was instantly agreed upon and carried out. It proved to be an interesting moment—quite a breathless one, in fact, when each held in his hand the slip of paper that was to decide his fate.

Eagerly they were scanned.

“Ah,” murmured Dick.

“Ready, Tom?” said Bob. “It’s time to saddle up.”

The tall Rambler nodded.

“Don’t forget to keep an eye on Jimmy Raymond, fellows!” he counseled.

“Goin’ to do some detective work, Tom?” Cranny inquired with twinkling eyes.

“Maybe,” answered Tom in mysterious tones.

Fifteen minutes later the stableman led out their mustangs. Then while all the Americans and the still smiling hotel proprietor gathered about them, the boys sprang into the saddle.

“We’ll be back in a day or two to get you, Cranny!” sang out Bob. “So-long.”

“So-long,” shouted Tom.

Then followed by a storm of “good-byes” the Ramblers galloped off.

It was market day once more, and the heat of the day not having set in, the plaza presented a lively, bustling scene. No one ever seemed to buy without doing an immense amount of bargaining beforehand, and on every side loud vociferous arguments arose.

“It takes lots of work to sell stuff here,” laughed Tom. “Hey there! look out!” he altered his course just in time to avoid striking a pair of wandering goats. “Wasn’t that a narrow shave!”

At a good pace the two clattered through the town, slowing up when the outskirts were reached.

“There’s no great hurry, Tom,” declared Bob. “We ought to reach the Rangers’ quarters without much trouble shortly after sunset.”

“Sure thing,” agreed Tom. “And we want to save our nags as much as possible.”

The day was a sultry one, with but little air stirring. Often Bob Somers raised his head to study the sky.

“I shouldn’t wonder if a storm is brewing,” he said finally. “I predict we’re in for a good soaking.”

“Let it come!” exclaimed Tom, recklessly. “That’s a heap better than falling in with a lot of Mexican Revolutionists.”

“I’m not bothering about them,” rejoined Bob, with a smile, “not enough at least to make me wish we had crossed the Rio on the International bridge. Guess this trip will be adventureless enough to suit even Dave.”

“Say, Bob,” exclaimed Tom, suddenly, “isn’t it a wonderful thing about Cranny? I never heard of his wanting to work before; have you?”

“Truthfulness compels me to answer in the negative,” chuckled Bob.

“And what’s even stranger, he seems to do the work just right. Ever hear of anything like that before, eh?”

“A second time, no, Tom.”

“Anyway, it’s a mighty encouraging sign.”

Then Tom suddenly switched off to another subject.

“I noticed a very odd thing about Jimmy Raymond,” he declared. “Every time I happened to mention the Texas Rangers he looked awfully queer. Honest he did, Bob. I’ll just bet he isn’t staying in Mexico for nothing!”

“I hope everything is all right with Jimmy,” declared Bob. “He’s too jolly nice a chap to be in any serious scrape.”

“That’s so, Bob, but the Rangers are going to hear all about him from me.”

Owing to the hard traveling the two relapsed into silence. The ponies climbed slowly over a series of rounded hills, and in single file pushed their way through deep ravines choked up with vegetation.

The heat and sultriness seemed to be increasing, though the strata of cloud on the horizon, so faint as to be scarcely discernible, remained practically stationary.

“Oh, for a nice breath of air,” said Tom at last. He looked at the steaming mustangs compassionately. “Honest, it seems to be harder on these poor beasts than it is on us.”

At the same point where they had reached the boundary of Mexico, they crossed the Rio Grande and entered the United States.

After taking a good rest under the pleasant shade of a grove of cottonwoods the two headed in a northwesterly direction, riding over a rugged, barren country.

On one of the hills they halted to look back in the direction of the little border settlement situated at the terminus of the railroad. It was hidden from view, however, by intervening ridges, though its presence could be easily detected by faint clouds of smoke hovering above it.

“That’s the last sign of civilization for a few days, Tom,” remarked Bob.

Once more they jogged along in silence, taking many a glance at the threatening-looking sky.

Slowly the character of the country began to change. When Bob Somers at last reined up in the middle of a grass covered valley and realized that, from this point on, most of the traveling would be over an undulating plain, he exclaimed with a great sigh of contentment: “By George! This is a welcome change, eh, Tom?”

“Well, rather,” replied the other.

Dismounting, the lads staked their ponies; then each, after taking a long drink of tepid water from his canvas water-bottle, sought the nearest patch of tall grass, into which he threw himself at full length.

A strange brooding silence hovered over the scene. Even the chanting of the insects was silenced.

The storm approached much more slowly than either had anticipated, though clouds of a palish white were now piling up in magnificent rounded forms, the modeling of which suggested all the delicacy of sculptured marble. Through a broad flat tone of murky gray at the base coppery gleams of electric flame were flashing in zigzag streaks.

“And to think there’s no umbrella shop near at hand,” chirped Tom. “Yes, we’re in for it, sure! Ready, Bob?”

The ponies, already showing signs of nervousness, snorted when the boys sprang astride their backs. By this time the faint, almost continuous booming of thunder, constantly growing louder, told the travelers that their respite from the wrath of the elements would be only of short duration.

At length, as the clouds approached nearer, the majesty of the scene impelled the lads to halt. A breath of air was stirring the leaves and grasses, a few wisps of clouds—the advance guard,—were flying swiftly overhead.

“Look!” cried Tom, in awesome tones.

Vast, yellowish columns of dust in the midst of which branches and boughs whirled in circling flights were advancing with great rapidity, shadowing the whole earth beneath. Rain-drops pattered down.

“Don’t be scared, old chap,” Tom patted his prancing pony’s neck. A forked tongue of lightning, at that instant striking the prairie, had illumined the landscape with a weird, unnatural bluish glare.

When the crashing thunder came the rain was falling steadily, and the cooling drops, beating and splashing down, proved most grateful to both riders and steeds.

The next moment the wind was making them bend far over on their horses’ necks to escape its blasts. The piled up masses of clouds were now sweeping across the zenith, and the yellowish glow over nature became replaced by tones of a lowering gray.

“Here it comes!” yelled Bob. “Look out, Tom!”

Beyond, everything was shut from view by an advancing curtain of driving rain. As it swept on, accompanied by a gale of shrieking wind, ponies and boys braced themselves to withstand the shock. They were now in the midst of the full fury of the storm. Every instant bluish forks, darting forth like serpents’ tongues, criss-crossed against the clouds or struck the prairie. Peals of thunder crashed and reverberated in a series of appalling shocks which soon rendered the frightened ponies almost unmanageable.

Bob Somers could see his companion ahead only as a shadowy, indistinct form, sawing hard on the bit to keep his frightened horse from bolting.

He too had trouble. Now and again he spoke in soothing tones to his mustang, though the sound of his voice was almost drowned by the dull even thudding of the rain and the blasts of wind.

A gleam of lightning, flashing through the darkness with startling brilliancy, caused his thoughts abruptly to change. Bob uttered an exclamation. He had seen the bolt strike the prairie just beyond. The force of the thunder which immediately followed made him fairly gasp and his pony to plunge wildly ahead. But before the reverberations had ceased Bob Somers made an alarming discovery. Unmindful of plunging horse and beating rain he managed to stand up in his stirrups and yell desperately with all the power at his command:

“Look out, Tom! Look out!”

Sweeping down upon them from the rear was a herd of stampeded mustangs, and they were perilously close at hand.

CHAPTER XIV
THE STAMPEDE

The sight drove all thoughts of the raging storm from Bob Somers’ mind. Directly in the path of the headlong rush of fear-stricken animals they were in imminent danger of being run down and trampled under foot.

Again and again he yelled his warning. Would Tom realize his danger in time? Then self-preservation demanded that he himself act on the instant.

No longer did he hold “Whirly-gig” in check. His quirt came down with stinging force upon the animal’s flank. With a loud snort he leaped ahead.

Bob Somers, striving to cut across the front of that line of racing, plunging horses, urged him on with both voice and spurs. It was a wild and thrilling ride in the raging storm. The lad was forced to take desperate chances; for any instant he realized that his horse might stumble in the springy, water-soaked soil.

ONCE MORE HE TURNED

Daring to swing partly around in his saddle he saw a picture which made his brow knit in lines of desperation. And even when he turned away, his brain still seemed to retain a terrifying impression of outstretched necks, of flying hoofs, of wildly tossing manes and tails.

“Get up, old boy! Get up!” he yelled hoarsely.

Even in those nerve-racking moments he strove to discover some signs of Tom Clifton. But his efforts were all in vain.

Terror made “Whirly-gig” pound along at such a terrific pace that it required all of the Rambler’s skill as a rider to keep from being jolted headlong from the saddle.

Once more he turned. An instantaneous glance over his shoulder made him utter a yell of triumph; the race was almost won, he was gaining. It nerved him to renewed exertions. Another last desperate spurt and the little mustang carried him to the goal of safety and beyond; while the wild, frightened steeds of the plains swept on, heads lowered, manes and tails still lashing, until the steadily falling curtain of rain first dimmed their forms, and then hid them from view.

With feelings of thankfulness, Bob Somers pulled up his steaming horse. Then forebodings on Tom’s account attacked him. Where was he? How had he fared?

The rain drove hard against his staring eyes, the wind howled about him; but for the moment he had thoughts only for his companion. The Rambler he knew was a plucky, resourceful chap, cool in times of danger, but the possibility of an accident under the circumstances was so great that a cold tremor ran through him.

“Hello, Tom! hello!” he shouted over and over again. The sounds melted away into the roar of the storm, but no answering hails were returned.

Tom Clifton had completely disappeared.

Buffeted about by the elements, continually jarred by the peals of thunder booming overhead, and soaked to the skin, Bob Somers set out on a search. The next hour to the lad was a most uncomfortable one, both physically and mentally. He rode over the prairie in various directions shouting and whistling, but in vain. The storm slowly lessened its force; at last the heaviest clouds rolled by and between the rifts rays of brilliant sunshine streamed through to fall upon nature, glistening and refreshed. A cool crisp breeze had replaced the sirocco-like heat of the earlier hours.

From the top of a ridge which commanded a considerable stretch of the surrounding country, Bob’s gaze, aided by a pair of powerful binoculars, traveled in every direction. But he could see nothing that bore any resemblance to the form of a horse and rider.

One thing, however, encouraged him. He felt sure that if Tom had been thrown he would have come across him in his careful, painstaking search.

“Well, this is certainly a beautiful mix-up,” he soliloquized ruefully. “Now what’s to be done?”

“Only one thing,” he mused after many moments of serious reflection. “Strike off for the Rangers’ camp—that’s what Tom has done, I’m sure.”

Still he could not bear to tear himself away from the locality until another effort was made and this proving to be as unsuccessful as the others, he set out for the Rangers’ cabin, buoyed up with the hope that on his arrival he might find Tom Clifton there.

Possessing a good sense of direction and aided by his compass, he did not find his task a difficult one. When the gray of dusk had begun to steal over the landscape he rode up to the log structure where only Fred Cole greeted him, all the others being off on the scouting expedition.

The return of Bob Somers alone greatly excited the Ranger’s curiosity. Even before the Rambler had had a chance to dismount he began shouting questions to him.

Bob’s story was quickly told, whereupon Cole whistled softly.

“To get caught among a lot of stampeding mustangs isn’t any joke, I can tell you!” he exclaimed. Then, slapping the lad reassuringly on the shoulder, he added hastily, “But don’t worry, son. I’ll bet that tall chap knew how to take care of himself. Just as likely as not he’s riding over the prairie, yelling himself hoarse, looking for you.”

The Ranger’s confidence, however, began to be shaken, when the passing hours brought no news of Tom, though he was careful not to voice his fears to Bob.

“The moment the boys get back, we’ll have to get up a searching party,” he muttered to himself. “I only hope it’s all right, but”—he shook his head rather dubiously,—“it looks rather bad to me.”

CHAPTER XV
THE FIGHT

In the silence of the night the reports of the rifle shots sounded extraordinarily near. To Dave, Sam and Don it seemed as though the firing was right at hand; yet there could be no doubt that the faint, dusky figures, which the moonlight disclosed on the other side of the Rio, were responsible for it.

“Great Scott!” cried Don, his voice vibrating with excitement. “That must be a hot scrap—can you make anything out, Dave?”

The historian, who had a field-glass raised to his eyes, silently handed over the instrument, while Sam, peering fixedly, exclaimed: “Well—that’s bringing their troubles pretty close to the United States border; eh, fellows!”

The New Orleans boy found that a great deal could be made out by means of the binocular. A hot fight was on between two forces of considerable size. Through the circle of pale greenish light he could see riders dashing frantically about, and soldiers unhorsed running for cover. Altogether, the scene was one of the greatest noise, violence and confusion.

“Who in thunder ever expected us to run across anything like that?” he breathed.

“Doesn’t surprise me in the least,” remarked Sam, calmly. “Let’s have a look, Don.”

Then while he turned the glass on the combatants, the three remained silent for a considerable time as they watched with the greatest interest the struggle on the opposite shore.

“By George!” blurted out Sam, suddenly; he let his hands drop and swung around to face his companions. “As I live they’re going to——”

“What?” fairly shouted Don.

“Wait a second!” Sam was once more studying the situation through the glass. “Yes, sir!—some of those soldiers are actually going to cross the river.”

Don Stratton in his eagerness, forgetting politeness, seized the instrument from the other’s extended hand. In another instant he saw the indistinct figures in the distance become quite strong and clear. One side, evidently disastrously defeated and now in full flight, had already reached the shelving banks of the river, where in a panic-stricken effort to escape from their hotly pursuing foes they were boldly riding out into the stream.

“I wonder what the Texas Rangers will think of that!” shouted Don. “Hadn’t we better——”

“You may be sure that by this time they all know about it,” put in Dave quietly.

“Probably there’ll be something doing soon, eh?”

“It looks that way.”

“What shall we do?”

“Let’s go down by the river and see the Rangers riding past,” cried Sam.

Following this suggestion the three dashed recklessly down the slope, their eyes often turning toward the Mexican soldiers heading for the United States shore.

The victors drawn up on the bank sent a parting volley of shots after them, then slowly withdrew toward a near-by range of low, rounded hills.

So far there were no indications of the Rangers’ presence in the locality, but the lads felt sure that the hurrying Mexicans were soon destined to meet with an unpleasant surprise.

“Those chaps are making mighty fast time, though,” panted Dick.

“They’ll soon be making faster time back,” predicted Sam, grimly.

Reaching a broad level stretch, the boys made for the river, a proceeding not at all to the liking of Don Stratton, who began to fear that the hot-headed Mexicans might mistake them for Rangers and fire.

He mentioned his thoughts to Sam. The Rambler, however, shook his head.

“I don’t believe we’re in a bit of danger, Don,” he responded in reassuring tones. “You may be sure they won’t be anxious to start any scrap on United States soil. Hello—hear anything?”

“By George! The Texas Rangers at last!” cried Don.

A faint steady pounding of horses’ hoofs to the south had reached his ears.

Eagerly the three wheeled about to scan the border of the river.

“Hooray, hooray,” cried Don. “Here they come, full tilt, too. See ’em, fellows?”

A number of faint dark specks were rapidly growing larger. But Dave Brandon expressed the thoughts of all when he exclaimed: “They’ll never get here in time to prevent the Mexicans from landing.”

The singular drama of the night unrolled before their eyes held a peculiar fascination for the lads. Hastening along intent upon seeing the last act they looked alternately from one body of horsemen to the other.

Already the soldiers were close enough for them to see the moonlight glinting on spurs and rifles. Judging from the appearance of the horses the exertion of swimming and wading over sand-bars must have told heavily on their strength, for in spite of fierce commands and cracking quirts, they lumbered along so slowly that Don excitedly remarked: “Those chaps won’t beat the Rangers out by very much, after all!”

“Suppose we climb that hill over yonder,” puffed Sam. “From the top we’ll be able to see in which direction they head.”

“All right,” panted Dave.

Before they had time to reach its base, the dripping horses struggled across the last strip of muddy beach and disappeared behind a jutting point.

The Rangers’ horses, fresh and strong after a good rest, were thundering along at topmost speed. Just as the boys, breathing hard from their arduous work, scrambled to the summit of the ridge, they clattered by.

From their point of vantage the three immediately caught sight of the fleeing soldiers, a number of whom were scattering in various directions.

“Sergeant Howell’s bunch will never be able to round them up now!” predicted Don. “Ah! They go—see how those nags of theirs can travel! Say, this beats a motion-picture thriller, doesn’t it?”

Interested and excited, the group watched the Rangers rapidly overhauling the main body. Both pursued and pursuers, riding over the crests of hills and down into deeply shadowed valleys, were often lost to view. The sound of the pounding hoofs became steadily fainter, and finally there was nothing to tell, either by sight or sound, of the wild race taking place among the Texas hills.

“I wonder if the Mexicans will put up a scrap!” remarked Don in a disturbed tone.

“I’m afraid so!” said the historian soberly.

“My! Wouldn’t I like to see what is going on now. It’s tough to have to stay here in suspense.”

The boys made no attempt to conceal their worried state of mind. Every one had come to like the big-hearted courageous Rangers immensely, and the thought that they might be made the target for Mexican bullets was a profoundly disturbing one.

The minutes dragged slowly by. Suddenly the sharp report of a rifle shot ringing out came as a jarring shock to their nerves. Then a second, quickly followed by a perfect fusillade, made the boys look at one another with paling faces.

“The scrap’s started!” cried Sam.

“Isn’t it dreadful!” exclaimed Don. “I’m so afraid——”

He paused suddenly, for a singular fact had been impressed upon his mind. He was once more hearing the sound of running horses. What could it mean? Had the fugitives reversed the rôles?

“I don’t understand it a bit!” he breathed.

“Nor I,” cried Sam.

“All I know is that they seem to be coming back this way and mighty fast,” put in Dave.

Puzzled as well as alarmed, the three watched and waited, expecting to hear just what shortly did happen—another crackling volley of shots.

Dave Brandon, with the field-glasses raised to his eyes, suddenly uttered an exclamation.

He had seen a flying group of horsemen appear over the top of a mesquite-covered hill to form, for an instant, an indistinct collection of silhouettes against the sky. Following these came still others until an astonishing number of riders were rushing over the ridge and disappearing into the valley below.

“It’s certainly a much bigger crowd than ever passed along this way,” responded Dave in answer to his companions’ eager questions.

“What a mysterious affair it is,” murmured Don.

Although none of the horsemen could now be seen, their course could be easily traced by an occasional yell or the report of a rifle.

“By George! They’re heading for the Rio, all right!” cried Don. “Hello——”

A number had abruptly ridden into view from behind a ridge and were now racing toward the stream.

“The Mexican soldiers again!” declared Dave, keenly studying the distant figures through his glass. “Yes, sir! It’s back to Mexico for that particular crowd.”

“Rounded up, after all!” said Don. “My, I do wonder if——”

“Don’t let’s think about it,” pleaded Sam. His frowning brow and firm set lips told of unpleasant reflections running through his mind. Then abruptly he added, “Fellows, I can’t stand this inaction a moment longer. Let’s beat it!”

“Yes, come ahead!” cried Dave.

Just for a moment they watched the column of dusky figures progressing farther out into the river; and thus being buffeted about from shore to shore the lads could not help but feel a certain sympathy for them.

With Dave Brandon in the lead they crashed down the incline, slipping and sliding, scattering rocks and stones in their passage. Then once more at the base all started pell-mell toward the river. Their view to the north remained cut off by intervening ridges, until the bank of the Rio was reached. From that point they could see far ahead another group of riders—a sight which put hope into their hearts.

“Quick, Dave! Hoist that magnifier to your optics!” pleaded Don.

There was a moment’s tense silence as the historian obeyed, and a shout when he exclaimed, with an audible sigh of relief: “Boys, it looks all right to me—but——”

“What?” demanded Sam.

“I can’t understand what has become of all those other riders we saw.”

“We’ll soon know all about it,” said Don, cheerfully.

The boys’ rapid walking and the Rangers’ steady pace brought the two parties together much sooner than the former had anticipated.

“Hello, there!” yelled Don. “Is everybody all right?”

His question brought back a response in Jack Stovall’s clear voice which made all three give a lusty yell of joy.

“Sure! They never touched us!”

Then, in answer to a rapid volley of questions, the young Ranger added: “So ye actually saw all that big bunch, eh? Who were they——? Why, United States soldiers of course—a scoutin’ party. They heard the Mexicans firin’ from away up the river an’ beat it this way for all they were worth. Lucky for us, too.”

“Yes, but for that a whole lot of the men might have given us the slip,” remarked Alvin. “Between the two of us, we soon had ’em swinging along on the back track. The soldiers did most of the firing—shot over their brown heads, too, which was a pretty polite response, considering the fact that the Mexicans started the scrap.”

“One of the Texas Rangers’ jobs is to see that undesirable citizens o’ Mexico can’t cross over the border whenever they git a notion into their heads they’d like to!” put in Jack Stovall. “So to-day, boys, we’ve earned our pay.”

“True enough,” laughed Sergeant Howell. He turned toward the historian. “How’s that, Dave—where did the soldiers get to? Oh, the bunch started right off in the other direction.”

“Yes, they know’d well enough the Mexicans had enough of the American side for to-night,” grinned Jim Roland. “They was in such a rush to git back they never even stopped to leave their visitin’ cards.”

“I do hope there wasn’t any ‘watchfully waiting’ crowd all ready to tackle the poor chaps the moment they reached the other side,” remarked Sam, thoughtfully.

“As we haven’t heard any fireworks, I guess it’s all right,” said Don.

All the way back to camp, every member of the party kept a sharp lookout, but not a sign of life was to be seen on the Mexican shore.

That night the boys slept as soundly as they ever had in their lives. On the day following the thunder-storm an early start was made for detachment quarters. Riding at an easy gait they did not arrive until the afternoon. Then both Rangers and boys learned something which filled them with considerable alarm. Tom Clifton was missing, and though Bob Somers and Ranger Cole had been continually searching for him, not a trace of the Rambler could be found.

CHAPTER XVI
A WILD RACE

Tom Clifton, ever watchful, had discovered the stampeded mustangs just an instant before Bob Somers shouted his warning. Nearer the center of the onrushing steeds, however, the lad instantly realized that if he chose the direction in which Bob had gone, he would be overtaken, perhaps knocked from his saddle and trampled under foot.

It was a moment when quick thought and equally quick action were absolutely necessary. One glance at the panic-stricken beasts bearing down upon him, like the blasts of the gale, decided his course.

Tom’s quirt cracked like a revolver shot, he gave a yell of command, and the pony leaped ahead as though hurled through the air by the force of powerful springs.

Then began a mad race. Following the same plan as Bob Somers, Tom tried to cut across the front of the herd, riding in the opposite direction. This plan he soon discovered would result in failure.

“The only thing I can do is to try and keep ahead of ’em,” he muttered, grimly.

With all the means at his command he urged the mustang on until it was impossible for the little beast to make any greater efforts.

And all this time the rain poured down in torrents; vivid flashes of lightning illumined the darkened landscape with an unnatural glare, and thunder rolled and crashed.

Frightened as any of the stampeded animals thundering along at his heels, Tom’s mustang was making valiant efforts to carry himself and his rider to safety. The Rambler, however, was becoming conscious of an alarming fact—the long journey in the heat together with the headlong pace was gradually sapping the pony’s strength. How much further, he asked himself, could he travel, before becoming exhausted and dropping in his tracks?

The dull, steady din of the many hoofs striking the soggy ground was plainly audible to his ears even amid the roar of the storm.

“Great Scott!” cried Tom. “That’s what I was afraid of!”

The gap of safety which lay between him and the herd was surely closing up. The animals were near enough now for him to see the whites of their eyes, their distended nostrils, the clouds of steam rising from their bodies in spite of the rain.

The sight of that dark mass, a veritable wall of shaggy bodies, made the scowling lines in his forehead deepen. The Rambler resolved on a desperate course.

He knew that cow-punchers, in efforts to stem the rush of stampeding cattle and mill the herd—that is to swing it around on its own axis—often fire revolver shots over their heads.

“It’s a mighty risky thing to try!” he breathed. “But all the same here goes.”

Like a cowboy he was able to ride without the use of his hands. Drawing his revolver from its holster he pressed his knees hard against the mustang’s sides and swung about. A vivid flash from the clouds directly above made the barrel a line of gleaming light. Then the muzzle began to spurt forth flame and smoke. Until every chamber was emptied Tom Clifton fired.

He heard frightened snorts; he saw the advancing wall of bodies slacken for a second, and also several of the horses attempt to change their course, only to be forced back into place by those rushing behind—the attempt had failed.

“Now it’s all up to the nag!” he groaned. “I can do no more!”

A spotted pony, so close that his extended hand could have touched him, nosed his way to the front and slowly drew ahead. Its eyes were expressive of a terror which at that moment would have impelled the animal to dash headlong to its own destruction.

Tom felt his knee jammed against a mustang’s side—another had overtaken him. Yes, the gap had at last closed up—he was surrounded on every side by that living wall. And whatever dangers might lie ahead were concealed by the gray sheets of driving rain.

“Old boy!” he exclaimed, almost calmly, “if you stumble now it’s good-night.”

Over the rolling prairie floor at scarcely slackening speed dashed the herd. Tom found himself being forced nearer and nearer the center. His pony, sometimes almost lifted off his feet, fought desperately. He probably knew as well as his rider that a fall would mean the snuffing out of his life in a twinkling by the flying hoofs.

The Rambler had lost all idea of direction, or how far they had gone. The excitement of the previous moments now gave place to a dull calm, which quieted the rapid beating of his heart. His thoughts were mostly centered on one thing—should his horse stumble he must be prepared to fling himself boldly upon the back of the pony nearest at hand.

Wedged in tightly, he watched and waited for the critical moment, while mile after mile swept by. Great patches of underbrush, and tall grasses over which the wild horses ran were torn to pieces and flattened as though devastated by a cyclone.

As time passed and nothing happened, Tom felt his hopes returning. No animals, he reflected, could keep up that mad pace much longer. Already there was plenty of evidence to show that the animals were tiring. Some seemed to be straggling out on the sides. The frowning lines on his forehead lessened. The still howling storm again began to occupy a much larger place in his thoughts.

Then he saw looming up just ahead a rather steep hill. Over this his almost exhausted pony must climb. When the slope had been reached, the pace was checked. Up, up, they staggered. Mustangs floundered and stumbled in the soft, slippery earth. It was hard work, his pony seemed ready to drop. Was the moment at hand when he must succumb?

Tom Clifton sat tense, alert, ready to act. He even picked out the wild mustang, the back of which should feel his weight in case the necessity arose.

But now he could see the top of the ridge rising right before him.

“Go it, old chap! Go it,” he encouraged him, desperately. “You’ll make it yet! Steady, boy, steady! Ah, good for you!”

The horse had staggered over the top. The pace once more increased. Tom’s fears, however, were not renewed for he discovered that they had worked their way considerably nearer to one side of the herd.

“If the little fellow can only keep on his feet a few minutes longer, we’ll be free of this bunch,” he reflected joyously. “Hello——”

A dense mass of tangled underbrush on the sloping side directly below him formed a barrier which forced the horses to scatter on either side.

And then, by the irony of fate, just when safety lay in his grasp, his pony’s hoof caught in a projecting root, and as though struck by a bullet he dropped to the ground.

CHAPTER XVII
A NIGHT IN THE OPEN

Only Tom Clifton’s presence of mind saved him from taking a headlong plunge down the slope. He had just managed to slide nimbly over the mustang’s neck when a veritable pile of horses stumbled over his steed’s prostrate body. With a quick spring the lad reached that point of safety—the underbrush.

Yes, he was actually safe at last. All the mustangs but his own had scrambled up, and on all sides, singly and in groups, were racing down the slopes, growing fainter every moment.

He hadn’t realized how hard it was raining. The water seemed to be coming down in sheets, thudding, beating and splashing; forming into little rivulets, which wound in twisting passageways to the base of the hill. The thunder was still rolling too, and every few instants the glare of lightning rent the darkness and revealed what lay behind the rain.

“Poor little duffer!” exclaimed Tom, all his thoughts on the horse which still lay where it had fallen. “I do hope to goodness he isn’t badly hurt.”

He sprang up the slope to the side of the mustang.

It was an anxious moment for Tom. His feeling of gratitude at his own fortunate escape was for the moment almost forgotten as he bent over the animal.

His blood-shot eyes and painfully heaving sides indicated a badly distressed condition. There was an ugly cut on its right hind leg, and several bruises caused by the horses falling upon him, but the Rambler could discover no injuries that seemed to be of a serious nature.

“Hooray!” he almost shouted. “Just all in! A mighty narrow squeak, though, sure enough! Ha, ha, Cranny, just wait till I see you again. I’ve got a tale that’ll make you open your eyes!”

Tom felt in a rare good humor. It was certainly an adventure which would sound well in Dave Brandon’s history of the club. Then his thoughts suddenly reverted to Bob Somers. Unmindful of the wind or rain he stood pondering deeply. He strove to reconstruct the scene in his mind at the instant his companion had shouted. What had been Bob Somers’ course?

“Oh! Of course, Bob’s all right,” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ll bet it never even ruffled his hair.”

Tom Clifton’s confidence in the other’s ability to take care of himself under all circumstances was so great that he was easily able to dismiss all worry concerning him and concentrate his thoughts on the situation that confronted him.

With a gunny sack he washed the mud from the animal’s body; then by a little gentle persuasion managed to get him up on his feet. He felt convinced now that his diagnosis was correct, yet, from the way in which the animal bore his weight on the injured leg, he realized that he would be in no condition to travel for hours.

At the base of the hill a thick grove of cottonwoods suggested a pleasant place for a camp. Tom, of course, well knew the danger of seeking shelter under trees during a thunder-storm; but, by this time, the lightning had passed far enough beyond for him to have no hesitation.

He began to lead the mustang down the incline, finding to his great satisfaction that it limped but slightly.

“That’s another fine piece of luck,” he reflected, gleefully. “Now if the rain would only let up a bit, I wouldn’t kick about a single thing.”

A few minutes later he made a discovery which added still more to his cheerful frame of mind. A tiny creek wound its way through the middle of the valley.

“Hooray! All the comforts of a Mexican hotel without the expense!” he chuckled. “I don’t mind, old boy, if we do have to spend a night all by our lonesome!”

Beneath the thick, spreading foliage of the cottonwoods he found relief from the steady drizzle.

After unsaddling the mustang and allowing the tired beast to rest for a short time, he conducted him to the creek where he was watered a little at a time until his thirst was quenched.

After returning to the cottonwoods, the Rambler got out his case of medical supplies, many of which were labeled “good for either man or beast,” and felt confident that with a little doctoring to assist the course of nature the pony’s wound would soon be healed.

This job of bathing and bandaging the sore spot, owing to the beast’s decided objections, took so long that by the time he finished the rain had ceased and the storm clouds were far away.

The active Tom still found plenty to do. He cleaned his garments, spread the heavy water-soaked saddle blanket over a limb to dry, cleared a generous-sized space for his camp, then set about gathering wood.

A short time later a fire crackled in a hollow and his meal was under way. The situation appealed to the romantic side of Tom’s nature; it also gave him a pleasant sense of manliness to reflect upon the ease with which he could look out for himself. He thought of Don Stratton. Don he felt sure would be filled with misgivings if placed in similar circumstances.

“Still,” remarked Tom loftily to himself, “he hasn’t had enough experience yet; confound these mosquitoes; it isn’t easy to find one’s way over such a whopping big country. A little miscalculation,” he smiled grimly, “and if a chap wasn’t well supplied with both food and water, he might have some pretty rough sledding.”

The lad gazed at the curling tongues of ruddy flames growing brighter; at the jumping sparks and the columns of smoke rising in whirling clouds against the dark rich foliage of the cottonwoods. It seemed very lonely. How nice it would be, he thought, if only all the crowd were there. He began to miss sadly the sound of their voices—the cheerful rattle of conversation.

This momentary weakness, however,—Tom considered it to be a weakness—having passed, he began to whistle cheerfully.

“I’m not even going to bother about Bob’s bothering about me,” he grinned. “He knows I can look out for myself all right.”

When his supper was cooked and eaten, the last traces of a rich after-glow had entirely vanished, and shadows were creeping steadily over the landscape, settling in deep, somber tones under the grove of cottonwoods.

After washing his tin dishes in the creek and gathering sufficient wood to last the night, Tom seated himself upon a large flat stone near the fire. As the darkness increased, so the leaping tongues of flame pierced it with greater brilliancy. Beyond the range of light nature looked very dark and gloomy. Only the irregular outlines of the hills and the vegetation crowning their summits could be seen with any distinctness, and these were gradually becoming blurred and mysterious.

Tom was gazing reflectively at the fire when his hand suddenly touched something in the pocket of his jacket. It was the book on cowboy life presented to him by Jimmy Raymond.

“Ah, ha! here’s another slice of luck,” he exclaimed with a grin of satisfaction. “This will help me pass the time.”

The Rambler became quite thoughtful when, on opening the little volume, he saw the young pianist’s name written in a bold, legible hand on the title page.

“Jimmy’s a dandy chap, all right,” he reflected. “Gee, I’ll never leave this part of the country without finding out something about him—no siree!”

The solitude of the night, with the incessant chant and hum of insects coming from all directions, was conducive to thought, and Tom allowed his to soar. Jimmy Raymond and the Texas Rangers became the central figures of a drama which he considered would have made a very interesting photo-play.

At last, however, tiring of this pastime, he drew up close to the fire, and began to read the cowboy story. It proved to be such a lively yarn of adventure that he sat up much longer than he had intended.

Just before the moon rose above the hills he rolled himself up in a blanket and stretched himself out on the ground. And when the satellite climbed high enough to flood the earth with its silvery light, its rays fell on the form of a peacefully sleeping lad.

Many hours later, as Tom Clifton once again looked upon the world, he discovered it to be a dimly lit and cheerless-looking place. A few wisps of clouds near the eastern horizon were not even tinged with the faintest color. Over the valley, over everything within the range of vision, a succession of long, thick streamers of whitish mist hung low. The early morning air was raw and chill.

Tossing aside his blanket, the lad rubbed his eyes and rose sleepily to his feet.

“Humph!” he muttered, after a long, earnest stare. “Not a very joyous sight, to be sure; one good thing, though, it’s jolly early.”

His first thoughts were for the mustang. The animal was contentedly lying down, but at his approach scrambled to his feet in a manner that indicated a great improvement in the condition of his injured leg.

“Fine and dandy, old chap,” declared Tom, grinning with satisfaction. “Let’s have a look.”

An examination increased his grin.

“Bully!” was his comment. “Nothing now to prevent us from making a quick get-away. A cold bite and then it’s the long ride for us.”

In the space of about twenty-five minutes his wants and those of the mustang had been satisfied. After this, the lad repacked the saddle-bags, filled the canvas water-bottles with cool water from the creek, and lastly saddled his pony.

“Now, little chap,” he exclaimed, springing into the saddle, “let ’er go!”

The landscape still presented the same cheerless aspect. Having carefully consulted his compass Tom headed in a direction which took him straight toward an impenetrable wall of gloomy mist.

To be once more actually on the way filled him with a huge sense of satisfaction. Over ridges, across valleys now enveloped in the thick vapors, jogging along in the half-light between, he made good progress. And all the while the appearance of the world about him was gradually changing. The clouds in the east had become tinged with delicate tones of purple and gold, the rays of the rising sun shot high above them.

Tom in a receptive mood halted on the top of a high ridge to study the glories of the awakening day. A glowing rim was rising above the eastern hills. Slowly the whole of the pale golden ball rose into view, and its rays, soon shooting across the wide landscape, transformed the heavy, leaden gray vapors into objects of ethereal lightness.

“Dave would certainly call that ‘glorious,’” mused Tom with a smile. His eyes followed a flock of birds circling high in the sky. “The chap who doesn’t rise early in the morning misses a whole lot!”

It was so pleasant to watch the changes of nature that Tom continued to stay until the mists were in full retreat before the strengthening shafts of light.

His eyes, wandering from place to place, suddenly came to a halt on a faint speck of dark far off in the valley.

Somehow or other, it did not have the appearance of a bush, or any other kind of vegetation, but rather suggested to his mind the form of some animal stretched at full length on the ground. His utmost efforts to make out the exact nature of the object were unavailing, which, to one who possessed as large a bump of curiosity as Tom, was a highly unsatisfactory state of affairs.

“It’s so early I guess I can afford to take a bit of time,” he reflected. “By George! I will!”

Having come to this conclusion, he set off down the incline, presently reaching a grassy valley. From this point the irregular character of the ground shut the odd-looking spot of dark from view.

It proved to be much farther off than Tom had supposed, and but for a dogged determination to carry to a successful conclusion any task once started, he might have faced about and ridden away.

“No, sir, I’m going to find out just what it is,” he exclaimed aloud. He patted his mustang’s neck. “Luckily for both of us, old chap, your leg’s nearly well.”

At last, skirting around a clump of trees to see a broad open expanse stretching before him, he uttered an exclamation.

“I thought so!” he cried.

The dark object, though still some distance away, could now be distinctly seen; and one swift glance proved sufficient to reveal the fact that it was a prostrate steer.

CHAPTER XVIII
ON THE TRACK OF “RUSTLERS”

Of course, in that section of the country it was the most natural thing in the world to come across roaming cattle; though the thought instantly suggested itself to Tom that to see one so far separated from a herd had an element of mystery in it.

“It’s mighty queer,” he murmured.

Curious to know what could have happened to the animal, he galloped across the last stretch of ground at a rattling pace.

Reining up by the side of the fallen steer he sprang from the saddle to make a discovery which considerably surprised him. Instead of the motionless, inanimate form he had expected to find, the animal seemed to have plenty of life left in him.

The huge, bulky form began to move. He was making desperate efforts to struggle to his feet, but each time fell back with a ponderous thud to the earth.

“Poor beast!” exclaimed Tom compassionately. “I’m mighty glad I decided to come along.” He straightened up. “Cowboys never drive cattle so hard as to make ’em fall over in a heap—no, sir, not by a long shot.”

Tying his horse to a near-by sapling he returned to the steer to make a more careful examination.

He found there were no outward evidences of injuries, though everything showed that the animal was in a complete state of exhaustion—so complete that it had ceased all efforts to move, and but for its gently heaving sides and half-closed eyes would have appeared quite lifeless indeed.

Another idea came to Tom. There was scarcely any trace of the rain of the day before, but here and there he thought the earth might still be sufficiently soft to show tracks of passing cattle.

Not very long afterward he whistled softly; his eyes sparkling with a peculiar light were turned in the direction of the rolling hills in the west, over which the rising sun was casting a soft, mellow glow.

At his feet lay a little marshy tract; in various portions limpid pools reflected the sky above. Here was the evidence he had been so earnestly searching for. Imprints, and fresh imprints, too, of many hoofs.

“Yes, sir; it looks to me as though a whopping big bunch has passed this way,” he exclaimed. “By George—if it should be—I wonder——”

Frowning lines immediately appeared on Tom Clifton’s forehead; his detective instincts were once more fully aroused. The whole circumstance to his mind had a decidedly suspicious look—the steer fallen by the wayside from exhaustion, the direction in which the cattle had been driven. The more he considered the question, the stronger became his conviction that cattle rustlers were at work again.

“By George! This is a discovery, sure enough!” he cried to the empty air. “Now let’s see!”

The Rambler seated himself on the turf, where in a comfortable position he pondered deeply for a considerable time.

How fine it would be, he reflected, if through his efforts some clue to the whereabouts of the bandits’ stronghold could be obtained. There were many places in the rugged country along the Rio admirably adapted for their purposes. By making a little haste he might actually trail them to the very spot and then—well, the Texas Rangers put in possession of such valuable information ought to have no difficulty in getting hot on their track.

In his imagination Tom could see all this accomplished. His face was flushed.

“Yes, sir, I’ll try it,” he exclaimed. “Of course, Bob must realize that I’m all right. Anyway, a few hours more or less can’t make much difference now.”

All annoying reflections of this character fled from Tom Clifton’s mind as he sprang to his feet. The dangers to which he might be exposed, should his deductions prove correct, occurred to him, but were dismissed with an impatient shrug of his shoulders and a thought voiced aloud: “Well—it’s worth all the risk.”

He took another look at the prostrate steer, satisfying himself that after a sufficient rest he would be all right again.

“Only wish I could do something to help you, old bovine,” he chuckled. “Who knows? Maybe by keeling over you’ve done the Texas Rangers the biggest kind of service.”

Unfastening his pony he leaped into the saddle and was off. Almost every instant his eyes were keenly fixed on the ground, and often he halted to examine patches of turf which still retained the slightest signs of moisture. In the hollows, or where vegetation grew in abundance, he often managed to pick up the trail.

It was a glorious morning; the dew on the leaves and grasses glittered and sparkled like diamonds in the sunshine. Birds flitted from place to place or from leafy coverlets sent their blithesome songs over the air. Sometimes a jack-rabbit scampered across the rider’s path, and then in headlong flight quickly disappeared from view.

Tom’s thoughts, however, were so intent upon the work in hand that he paid but little attention either to the beauties of nature or the life about him.

The difficulties of his self-imposed task made the Rambler all the more determined to keep on, but half an hour’s ride was sufficient to bring even his sanguine, hopeful nature to a realization that only failure had repaid him for his hard, toilsome work.

For a long distance not a single evidence of the animals’ tracks was to be seen, and the country farther to the west was becoming wild and barren, where the difficulties of his task would be increased tenfold. The hills, rugged and steep, partly covered with a scraggly growth of mesquite and cactus, constantly increased in height. Between them lay narrow, rocky gorges of a gloomy and sullen aspect, overrun with treacherous roots or tangled thickets, the haunts of hordes of vicious mosquitoes and myriads of other insects both winged and crawling.

“Yes, sir! I’ve lost all trace of it,” murmured the lad disconsolately. “If a band of rustlers were really behind those cattle, they must have known a much better route to the Rio than the one I’ve taken.”

From the sloping side of a ridge he could see on every hand a wild and desolate expanse of country; vast, impressive and silent. Now Tom could understand more fully the difficulties under which the Texas Rangers worked. Nature, here, had provided excellent hiding places for outlaws; and as an aid to them in case of discovery there were natural barricades from behind which they could almost defy their enemies.

“It’s a peach of a place for ’em, sure enough,” declared Tom. He slid off his pony’s back, in another moment examining the animal’s injured leg. It had withstood the traveling well, and appeared to be nearly healed.

“Fine!” he commented. Then seating himself on a bit of rock he reflectively gazed up at the pink clouds floating lazily in a field of palish blue. Tom had, of course, been greatly disappointed; his bright visions of lending valuable aid to the Rangers were almost dashed—almost, because, even now, a vague hope seemed to be urging him on. But for thoughts of Bob Somers and the others he would not have hesitated an instant—the Rio Grande, he reflected, couldn’t be so very far away, and once there, possibly something of interest might be discovered.

There was naturally only one result to be expected from the mental arguments which he indulged in with himself. The affirmative side now—a few hours more and his companions would see him again; so why bother further?

“Of course,” cried Tom briskly, “I won’t! I’m all ready now, old chap—let’s be on the move!”

Then began another hard fatiguing journey, with the traveling becoming increasingly difficult.

At length the lad, mopping his perspiring face, was murmuring his intention of making a long halt in the first shade he could find, when the sound of horses’ hoofs, coming from the top of the ridge just above him, instantly drove away all feelings of discomfort.

With a sharp exclamation he pulled up, while thoughts of cattle rustlers and bandits rushed back to his mind in full force. Tom had so completely given up any idea of encountering other human beings in this wild section of the country, that now he felt his nerves beginning to tingle, his heart to beat faster.

“Ah!” he breathed an instant later.

The figure of a horse and rider abruptly appeared above the crest of the hill, slowly rising higher and higher until both in full view were silhouetted in bold relief against the sky. The two, almost giant specimens of their species, formed a magnificent picture as the glow of the early morning sun fell across their figures. Now having come to a halt, they suggested in their motionless state rather a great equestrian statue than living, breathing creatures.

One swift, comprehensive glance had shown Tom Clifton. An elderly, gray-bearded, patriarchal-looking man he was, every line in his bronzed face telling of his nationality.

“A Mexican!” muttered Tom. Then mastering himself he exclaimed in even tones:

“Good-morning, sir!”

He was vaguely conscious of the fact that the other appeared to be studying him with considerably more interest and attention than a chance meeting between two strangers would seem to warrant. Another thing, too, impressed itself upon his mind. This man had evidently seen him approaching from a considerable distance, for he exhibited no signs of surprise.

“Buenas dias, señor,” came the greeting.

The Mexican spoke in a kindly, friendly tone, and Tom’s disturbing thoughts immediately fled.

“Good-morning,” he said again. Then without further hesitation he flipped his reins, and the mustang’s sharp hoofs were once more digging into the hard, stony ground.

Riding up by the stranger’s side he addressed him in English only to see him shake his head uncomprehendingly. The situation, however, was saved from any embarrassing features by the Mexican’s sense of humor. He laughed heartily and extended his hand, which Tom smilingly shook.

Thus, the American and Mexican faced each other on the top of the ridge for several instants in silence, Tom heartily wishing all the while that he possessed a sufficient knowledge of the Spanish language to put a few questions to him.

An entirely different air distinguished this man from the majority of Mexicans he had seen in the little town across the Rio.

His age, of course, precluded the idea of his being a vaquero. Besides, everything about him seemed to indicate that he occupied a much higher station in life. He wondered why the Mexican was roaming about the country alone—or was he alone? A startling thought flashed through his mind. Had this man any connection with the cattle rustlers—might he not be one of the band acting as a sentinel? Desperados did not always look the part!

Tom Clifton, with his love of mysteries, began to think that he had now stumbled upon another, which might prove to be fully as interesting as the one his imagination had woven about the young pianist of the Mexican theater.

“I do wonder——” he thought; then with a little start he realized that the other was speaking. The words themselves were meaningless, but the man’s actions perfectly clear. The Mexican wished the lad to follow him. Highly puzzled, Tom nodded his head. Then side by side they rode until, skirting around the side of a jagged ridge that rose high above their heads, his eyes took in a view which brought the cry: “The Rio Grande!” from his lips.

Yes—the great river appeared right before him. Its muddy water, faintly tinged in places with reflections from the brilliant sky, was flowing near the base of a line of rugged, almost perpendicular bluffs.

“Well, well, I certainly never expected to run across it so soon as this!” he exclaimed.

He felt a touch on his arm. The gray-bearded Mexican’s gaze was fixed intently upon the opposite shore where the hills loomed up bright in the sunshine.

“My country!” he exclaimed in English.

What a wealth of meaning those two words, quietly spoken, seemed to express. The man, sitting almost motionless in his saddle, a troubled look in his piercing black eyes, seemed just then to typify the sorrows of that great land, brought to misery and suffering by so much internal dissension.

For several moments the two let their eyes wander over the vast stretch of country before them. Tom was the first to speak.

“Don’t you know any other words of English?” he inquired.

The answer was a shake of the head. By means of expressive gestures, however, the Mexican very easily conveyed to Tom’s mind a desire to know in which direction he was bound. This information being supplied, a look of much surprise came over his sunburned face, as though he could not understand why the lad should travel as far as the river only to turn right back.

Tom, realizing the hopelessness of attempting oral explanations, wisely concluded to confine his efforts to communicate to the clumsy, though useful medium of gestures, and in this way signified his intention of starting off at once. The Mexican with a benevolent smile made it known that he should like to accompany him, to which request Tom at once assented.

He reflected that there was nothing at all unusual about this. The man might be on his way to visit some of the ranches that lay to the east. At any rate he found his company a most agreeable change after the long hours of solitude and silence.

He soon discovered, too, that the horseman possessed an intimate knowledge of the surrounding country, for, acting as guide, he conducted him over a route much easier than the one by which he had come. And this resulted in their reaching the undulating prairie far sooner, and with much less fatigue than would otherwise have been the case.

“This is something else to talk about,” mused Tom. “I guess Cranny will wish to thunder he had come along with Bob and me. Honest, I’d give a lot to know who this chap is, and where he’s bound.”

As the two for mile after mile jogged along side by side across the prairie, all sorts of ideas concerning the Mexican ran through Tom Clifton’s head. He hadn’t yet managed to dismiss the thought that there was something decidedly mysterious about him.

“Perhaps he’s a Mexican general, who has come over to the United States on some mission,” he reflected, “or he may be seeking safety from his enemies.”

The depths of patriotism expressed both in the man’s face and actions, when he had looked upon the land of his fathers, made Tom feel that somehow the rustler theory was rather untenable, though he was still not yet prepared to dismiss it altogether from his mind.

The lad was always expecting the Mexican to bid him adieu, but as time passed on he showed no inclination to do so.

“It’s mighty odd,” muttered Tom, “that my direction should be exactly the same as his direction. It’s another thing I don’t quite understand!”

At last, growing tired of speculations and deductions, which he reflected would certainly never solve the matter, he thrust them all from his mind, becoming more conscious from that moment of the heat and the glare of light which enveloped the landscape.

Reaching the heights of a ridge the two looked down upon a valley, to see far-off herds of grazing cattle. At the right a faint bluish smudge rising above the low chain of hills attracted Tom’s attention.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, “I’ll bet that’s a cowboys’ camp.” He turned quickly and discovered the Mexican eying him with a most peculiar smile. It instantly faded, however, when the latter observed his action. Once more Tom became impressed with the idea that for some reason he was an object of special interest to this man whom he had so unexpectedly encountered.

“By George! It’s about the queerest thing I ever ran up against!” he muttered. “I’ll steer straight for that camp, and, if there are any cow-punchers among the bunch who speak a few words of the Spanish lingo, maybe they can put me wise.”

A sweep of his hand told the Mexican of his resolve, at which an expression of undisguised astonishment, so plain as to admit of no mistake, flashed for a second over the other’s face.

Tom saw his keen searching eyes fixed full upon him; they seemed to travel slowly from the soles of his shoes to the high peaked crown of his sombrero. Then with a slight shrug of his shoulders, the man’s benevolent smile returned and cracking his whip he galloped down the slope.

Not long after the two horsemen were riding among Colonel Brookes Sylvester’s great herds of cattle. Hundreds of them were contentedly browsing over the hillsides or along the rich pasture lands of the valley.

It was not always an easy matter to keep that thin column of smoke in view, for many times ridges or thick clumps of vegetation came between.

Therefore, Tom was highly pleased when they finally rode over a ridge and saw the cowboys’ camp at the base of a gently-sloping surface which extended before them.

A big chuck-wagon stood in the shadow of a grove of cottonwoods. Around a smouldering fire a number of shirt-sleeved men had gathered and every one was staring hard toward them.

“That’s the finest sight I’ve seen for some time!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “Hooray!”

The mustang, responding to his commands, broke into a swift gallop which carried him in a moment to the cottonwoods where, with a hearty salutation to the cowboys, he slipped from his horse.

Their actions filled him with the greatest astonishment. They were looking at him as though in open-mouthed wonder. He heard them speaking, in low excited tones; he saw the biggest, a man well over six feet in height, step forward, extending a huge brown hand toward him. Then his amazement was made complete when he listened to these words, spoken in a loud chuckling tone:

“Shake, Jimmy Raymond. We’re sartinly more’n glad to see you.”

CHAPTER XIX
CAPTURED BY COWBOYS

“Jimmy Raymond!” gasped Tom. “What do you mean?”

“Business, Jimmy!” came the terse answer. “Our fellows have been a-lookin’ fer ye; so has the Texas Rangers, to say nothin’ o’ Jake Raigan the sheriff—but what made ye come? Was it our Mexican pard yonder; or did ye git tired of the lonesome trail?”

“Sure enough it’s Jimmy!” broke in one of the others. “Jist as the colonel says. One o’ the longest boys in all creation. Wal, Blimby, I call this here a fine piece o’ luck.”

“Yessir, an’ that’s truer’n many things ye say, Dan,” grinned a third. He was studying Tom with critical attention. “Yessir, that’s him all right. ‘Kind o’ big mouth,’ says the colonel, an’ ‘cheeky lookin’’—ha, ha, ha, ho. There ain’t a-goin’ to be no get-away for Jimmy Raymond this time.—No siree.”

The men laughed and chuckled in a manner which showed them to be in a most highly pleased state of mind, while Tom, his eyes flashing, looked from them to the complacent, smiling Mexican and back again.

The man’s mysterious ways were all perfectly clear to him now. He, falling into the same error as the cowboys, had taken him to be the young pianist of the Mexican theater. And Tom was forced to admit that the mistake was a natural one, for a description of Jimmy would certainly tally in many respects with his own.

The humor of the situation appealing to him irresistibly he began to roar with laughter, a proceeding which had the effect of promptly sobering the expressions on the cowboys’ faces. They had evidently expected Tom to accept the matter in a very different way, for Blimby broke forth into a string of wondering comments.

“He’s a slick one—ain’t he, boys? Thinks he can fool us, eh? Not much; this outfit’s just as sharp as the Texas Rangers any day. ‘A hard one to manage,’ says the colonel. ‘Not if we ever git our flippers on him,’ says I. So them stage laughs won’t do ye no good, pard—it’s the ‘Eagle Pass’ Ranch for you!”

“The ‘Eagle Pass’ Ranch,” repeated Tom.

“I reckon he never even heard o’ the Eagle Pass!” put in Dan, in a tone which suggested a mixture of scorn and amusement. “Come now, young fellow!” He advanced and shaking his finger under Tom’s nose added almost threateningly, “Own up now! quick! Did ye ever hear of Colonel Brookes Sylvester?”

“Certainly!” answered Tom, his eyes opening wider.

“Wal, that’s a little better. I’ve got good news for ye, Jimmy. The colonel says as how ye can do jist as ye please. Ain’t that fine, boy?” He playfully poked Tom in the ribs. “Ain’t it now?”

“Say! Why is everybody camping on the trail of Jimmy Raymond?” blurted out Tom. “What in thunder has he done? Is this Colonel Brookes Sylvester a relative of his?”

The speech was received in absolute silence, but it lasted only until the man had recovered from a genuine case of astonishment.

“OWN UP—NOW!”

“Wal! I certainly never heard anything to beat that!” roared Dan, violently. “Take his hoss, Blimby. He’s even a heap sight worse’n the colonel let on!”

“His nerve is simply amazing!” growled the big cowboy.

“Now just look here!” protested Tom. “This way we’re not getting anywhere at all!”

“Jist the same you’ll be a-gettin’ somewhere mighty soon!” chuckled one of the others. He called to the Mexican, who, having dismounted, was surveying the scene from a little distance with a highly puzzled expression. As the man came forward, a few words spoken in the Spanish language brought a look of understanding to his face. The benevolent expression was immediately replaced by a stern, hard glare, which he leveled full on the Rambler’s face.

Two of Tom Clifton’s faults in the past had been a lack of diplomacy, which, coupled with a highly sensitive disposition, often made his words and actions misunderstood. Many lessons dearly bought, however, had at last brought about a change. And now Tom, instead of flying into a temper, accepted his unusual situation in a philosophical manner.

“I’ll tell you this much,” he said calmly. “My name is Tom Clifton. But I know where Jimmy Raymond is.”

“So do we,” said Blimby. “Say, ain’t that a book in your pocket?” He looked with a significant expression toward his companions. “Jist let’s take a peep at it, son!”

And thus it was that the little volume on cowboy life which Jimmy had presented to the Rambler began to take a part in the proceedings. Tom, realizing that this bit of circumstantial evidence would absolutely prove to the minds of the men the truth of their contentions, attempted to parry Blimby’s questions.

The cowboy, however, grimly shook his head.

“No use, lad! The colonel told us somethin’ about them books ye read. Trot it out.”

“Yes, sir, you’ve got to!” came from another.

“Skeered, eh?” jeered Dan. “Come now——” His lean brown hand was thrust toward the pocket of Tom’s khaki jacket, but the agile lad easily side-stepped out of reach.

“Oh, yes, I know’d it!” grinned Blimby. “Now he’s caught with the goods! Hand it over.”

“Call around to-morrow!” grinned Tom. “You don’t have to see it!”

“Yes, sir, we do!” The man who made this speech came briskly forward, and Tom found himself facing three smiling though determined-looking cowboys, while several others looked on.

“Really this is quite provoking!” said Tom.

“Sure; mirth provokin’,” remarked Blimby. “Oh, good for you, Dan!”

Dan, by a rapid movement, had snatched the book from its reposing place and was examining, with keen interest, the wonderfully rearing horse on the cover.

“See here, you’re going too far!” shouted Tom, indignantly.

“No, jist far enough,” grinned Dan. He held the book up at arm’s length.

A storm of laughter came from the men.

“I know’d it, I know’d it!” roared Blimby. “Exactly what Colonel Sylvester said. Daffy on the cowboy game. Ha, ha, ho, ho! An’ here’s his name writ on the inside. Boys, mebbe the colonel won’t give us the glad hand when we take this prize over to the ranch.”

“Well, if that’s all you want, let’s go right away,” said Tom.

No violent outburst of anger or protest could have made half the impression on the cow-punchers as did these words. The loud hilarity instantly came to an end. Blimby was dreadfully puzzled; his face showed it.

“That’s the cleverest bit yit,” he exclaimed. “But it won’t work no better’n than the others. Now, pard, jist one question: where was ye bound when the greaser copped ye?”

“Over to detachment quarters of the Texas Rangers!” answered Tom smilingly. “Our crowd is staying there. Shall I tell you——?”

“No, nuthin’ more!” fairly yelled Blimby. “This is sure the worst case I ever run up ag’in. Climb aboard yer prairie schooner, feller. Mebbe ye’ll know now that the jig’s all up!”

“Well, it strikes me that since seeing Bob Somers last I’ve had a pretty large time,” murmured Tom, with a grin. “I intended to take a jaunt over to Colonel Sylvester’s ranch anyway.” Then aloud he added, “You chaps are going to be mighty badly disappointed—too bad! I’ll take my book, please!”

“He ain’t himself; but it’s his book,” jeered Dan, putting the volume into his hand. “Who’s goin’ to take him over?”

“I am,” exclaimed Blimby, in his loud gruff voice. He untied his horse and mounted, motioning Tom to get on his own. Tom obeyed. Then, with a nod to the gray-bearded Mexican, and a hearty “So-long, fellows,” to the group of cow-punchers, he rode off by the side of Blimby.

Blimby he found was a very pleasant chap. He declined to answer any of his eager questions concerning Jimmy Raymond with this terse observation: “You can’t kid me, boy.” About the venerable looking Mexican, however, he was more communicative.

“A nice old chap,” he said, an odd look coming over his face. “He ain’t been around these parts very long. Every onct in a while one o’ the bunch has run across him; but the fellers who can parlez his tongue a bit says he won’t ever do no talkin’ about himself.”

“Well, what is he doing in Texas?” demanded Tom.

“He don’t seem to be doin’ nothin’ ’cept ridin’ his hoss about, an’ mostly over there by the Rio,” responded the cowboy. “Yes, he’s acting kind o’ queer, for a fact, but there ain’t no law ag’in it. Who told him to watch out for Jimmy Raymond? Why, every cow-puncher who could git it over in Spanish. But don’t rile me, son, a-talkin’ about Jimmy.”

Several hours after leaving the cowboys’ camp the two rode past the town-site of Sylvester, a short time later sighting the ranch buildings belonging to the colonel.

Everything about the appearance of the spacious adobe house, and the barns, sheds and fenced corrals surrounding it, was in accordance with the reputation and wealth of their owner.

As the cow-puncher and Tom rode up, a tall, soldierly looking man, seated on the wide veranda which extended around the entire house, hastily rose to his feet. His first glance brought a peculiar light into his stern, gray eyes. He stepped forward eagerly, then with a nearer view of the approaching riders, the light began to fade.

“I say, Colonel, ain’t this him?” cried Blimby, hopefully.

The answer proved to be a bitter disappointment to the cowboy.

“No, Blimby!” responded Colonel Sylvester. “Though he is just about the same size and figure. But ’pon my word I must hear all about this at once! Tie your horses, boys, and come right up! This is most astonishing. Never was more surprised in my life!”

Tom was enjoying the situation immensely, though he couldn’t help feeling sorry for the disconcerted Blimby, who presently sank dejectedly into a chair on the veranda.

Facing the colonel, Tom Clifton, in his easy, offhand style, began to answer his questions. He spoke rapidly, for he realized that by this time Bob Somers and the others must be considerably worried about him, and he wanted to be on his way as soon as possible.

His words: “I met Jimmy Raymond in Mexico,” brought Colonel Brookes Sylvester to his feet. The ranchman appeared to be as excited as a man of his stern, forceful nature could ever be. With one hand resting on the arm of his chair and the other on Tom Clifton’s shoulder, he urged him to tell all he knew about the young pianist.

Tom did so at a commendable rate of speed. The colonel listened with the most eager attention; the light had come into his eyes once more, though there was a troubled note in his voice when he said:

“Jimmy in that land of anarchy and disorder! I don’t like to think about it!” Then sinking back in his chair, he remained silent for a moment, unheeding Tom’s question, put with the lad’s characteristic bluntness: “Who is Jimmy Raymond, Colonel Sylvester?”

“The colonel’s nephew!” said Blimby, answering for him.

A sudden recollection of hearing some of the Texas Rangers speak about a lad, who was occasioning Colonel Sylvester considerable trouble and worry, sprang into Tom Clifton’s mind. Jimmy must be that lad, he decided.

“The facts regarding Jimmy, who is my sister’s son, are these,” said the ranchman when he resumed speaking. “The boy, whose home is at Brownsville, had an intense longing to be a cowboy, and also the wanderlust had seized him. Receiving no encouragement in either of these ideas he considered himself very badly used indeed.”

“A cowboy’s life ain’t nothin’ to hanker after,” remarked Blimby, frankly.

“We did our best to make Jimmy understand that,” continued Colonel Sylvester, with a faint smile. “His father ardently wished him to study law, but that profession had no attraction for him.”

“That’s mighty odd,” commented Tom. “Why, our Bob is going to be a lawyer.”

“When Jimmy’s parents went to New York on an extended visit they left him in charge of Mr. Raymond’s partner. The lad stood this arrangement for a short while; then, after leaving a note for his temporary guardian, he and his savings left Brownsville together.”

“Humph!” muttered Tom.

“He headed straight for the ‘Eagle Pass’ Ranch, thinking, of course, that I should see the matter from his point of view. I told the lad bluntly, however, that he was not at all suited for such a life, and ordered him to return to Brownsville forthwith.”

“And he didn’t,” said Tom.

“No, not a bit of it. I found that he possessed far more spirit and courage than I had ever given him credit for. The rebellious Jimmy, disagreeing with everybody, immediately took himself away to parts unknown.”

“Just like a kid!” growled the cowboy.

“After vainly trying to find some trace of him, I became worried enough to put the matter into the hands of the authorities. I feel certain that Jimmy must have found out about this, and perhaps thought he would be subjected to the disgrace of arrest, and hauled before a justice. He is a sensitive, high-strung boy, and no doubt his feelings were deeply wounded.”

“I think you are right, sir,” said Tom. “For whenever I happened to mention the Texas Rangers a very curious expression always came over his face.”

The ranchman rising to his feet began to pace the floor. “My mind has been greatly relieved in a way,” he resumed meditatively, “and yet”—he paused—“and yet I can’t help feeling deeply concerned about Jimmy’s safety in that Mexican town!”

“It sure ain’t no place for a kid,” exclaimed the cowboy. “The Mexican rebs, before very long, is sure to blow the whole bloomin’ place to bits!”

“Blimby!” Colonel Sylvester spoke in sharp, earnest tones, “something has to be done, and at once. But for the fact that I have a very important stock deal on hand and engagements with some representatives of Eastern buyers, I’d go myself. You ought not to be spared from the range just at this time when cattle rustlers are apt to swoop down on the herds; but better a thousand times that they should take every steer I own than to let anything happen to Jimmy. You must——”

“I don’t think so, Colonel,” interrupted Tom, quietly. “Bob Somers and I will go after Jimmy to-day, explain how things are, and bring him right back to you.”

“Why, my dear boy, I couldn’t think of allowing you to assume such a risk!” protested the ranchman.

“But he and I intended to go back a bit later on, in any event,” said the Rambler with a smile. “Please just leave it to us. Do I know the danger? Oh, yes—though it probably isn’t so very great, sir.”

Then followed a long earnest discussion during which Blimby, who hadn’t any great desire to set foot on Mexican soil, remained discreetly silent.

“Tom!” exclaimed the colonel, at length, holding out his hand, “you’ve won your point and also my everlasting gratitude. Tell Jimmy I’ll give him a chance to be a cowboy if he still desires to try that sort of life.”

“That’s sure the best way to bust that beautiful dream o’ hisn,” commented Blimby.

“You may expect to see Jimmy very soon,” said Tom. Then suddenly recalling his experience of the early morning he related the particulars to the ranchman.

The Rambler was quite disappointed. Instead of creating a sensation, as he had half expected, not the slightest change of expression came over Colonel Sylvester’s face, though he listened with attention jotting down several notes on a piece of paper.

“Think you could find the location of this place Tom speaks about?” he asked, turning to Blimby.

“Certain sure, Colonel,” responded the cowboy. “’Tain’t so very far from where the old Mexican hangs out in an old tumble-down shack. By thunder! son, mebbe you’ve struck somethin’ worth followin’ up.” Blimby suddenly lowered his voice; then, looking up and down as if he feared his words might be overheard, he added, “I don’t know as how I ought to say it, Colonel, but—but——”

“Go ahead, Blimby,” said the ranchman, encouragingly.

“I’ve had me s’picions about that there old chap. Ye see it weren’t so very long after the rustlers got to work ag’in that he bobs up, smilin’. This young chap asks me about him—I didn’t say nothin’ much; but now—hang it all, after this tale o’ hisn, ain’t I got a right to?”

Tom Clifton, whose eyes had brightened tremendously, was on the point of blurting out that he too had thought of exactly the same thing, when by a strong effort he repressed the temptation and instead remained silent while Colonel Sylvester spoke up. “We mustn’t jump at hasty conclusions, Blimby,” he said. “It might be wiser not to express such thoughts.”

“Mebbe,” admitted the cowboy, twirling his sombrero. “But it strikes me the old Mexican’s too perlite an’ smilin’ to be all right.”

“Now, Tom,” exclaimed the ranchman, “kindly step this way.” The Rambler followed him inside the house, and a few moments later they entered the handsomely furnished library.

Colonel Sylvester called his attention to a telephone resting on a table.

“I wish you would call up Captain Julius Braddock at company headquarters,” he said, “and tell him about your experience.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tom.

He lifted the transmitter to his mouth, and presently he and Captain Braddock at the far-away Ranger headquarters, by means of the wire stretching across the lonely prairie, were hearing each other’s voices almost as distinctly as though they were standing but a few feet apart.

The Ranger chief expressed a few words of surprise on learning to whom he was speaking.

“And actually at the ‘Eagle Pass’ Ranch,” he exclaimed. “Is the colonel there?—good. I must have a word with him. What’s that—you have something interesting to tell me—fine—fine; go right ahead!”

Whether his story made any impression on Captain Braddock or not Tom was unable to tell. The former told him, however, that the Texas Rangers always investigated even the smallest clues, and Colonel Sylvester could depend upon the policemen’s looking thoroughly into the matter.

“I’ll relay the information at once to detachment quarters,” came over the wire. “On your way there now, are you?—good. You will be able to give Sergeant Howell all the necessary directions for finding the place. Good-bye. Please tell the colonel I want him on the ’phone.”

During the few minutes’ conversation which took place between the two men, Tom found it hard to control his growing impatience. He gave an audible sigh of relief when the instrument was set back on the table and Colonel Sylvester faced him.

“I’m going, sir,” he said.

“So soon!”

“Yes, sir—I reckon if everything goes right Bob Somers and I will start for Mexico this very afternoon.”

The lad walked briskly outside, to find Blimby already in the saddle.

Colonel Sylvester’s face wore a much disturbed expression when, not many minutes afterward, he warmly shook Tom Clifton’s hand, spoke a few words of adieu to him and the cowboy, and watched both galloping off side by side.

“A brave, daring young chap!” he murmured. “But I almost wish now I hadn’t consented to the lad’s going on an errand where there is a possibility of his being exposed to so much danger.”

CHAPTER XX
UNDER FIRE

At four o’clock on the following morning the little frontier town in Mexico began to be the theater of some exciting events.

A Constitutionalist cavalry force, numbering several thousand, under cover of darkness had formed a ring of steel to the west and south. And while the inhabitants, lulled to a sense of security and indifference by the long delay, slept on in peace, the artillery got into action.

The siege was on.

The rattle and boom of machine and field guns in the dreamy silence of the morning made a din which probably aroused every one in town.

At the very first detonations four Americans in the hotel facing the plaza sprang from their beds.

Dick Travers and Cranny Beaumont occupied a room together. As a faint, rosy light from the eastern sky dimly illumined the interior, they stared at one another, their eyes brightening with excitement.

“Great Scott!” cried Dick, breaking a strained silence, “so it’s come at last, eh! We’d better tumble into our togs, and get out of this!”

“Listen!” exclaimed Cranny breathlessly.

The report of a shell, bursting not far away, had drowned, for an instant, the steady rattling and booming of guns which came from the distance.

“There’s going to be a hot time, all right!” almost shouted Dick, with a leap reaching the window.

The big plaza, quiet but a few moments before, began echoing to the tread of hurried feet. The sound of loud and excited voices, and the sharp clatter of horses’ hoofs as a mounted rurale galloped across jarred noisily on the air.

Cranny sprang to his companion’s side. A soft glow from the early morning sun suffused the scene, lighting up the bell tower of the ancient adobe church with poetic effect.

Somewhere a bugle was blown; from another point came an answer, in the same musical notes.

As another loud explosion was heard and a cloud of white smoke rose above the roofs of a group of buildings to the north the boys concluded to lose no more time.

“Those shells aren’t a bit particular where they drop!” gasped Dick, “and if one should happen to——”

“Quite right!” said Cranny with a faint grin.

As fast as they had ever done in their lives the two slipped into their clothes, and were just in the act of adding the last finishing touches, when a peremptory bang on the door panel sounded simultaneously with the voice of George Parry: “Hurry up! We’re waiting for you, boys!” he yelled loudly. “Don’t waste an instant!”

Dick flung the door wide open. Outside in the corridor stood the three Americans.

“Boys,” exclaimed Professor Kent, in calm, even tones, “you’d better saddle your horses without a moment’s delay and make straight for the International bridge—ah!”

Heavy rifle firing from the intrenched Federal troops, defending the town, had just started up, and the roar of their cannon, replying to the Constitutionalists’ fire, gave an indication that the battle would be desperately waged.

“And stay in Texas until this scrap is over,” exclaimed Ralph Edmunds. “I’m mighty glad those other two chaps are safely out of it. We’ll see you as far as the bridge and——”

Cranny Beaumont, his face fairly shining with excitement, shook his head emphatically.

“I’ll not budge an inch from this town until we find Jimmy Raymond!” he cried.

“Of course we won’t!” chimed in Dick.

“By George, I’d clean forgotten about him!” declared the newspaper man, hurriedly. “He struck me as being a helpless sort of chap, too. Yes; that’s our first duty—come on, fellows!”

As the party dashed down-stairs and out on the veranda, they saw the big square filled with a panic-stricken mob of men, women and children, hurrying in all directions, some burdened down with bundles and bags.

It was almost impossible to associate the place with the calm of those moonlit evenings when the strains of soft music floated over the air, and laughing, black-eyed señoritas promenaded to and fro beneath the shadows of the mulberry trees. The boys gathered the sense of the scene without seeing many of its details. They could think only of the young pianist, who, as he listened to the firing and the commotion in the streets, must be experiencing feelings of dreadful fear.

“Poor Jimmy!” muttered Dick. “We must get him out of this mighty soon!”

To their great relief they found the stableman and the hotel proprietor in the building at the rear.

A rapid volley of Spanish came from both men when they dashed pell-mell inside. But only Edmunds understood the meaning of their words.

“What do they say?” panted Cranny.

“That the other side of the Rio Grande is the safest place for us all,” responded the newspaper man, rapidly. “Of course,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I’m too accustomed to the smell of powder and smoke and the rattle of guns to let a thing like this make me want to cut and run. But,” he paused to let the import of his words sink deeply into their minds, “remember; any one who stays in this town is taking his life in his hands.”

“I should rather say so!” said Parry, cheerfully.

It was still dark in the stable, but by the pale, weak rays of a couple of ill-smelling oil lanterns they managed to saddle the horses. The little burro was not disturbed.

The mustangs, scenting danger, reared, plunged or snorted, and when free of restraining halters made every effort to dash away.

By this time the danger had greatly increased. A shell, dropping on one of the market stands in the plaza, and exploding with a terrific report, sent a shower of lumber, boxes, and baskets in all directions, besides shattering every pane of glass in the buildings near by.

“Now it’s your turn to get a whiff of smoke and powder!” cried the special correspondent. “Everybody ready? Come on then, to the rescue of Jimmy, and keep your eyes open!”

Leading the mustangs outside, men and boys sprang into the saddles. There was no need to use either quirt or spurs on the frightened animals. They started off, even before their riders were comfortably seated, and at a speed which endangered the safety of the ever-moving throngs of Mexicans, clattered across the broad plaza.

The slowly strengthening rays of the sun and the reflections of the golden orb itself, flashing like jets of flame from some of the upper windows, gave a singular air of peace and tranquillity to the scene strangely out of harmony with the noise, the confusion and the excitement in the narrow, twisting streets.

What with the roar of the artillery, the incessant crackling of rifles, the occasional bursting of a shell, and the realization that they were just as likely to be running into danger as out of it, Cranny Beaumont found his longing for thrills fully gratified.

As the horsemen swung into the street on which Jimmy Raymond’s hotel was located, they observed behind barricades of beams and sand-bags piled on the roofs of some of the higher buildings the tops of tall conical hats and gleams on rifle barrels.

In the crowded street they were often obliged to slow up, much to the annoyance of Edmunds, who perhaps understood more fully than his companions the grave peril of their situation. His one object was to get the lads on the United States side of the International bridge, and every instant he was experiencing a dull, deadly fear that something might happen to prevent him from carrying out this plan.

Now and again rurales came galloping along, by their reckless riding and loud yells adding to the turmoil. There were no cries of “Gringo” heard just now; the Mexicans, intent upon their own troubles, scarcely seemed to notice the presence of the Americans in their midst.

“By Jove! I was never gladder to see anything in my life!” shouted Dick to Cranny. The hotel with the big cottonwoods in front had just loomed into view. “I reckon the poor chap is having the scare of his life.”

“Maybe he won’t be glad to see us!” responded Cranny.

As the four clattered up to the entrance, the Tacoma lad slipped off the back of his plunging horse and thrust the bridle into Dick Travers’ hands.

“I’ll get him out, fellows,” he gasped. Then an expression of dismay came over his features. For the first time he had taken a careful look at the building. It wore a silent and deserted appearance.

“I was afraid of it!” groaned Edmunds. “But for goodness’ sake, Cranny——”

The lad had already dashed toward the open door, so the newspaper man’s sentence remained unfinished.

Cranny Beaumont felt that his mission was doomed to failure; a loud ringing yell uttered when he reached the foot of the stairs only brought back a series of hollow, weird echoes. He rushed up, calling as he went, “Jimmy, hello, Jimmy, are you here? Jimmy!” And still no answer from the young pianist came to his ears.

The door of the room stood wide open and one glance inside told him that his fears were well founded—Jimmy was gone. The Texas boy’s belongings lay scattered about in the greatest confusion. Everything pointed to the fact that he had made a hurried exit.

“Nothin’ doin’!” groaned Cranny. “Maybe he’s safe on the other side o’ the Rio an’ maybe he isn’t! Now I wonder what we’d better—— Great Scott!”

A frightful explosion, which seemed fairly to jar the boards beneath his feet, accompanied by the sounds of breaking glass, sent him, pale-faced and trembling, against the wall. With a dreadful fear tugging at his heart, he heard a wild clamor in the street just below and saw a column of white smoke rising against the low adobe building on the opposite side of the street.

Cranny Beaumont’s terror lasted only an instant. Rushing down-stairs at topmost speed, he made for the street, uttering a cry of dismay when he discovered that the horsemen were no longer grouped before the entrance. Nor did he see any one else. Men, women, and children had all vanished.

In the wall of the building across the way he saw a large gaping hole, shattered glass and a partly demolished balcony. From the windows came puffs of smoke.

The Tacoma lad grasped the situation on the instant. The horses, rendered unmanageable, had taken fright and bolted. He experienced a distinct feeling of relief. At any rate, it seemed to prove that neither his companions nor any of the Mexicans had been injured. And now he was forced to think of his own plight. Without a horse, and separated from the others, what was to be done?

“First of all see if I can put out that fire,” he decided.

One look inside the building, however, showed him the futility of any attempt to fight the rapidly increasing flames. On the lower floor every piece of woodwork seemed to be ablaze. Red tongues of flames crackled and sputtered—the smoke constantly rolled forth in greater volumes.

“It’s a goner!” gasped Cranny. “Hello!” His ears had just caught the sound of steadily marching feet, mixed in with a musical jingle. He looked down the street, to see a long line of Federal soldiers and several pack-trains of mules, drawing machine guns and ammunition, passing an intersection.

Cries of “Viva Mexico!” shouted in rough, bawling voices, distracted Cranny’s attention for the moment from the peril of his situation. Here and there in the distance people were again daring to venture forth into the streets, though a hail of bullets occasionally smashed against the buildings, and the reports of bursting shells still sounded at intervals.

“Whew! It’s certainly a big risk, stayin’ here!” muttered Cranny. “What an awful shame I’ve lost my horse!” He looked anxiously about, hoping to see some signs of his companions. “An’ certainly some risk goin’ away. If I did, they’d sure get back the very next minute—Julius Cæsar! I don’t understand what can be keepin’ ’em!”

But for the distant roar of the Federal and Constitutionalists’ artillery, and the steady popping of rifles, an unnatural quietness seemed to hover about. Pacing in front of the big cottonwoods, he often gazed at the burning building across the way. The street was filled with a thick yellowish smoke and showers of sparks fell about him. An adjoining shed caught fire.

It seemed very strange to be witnessing a fire with no effort made to fight it.

“What a great country,” he mused. “I wonder how the scrap’s goin’? The rebs certainly won’t have any picnic capturin’ this old town. By George! I’d like to steal out to the firin’ lines—yes, sir—an’, but for us, I guess Ralph Edmunds would have been there long ago.”

The sound of the firing became more desultory now. It began to look as though the revolutionary forces might be beaten back, and the ring of steel encircling the town broken and scattered to the surrounding hills.

Cranny found it increasingly difficult to control his impatience. To remain inactive any longer was torture to him. He scorned the thought of crossing the International bridge without first learning what had become of his companions and Jimmy Raymond.

“I’ll be as game as Ralph Edmunds ever was,” he muttered, with the old flashing light returning to his eyes. “Besides from now on I’ll need every bit of that kind of stuff I’ve got.” He grinned. “Maybe the fellows won’t be——”

Two sounds reaching his ears almost simultaneously broke the rest of the sentence off with a jerk. One was the report of an exploding shell, dangerously near, the other the faint clatter of horses, evidently tearing along at a furious speed.

“By Jove! I really believe they’re comin’ back at last!” shouted the Tacoma lad joyously. “Whoop! Oh! if it’s only so—anyway—it’s certainly somebody, who wants to get somewhere else in a few ticks of the clock.”

The street close at hand was now beginning to show some signs of life again. The burning building proved an attraction which brought a number of men running toward the scene, and Cranny once more heard a loud jargon of Spanish. He saw some of the people as they pattered up dividing their attention between him and the fire; though he was perfectly indifferent to their stares, for the clatter of the galloping horses was momentarily rising higher.

“There they come!” The lad excitedly spoke his thoughts aloud.

Far ahead around a bend two riders, enveloped in the soft haze of the early morning, had suddenly appeared into view. At first glance it looked as if their horses were beyond control, for neck to neck the animals raced, while the riders sat astride their backs with all the ease of Mexican vaqueros.

But the anxious Cranny Beaumont, his nerves tingling with expectancy and hope, quickly perceived that the horsemen were neither Mexican vaqueros, nor any of the riders who had so recently disappeared.

“Great Julius Cæsar!” he burst out explosively. With eyes fairly bulging, he watched the Mexicans scattering to let the horsemen pass. He heard a few shouts of “Gringo! Gringo!” Then a wave of wild exultation swept through him. In the exuberance of his joy he tossed his wide-brimmed sombrero high in the air and caught it as it fell.

“Whoop! whoop!” he yelled. “Go it, Tom! Go it! Show ‘Whirly-gig’ your heels! This is a bit of luck, sure enough! Great Scott! I’m more glad’n ever to be alive!”

Amidst a whirling cloud of yellow dust Bob Somers and Tom Clifton pulled up their panting, steaming mustangs, to gaze, with expressions of the utmost surprise, at the highly delighted Tacoma lad.

CHAPTER XXI
THE FUSILLADE

Bob Somers was the first of the Ramblers to speak.

“Good-morning, Cranny,” he exclaimed, in as even a tone as the terrific jolting he had received would allow. “I never was more pleased to see anybody in my life. We’ve come to get Jimmy Raymond!”

“But, goodness gracious, what are you doing out here all alone, Cranny Beaumont?” demanded Tom, whose voice was trembling with suppressed excitement. “Where’s your mustang? Where’s the crowd? Is Jimmy Raymond inside that hotel?”

Tom spoke so rapidly that some of his words were all jumbled together, a fact which was explained an instant later, when he burst out before Cranny had had a chance to reply, “Did you hear a shell explode just now? Well—a little bit more and it would have knocked thunder out of Bob and me!”

“Life in Mexico is certainly one thrill after another!” gasped Cranny. “But how in the world did you chaps happen along just in the nick of time?”

“I reckon the whole bunch’ll be nicked in no time at all, unless we manage to put the Rio between us and this land of fireworks and smoke!” exclaimed Tom, with a glance at the burning house. “Now, Cranny Beaumont——”

“Order, order!” interjected Bob. “We haven’t a moment to spare. Your story’s the most important, Cranny. Fire away—make it short!”

It was no time or place for an extended conversation. With the sound of rifles and cannons ringing in their ears, and surrounded by a crowd of disheveled-looking Mexicans, in whose faces seemed to be reflected all the angry, fierce passions of the moment, Cranny briefly related his tale.

Anxious looks immediately sprang into the Ramblers’ faces.

“By George! It looks bad!” cried Tom.

Bob nodded.

“I don’t like it a little bit!” he acknowledged.

“It means that we’ll have to chase ’em up,” declared Tom vigorously.

“An’ come back here, every now an’ again!” asserted Cranny.

“Yes!” Then Tom, in answer to Cranny’s pleading to know something about their own experiences, began to explain, in quick, jerky sentences.

The mustangs, restive and excited, pawing the ground, and continually trying to dash away, made talking extremely difficult; but notwithstanding this, Cranny quickly learned all the principal features. Tom told him about the history of Jimmy Raymond, how he had met Colonel Brookes Sylvester, and his subsequent trip over the prairie to the Rangers’ quarters, where he found Bob Somers and the others all “worked-up” over his long absence.

Then he had borrowed a fresh horse from Fred Cole, and in company with Bob set out for the town across the river. Arriving there rather late in the evening, the two had put up at company headquarters of the Rangers, intending to start off the first thing in the morning after Jimmy Raymond and bring him back to Texas.

“Of course he never expected there’d be any such fierce mix-up as this,” exclaimed Tom, “or, at least, not so soon. The sound of the firing awakened us—and say—maybe Bob and I didn’t hustle!”

“Then what made you so long in gettin’ here?” asked Cranny.

“Soldiers guarding the International bridge,” responded Tom. “And if it hadn’t been for Captain Julius Braddock, who came that far with us, it would have been a case of swim or wade across the river at some point where there were no officials to stop us!”

All this information was packed into a surprisingly short space of time. The fear of exploding shells was in the hearts of all. They could see the smoke of fires at widely separated points in the town rising high above the housetops.

“Jump up behind me, Cranny,” cried Tom breathlessly. “We’ve got some mighty dangerous work before us!”

“You bet!” exclaimed Cranny. “Here I come, Tom! Look out, old chap!”

With a quick, agile spring he landed safely on the horse’s back, and on the instant the jabbering, rather hostile-looking Mexicans saw the riders head for the plaza at a rattling pace.

Swinging across it, they turned into a narrow, winding street which ran to the west, keeping a sharp lookout for the other Americans.

“Colonel Sylvester certainly would be wild if he knew that Jimmy couldn’t be found,” exclaimed Tom, as he and Bob drew up and halted in the shadow of an old stone wall. “This seems to be one of the cases where a chap can’t follow out any regular plan—it’s just hit or miss!”

“An’ I hope they do miss us,” said Cranny, with the trace of a chuckle in his tone.

“I can’t understand why some of those chaps at least didn’t ride back to the hotel as fast as they knew how,” remarked Bob. “Something must have surely happened.”

“I’m afraid so!” said Tom. “Hello——”

Sharpshooters, from behind a high barricade of sand-bags on the roof of a near-by building, had suddenly opened fire.

“I wonder if it means that the Constitutionalists are gettin’ nearer?” cried Bob.

“I hardly think so,” declared Cranny. “Seems to me the firin’s been growin’ less for some time.” He looked around at the little knots of people, gathered together at various points. “These chaps appear to have lost some o’ their panicky feelin’s.”

“Well! What shall we do?” demanded Tom.

“Keep on riding until the town is scoured from end to end!” replied Bob. A sudden thought struck him. “Perhaps, for some reason, they’ve all gone over the International bridge!”

“Not on your life!” scoffed Cranny. “Three of ’em were goin’ to stay here even if the rebs blew the town from under ’em! I don’t know about Jimmy, though,” he added reflectively.

This time Tom shook his head.

“No; I believe it would take more than this to make him beat it over to that Texas town!” he said, emphatically.

Riding from street to street the boys saw on all sides small armies of citizen volunteers and mounted rurales, every one of them armed.

These warlike scenes, the uncertainty, the lack of any knowledge either concerning their companions or as to how the battle was progressing, and the loud yells often directed toward them in Spanish, all combined to keep them in a perpetual state of excitement.

“Oh, if I only hadn’t lost my way!” groaned Cranny. “How much better I’d feel!”

And now they began to see many squads of Federal soldiers pattering along, again accompanied by pack-trains of mules. Machine guns were set up in the streets at many strategic points—it was very evident that the lull in the enemies’ fire had not caused the Federals to abandon any precautions.

At this time the cracking of rifles from behind the trenches and breastworks had dwindled until now only an occasional sharp volley of shots rang out.

When the history of this siege was written later, it then became known that the Constitutionalists’ generals withdrew their forces while awaiting the arrival of cars loaded with artillery. These were delayed for a considerable time owing to the fact that a Federal scouting party had torn up a portion of the railroad tracks.

Human judgment is fallible. Thus it was that the boys as well as many of the citizens, in not understanding the true state of affairs, exposed themselves to the greatest danger.

In searching for their friends the three finally found themselves approaching the outskirts of the town. About three hundred yards beyond the last houses, the zigzag trenches began.

As Cranny Beaumont caught sight of these deep pits, in which could be seen the heads and shoulders of hundreds of Federal troops, their shining rifles in a bristling array resting over the edge, he reflected with a curious thrill that they were actually on the firing line, close to field and machine guns, with the gunners standing ready to send a hail of shot and shell spurting forth at the word of command. To the left a long line of breastworks extended off, and behind these the soldiers lounged about with apparently as much indifference as though their work was the least hazardous occupation in the world.

The boys observed all these things, and were themselves observed by hundreds and hundreds of swarthy Mexicans.

A group of men, evidently officers, poured forth a flood of Spanish, and energetically waved for them to retire. The general in command of the garrison, a fine military-looking figure, gaily uniformed, and mounted on a coal black horse, spoke to an aide, who promptly began riding toward them.

But he did not reach their side.

With an abruptness that caused the boys fairly to gasp with dismay, a terrific cannonading started up from the direction of the hills. And, at the same instant, thousands of cavalrymen, surrounding the town, advanced far enough to open a heavy rifle fire on the breastworks and trenches.

The attack was so violent and unexpected that the three for a few seconds felt too bewildered to make any attempt to flee from the scene.

The Federal cannon began to boom with reports which seemed to jar them from toes to the crown of their heads. The steady din of crackling rifles and the crash of bursting shells dropping near the trenches and breastworks speedily worked the mustangs into a frenzy of fear. But for Cranny Beaumont’s great strength and acrobatic ability he would have been flung from his seat when Tom’s horse suddenly bolted.

Bob Somers, after a moment’s inaction, had fully recovered his presence of mind.

“Get behind the house over yonder, Tom!” he yelled.

Tom Clifton heeded his words. Riding at a furious pace, they dashed up to a white adobe casa, which stood in a neglected field, overrun with mesquite, and sought temporary shelter at the rear.

Breathless and fighting desperately to control their mounts, the lads passed through some thrilling moments. Clouds of whitish smoke from the cannons and rifles floated over the trenches. Little puffs of the same color, rising straight up in the air, spotted the distant hills. Showers of earth, dust, and fragments of bushes were continually marking the places where shells had fallen.

All these things and more the three lads observed when they had mastered the horses, and dared to peer cautiously around the weather-beaten walls.

“Well now, fellows, we seem to be in the fix of our lives!” exclaimed Cranny. He did his best to control a vibrating note in his voice. “The other bombardment was just a joke to this!”

“You were right after all about the sleeping volcano stuff, Cranny!” remarked Tom, solemnly. “Only this is a lot worse.”

A rain of shells was carrying terror and destruction to the town. The smoke of numerous fires rolled up in whirling columns against the clear blue sky.

A handful of bullets, suddenly striking the wall on the opposite side of the house, and others, tearing and ripping through the foliage of a tree close by, sending branches and twigs to the ground, gave the lads a terrible start.

“It won’t be safe to stay here much longer!” breathed Tom.

“I say let’s steer straight for our hotel on the plaza,” said Bob. “Possibly we may run across some of the fellows in that direction.”

The lads were afraid to remain in their present position, yet equally afraid to leave its shelter. Shells were passing overhead. One expended its force in a field not far beyond, with a tremendous outburst.

The rapidity with which events were moving, however, decided matters for them.

Scarcely daring now to look around the corner of the house, they finally did so, when a curious cessation of the Federal batteries and rifle firing occurred.

And the sight which their eyes took in was enough to make even a seasoned special war correspondent like Ralph Edmunds tremble with apprehension and alarm.

The cordon of cavalrymen, thousands in numbers, were making a furious, headlong charge. It was a magnificent, and an inspiring sight as well, to see that great body of horsemen in the bright clear sunshine galloping forward.

“Look! look at the Feds scramblin’ out o’ the trenches!” yelled Cranny, wildly. “They’re done for—it’s good-night for them.”

Squads of soldiers and citizen volunteers were already rushing up to reinforce their comrades. From the sharpshooters on the roof tops came volley after volley; but nothing which lay in their power could have stemmed that daring charge.

In the grip of a fascination that held them motionless, the three watched and waited in breathless suspense.

Now the cavalrymen were charging the outermost line of trenches and the breastworks to the south. Over the deep, zigzag pits their horses were leaping, floundering or struggling; some there were that stumbled and fell, and unaided could not rise again. And all this time the wild fierce yells, as foe met foe, could be clearly heard.

Resistless as an avalanche the great multitude swept on, while a continuous stream of brown-skinned men came pouring and tumbling out of the trenches, and, as panic-stricken as animals fleeing before the flames and smoke of a forest fire, dashed madly off for any haven of safety.

Soldiers with loaded guns forgot to fire. Many discarded their weapons as they ran. It was a spectacle of triumph on the one hand and utter demoralization on the other. The sudden and desperate nature of the assault crumpled up the Federals, and the great onrushing tide of men and horses threatened to engulf and overwhelm many of those who fled before them.

The very danger of the situation seemed to give the lads an almost unnatural calmness. They fully understood that to remain an instant longer was to run the greatest risk. In those terrible moments of turmoil and violence, nationality would not serve to protect them.

“To the hotel, boys!” shouted Bob. “And then——”

“What?” asked Tom, in solemn tones.

“That’s something we have yet to learn!”

As they started off, finding it difficult to hold the frightened, snorting mustangs in check, a small army of mounted rurales and citizen volunteers were seen advancing on a trot. A few shots sent them scurrying to cover. Then from behind the shelter of isolated houses they began to pour forth an answering fire.

The clatter of pounding hoofs as the cavalrymen galloped furiously over the roads and across the fields, the savage yells of the combatants, and the sharp cracking of rifles, made a veritable pandemonium of sound.

Following the first hot clash with the citizen defenders, riderless horses and pack-trains of mules were stampeding through the hot, dusty streets, adding to the panic and terror of the fleeing people.

Bending every effort to keep far in the lead of the victorious host of charging cavalrymen, the boys rode hard. They felt neither the heat nor the perspiration streaming down their dust-begrimed faces. No shells were falling now on the town, but the farther they progressed the more menacing the danger became.

Several of the narrow streets were still occupied by little groups of Federal soldiers, who, rounded up by their officers and bullied, threatened or coaxed, were prepared to make a last desperate stand.

Blocked from these thoroughfares the Americans clattered headlong into others, always in the thick of so many thrilling events, in which panic, passion, and violence played equal parts, that their brains could grasp only a confused and jumbled impression.

At the rear, urging them on, ever faster, faster was the sound of strife as the cavalrymen, smashing and crushing all opposition that lay in their path, continued their triumphal advance.

And above the general hullabaloo made by shots, the hoofs of dashing horses, and human voices raised to a pitch of frenzy, came the reports of dynamite bombs exploding with fearful force. This was the work of the Federals, who had threatened to destroy the town, if forced to evacuate.

Through the thick yellow smoke from burning buildings, with sputtering sparks like a hail of fire dropping about them, rode the lads, making desperate efforts to reach the plaza in the shortest possible time.

They had so many times almost given up hope of ever reaching it, that when the broad and almost deserted square, simmering in the rays of the blazing sun, actually did appear before their eyes, Cranny blurted out almost hilariously:

“Say, fellows! That’s certainly one o’ the finest sights I’ve ever seen!”

“I’ll never forget it!” said Bob, in a strained, tense voice.

Without having any definite plan other than to get a few moments’ rest, the three urged the mustangs toward the stable.

The revolutionists they knew would be swarming through every part of the town in a very short time. What sort of treatment could they expect to receive at their hands?

In their present state of mind, with the fate of the others still unknown, not one of the three could have brought himself to offer, as a solution to their own difficulties, a flight across the International bridge.

Dismounting before the stable door, they quickly led the mustangs inside.

“Hello!” exclaimed Tom, the moment his eyes had become accustomed to the gloomy shadows. “Do you see anything queer?”

“No, I don’t see anythin’ queer!” responded Cranny. “An’ why? Because it’s gone.”

“Which seems to prove that George Parry must have come here and taken the burro away,” said Bob.

“Of course that’s it!” cried the Tacoma lad, joyously.

“That makes me feel a great deal better!”

“I don’t understand it,” murmured Tom.

“It certainly looks mighty encouraging anyway!” cried Bob. “Get over there, ‘Whirly-gig’—steady, boy—let’s head for the cool shadows of the patio, fellows, and talk it over.”

When the ponies were secured to the iron rings the three made a rapid sprint for the hotel. On the topmost step they paused.

“Ah!” murmured Cranny.

On a street in line with them, leading off from the plaza, they saw a large body of cavalrymen, a jam of horses and men in the narrow confines, bearing rapidly down on the sun-baked square.

“I can’t help it,” growled Tom, wiping beads of perspiration from his face. “I’m going to have a rest!” He walked inside with the others following at his heels.

“We’ll have to trust to luck, and——” Bob Somers had just come in sight of the patio when he uttered these words, but instead of finishing the sentence he stopped abruptly, to gasp out an exclamation of the utmost astonishment.

His companions, too, uttered similar sounds.

Two boys resting in the shade of the courtyard had hastily risen to their feet at the sound of their entrance, and turned to face them.

“By all that’s wonderful! Dick Travers and Jimmy Raymond!” shouted Tom Clifton.

CHAPTER XXII
KIDNAPPING JIMMY

“Good gracious!” cried Dick, wildly. “Bob Somers and Tom Clifton! Well—well—it can’t be true—how in thunder——”

“Isn’t this just about the finest thing that ever happened!” broke in Jimmy, his face radiant with joy. “Why! I thought two of you chaps were miles and miles away!”

The boys were so highly delighted at this happy reunion, under strange and dramatic circumstances, that the dangers which surrounded them were for the moment forgotten.

“Well! Jimmy Raymond, you certainly are responsible for making us face the music!” cried Tom.

“Well, Dick Travers, you certainly helped to make me see some sights!” gurgled Cranny, with his old-time reckless air.

“I want to know an awful lot of things,” exclaimed Dick. “How in the world you chaps got back here so soon and—— Say, Bob—how’s the scrap going? I’ve just been simply wild to know—for goodness’ sake talk fast.”

It was Bob Somers, as usual, who brought order into the proceedings. He knew that there would be no safety for them so long as they remained on this side of the border.

“The Constitutionalists have captured the town!” he responded hurriedly. “But really, Dick, there isn’t a bit of time for any other explanations just now!”

“I should say not!” chimed in Tom. Eager as the lad felt to learn about the experiences of Dick and Jimmy, he could not forget that the mission entrusted to him by Colonel Brookes Sylvester should be carried out before anything else was thought of.

Excitement was in the air. Every sound from the outside seemed to possess an ominous note that thrilled. In their fidgety movements, and their voices, which in spite of the most earnest efforts persisted in vibrating, the lads showed the effects of it all.

“I’ve got the finest bit of news for you, Jimmy!” exclaimed Tom. “I’ve met your uncle, Colonel Brookes Sylvester, and——” He stopped short, struck by a peculiar expression which sprang into the young pianist’s eyes. “Why—what’s the matter?”

“You met my uncle!” exclaimed Jimmy. “How—when?”

In a very few words the Rambler explained, and when he had finished both he and three others were astounded.

Jimmy, his face set and stern, was pacing up and down.

“I’m not going back to Texas—at least not just now!” he blurted out with savage earnestness.

“Not going back to Texas!” echoed Tom, in amazement. “I—I don’t understand.”

“I’ll make you! Oh, it’s all very well to try and smooth things over with soft palaver.” Jimmy the pianist was working himself into a passion. He spoke rapidly, snapping out his sentences in a jerky fashion. “The colonel notified the police, the Texas Rangers, and every one else in authority to arrest me. To arrest me—did you hear?” The last words came out like a shout.

“You—you don’t understand, Jimmy!” cried Tom.

Jimmy paid no attention.

“And then he said,” the remembrance increased the scowling lines on his forehead, “that he didn’t think I was of the rough and ready sort who could fight his own battles in the world!”

“But, Jimmy, suppose he did. That’s nothing!”

“Not to you, maybe, Tom! My uncle ordered me to return to Brownsville as though I were but a little kid. He said enough in five minutes to make me mad for five years!”

“It’s all a whopping big mistake!” protested Tom energetically. “Let me tell you——”

“Dick,” the pianist’s hand came down on the Rambler’s shoulder, “couldn’t understand why I refused to skip over to Texas with him; now he knows!”

Jimmy’s sensitive nature had been far more deeply touched than even his uncle had dreamed. He vehemently protested that he did not intend to be arrested by the Texas Rangers or any one else; that he would prove to Colonel Brookes Sylvester’s entire satisfaction his ability to get along in the world.

SILENTLY THE LADS OBSERVED THEM

“I’ll admit in the past I’ve been too much a hothouse kid, but,” he banged his fist down hard on a table by his side, “never again! No, Tom! I won’t cross over the International bridge with you! Besides, I believe the danger’s all over!”

“‘A hothouse kid,’” cried Dick. “Why—say, fellows, this chap is simply chuck full of grit. He didn’t even want to skip down into the cyclone cellar when shells were bursting all around the plaza. And——”

Heavy footsteps on the veranda, and resounding deep, bass voices, brought the explanations and arguments to an abrupt conclusion. They grew momentarily louder and on looking toward the door leading into the building the boys saw half a dozen burly Mexicans soon emerge from the soft, mellow depths of the interior into the bluish gray tones of the shade outside.

“Christopher Columbus!” murmured Dick.

They, themselves, were partly concealed from view behind several towering shrubs, and the newcomers failed to discover their presence. Silently the lads observed them. Their hearts beat faster. Crouching far back into the friendly shelter they watched and waited, while the swarthy-looking men strode here and there, their spurs clinking faintly as they walked.

They were all in a high good humor, rough and boisterous; and in a playful spirit overturned tables, upset plants, and flipped with their quirts any stray glasses or crockery-ware which came in their way, chuckling loudly when the patio echoed to the sounds of smashing glass.

After five minutes of silence and suspense on the boys’ part, the revolutionists strode back into the building and disappeared.

During all this time Tom Clifton had been doing a tremendous amount of thinking. Jimmy, he realized, after long pondering over his imaginary wrongs, had worked himself into such a state of mind that at the present time he was no longer amenable to reason. It seemed to have the effect, too, of dulling his senses to the perils which still surrounded them.

Anarchy, lawlessness, disregard for either the lives or property of people, characterized that period of the troublous times in Mexico. If the pianist could not be induced to return to Texas by arguments, he must be made to do so by other means.

“Of course,” murmured Tom, “he’ll be furiously angry for a short time. Then say it was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

The moment the Constitutionalists’ footsteps had ceased to sound he was whispering a plan to Bob. The Rambler chief nodded.

“Bully for you, Tom,” he replied in equally low tones. “We’ll do it!”

“Dick,” exclaimed Tom, suddenly, “do you think the other chaps are all right?”

“Yes!” responded Dick. “I’ll tell you now——”

“It’s a jolly fine thing to feel that way,” interjected Bob, earnestly. He lowered his voice. “But we don’t want to do any more talking just now!”

Wonderingly, Jimmy Raymond followed them as they cautiously started for the doorway. A little reconnoitering showed that the interior was deserted.

The broad, sunny plaza presented an entirely different scene from any which had before greeted their eyes. It wore all the appearance of an armed camp. Stacked rifles were gleaming in the light. Cavalry horses hitched singly and in groups occupied almost every available place. Booted and spurred revolutionists, with cartridge belts worn about their waists or slung across their shoulders, filled the square. It was an ever-moving throng, which sent up a ceaseless jabbering of talk, of shouts and yells, while the pigeons fluttered about the belfry of the ancient church and dared not to venture down in their familiar haunts below.

“Poor chaps!” exclaimed Dick, in low tones. His eyes were following a squad of Federal soldiers—prisoners, being escorted by armed guards across the square. “This is no place for us!” he added.

“Let’s steer straight for the American Consul,” suggested Jimmy. “I know the house—that’s one of the jobs he gets paid for—protecting United States subjects.”

“On to the stable!” said Cranny, softly.

With many a fear tugging at their hearts, the five stole down the veranda steps expecting to hear challenging cries hurled toward them at any moment. Good luck, however, attended their efforts, and each slipped inside the stable door with a muttered expression of satisfaction.

“Can you ride, Jimmy?” asked Tom.

“I certainly can!” answered the pianist.

“That’s bully! You jump up behind me. Cranny’ll go with Dick. For goodness’ sakes, fellows, don’t let’s get separated again—whew, some hot day this all around, eh?”

“Oh! if young ‘Starlight’ were only here!” growled the Tacoma lad.

Bob Somers held a brief consultation in a guarded tone with Dick and Cranny. Their eyes opened wider. “Sure thing, Bob! We understand,” whispered the Rambler.

“Now!” exclaimed Tom, in a stern, authoritative voice. “I’m going in the lead. Keep close behind me, and,” he shook his finger emphatically, “don’t question any direction I may take!”

“All right!” said Jimmy.

“I guess we won’t go many blocks!” murmured Cranny.

Tom poked his head outside the door, after a quick glance around, exclaiming: “Come on, fellows; lead ’em right to the rear. Ready? No noise now!”

It was a job that made their nerves tingle anew, for a number of men were sprawling in the shade not so very far away.

The crowd managed it, however. Tom was the first to spring into the saddle.

“Come along, Jimmy!” he exclaimed, with a long, deep breath. The young pianist without an instant’s hesitation jumped up behind him.

“Let ’er go, Tom,” he said. “Yes, don’t bother. I’ll hold on tight!”

At the head of the little procession Tom started off, turning into the first street at the rear of the hotel. Very few of the inhabitants of the town were to be seen, but their eyes could not roam far in any direction without taking in some of the victorious cavalrymen.

Riding at a cautious pace and carefully choosing the side streets, many of which were practically deserted, they were soon a considerable distance from the hotel.

Had there been less excitement and confusion it is almost certain that the victorious Constitutionalists would have quickly stopped them and demanded explanations. But the soldiers, flushed with victory, were too busy searching for the richest spoils to concern themselves very much with a handful of passing horsemen.

True it was that many a pair of fierce, questioning eyes was turned upon them, and the five felt their hearts beat fast when a galloping horse was pulled up with a jerk, and its rider addressed them in a rough, loud voice.

“Buenas dias, señor,” said Bob, politely. “Buenas dias, señor,” said the others with equal gravity. The man, for a moment, looked at them with a puzzled expression, then muttering to himself continued on his way.

Becoming bolder by degrees, they clattered along at a good rate, past the still smoking ruins of the Municipal Palace, by the side of a row of buildings on Commerco Street, of which only the jagged, smoke-begrimed walls remained. Débris filled the streets, telegraph poles lay across their path, wires were strewn about, and broken and scarred walls gave evidence of the terrific violence of the artillery fire.

“See here, Tom, I don’t believe you’re going in the right direction!” exclaimed Jimmy at last.

The Rambler made no reply, for the threatening actions of four armed Mexicans standing in front of the iron railings which surrounded the handsome library had attracted his attention. The building, a wreck from the effects of shot, shell and fire, was now but a gaunt reminder of its former stateliness.

Jimmy was thinking of this when Tom suddenly looked over his shoulder and addressing the riders close behind, exclaimed:

“Now, fellows! Look out!”

The four Mexicans were running fast toward them; just as each began to utter a voluble string of words, Tom gave his mustang a touch of the quirt and swung into another street, soon leaving the men far to the rear.

Then, casting aside the last vestige of caution, the Rambler gradually increased his pace until the hoofs of the horses were sending abroad a loud warning of their presence.

Jimmy was amazed.

“Stop! Hold on, Tom!” he yelled. “Now I know you’re going in the wrong direction. Hold on, I say!”

He turned his head. With a swift glance the lad saw Bob Somers and Dick Travers thundering along on either hand, their faces tense and stern.

“Bob, he’s taking us half the town’s length out of our way!” he shouted. “Stop him!”

“Get up, old boy, git up!” in Tom’s loud, gruff voice were the only words he heard in response. Whereupon a sudden suspicion entered the young pianist’s mind. Just ahead he caught a glimpse of the Rio Grande, and a pile of grim old buildings which lined its bank. But a short distance from them, the International bridge crossed the river.

When his next loud commands received no answer, Jimmy realized with a feeling of the deepest anger that his surmises had proven to be correct. He began to storm, to coax and even to threaten.

“It’s all right, Jimmy!” yelled Bob. “It was the only thing we could do!”

A hot breeze blew in the lads’ faces. Dogs barked, or dashed out to snap at the ponies’ heels; people stared in wonderment. On and on they thundered, at an ever-increasing pace, until the white adobe houses, the stuccoed walls, the fields and trees seemed to blend together into a continuous streak of varied color.

Jimmy, a captive in the hands of the boys he had liked so well, still stormed and growled. He was helpless, however, to interfere in the slightest degree with the course of events.

Now sweeping into the wide road which followed the bank of the Rio, the lads saw but a short distance ahead the International bridge. It was a wooden structure, heavy and crude in appearance, little suggesting its impressive title.

At any other time the horsemen would not have been allowed to cross in so unceremonious a fashion; but apparently all the officials whose duty it was to look after outgoing and incoming travelers had fled from the scene.

Only a few cavalrymen were about, and they were too far from the entrance to give the boys any concern.

As his horse clattered out on the planks, Tom Clifton could not restrain a loud cry of exultation. Jimmy now would soon realize the wisdom of their actions and the folly of his own.

The clouds of choking dust still kept pace with them; a thunderous din of dashing horses was carried off on the still, hot atmosphere.

It was heard by United States soldiers guarding the American side; it also reached the ears of two members of the Texas Rangers on duty for the time being at the same important post.

These men eagerly watched the approaching riders, who with the hot sun beating relentlessly down upon them tore at unslackened speed over the last stretch of the journey.

Presently the lads, enveloped in the center of a cloud of whirling dust, pulled up and sprang to the ground—safe on United States soil.

They were immediately surrounded by soldiers, Rangers, and inhabitants, and from every side a torrent of questions rang in their ears.

One of the Texas Rangers, with a sharp, quick glance toward Jimmy Raymond, took no part in the talking, nor did he seem to pay any heed to the replies which the fugitives were rattling off as fast as their weary condition would permit.

The officer stood scanning a headquarters order; then, nodding his head affirmatively, he stepped forward and laid a hand on the Texas boy’s shoulder.

“Son!” he exclaimed quietly. “You’re wanted!”

At last Jimmy Raymond, the young pianist, was in the hands of the Texas Rangers, the men whom he had so ardently wished to avoid.

CHAPTER XXIII
SAFE AGAIN IN TEXAS

It was too much for the lad to stand philosophically. The nerve-racking events through which he had recently passed; the unexpected dash for the American side; the bitter feelings of resentment and of anger stirred up by the course the others had taken made his passions for the instant beyond control.

He flung aside the officer’s hand, and with blazing eyes faced Tom Clifton.

“You did this!” he shouted. “And you had no right to——” Words alone could not satisfy him; he sprang toward the Rambler with clenched fists and shoulders squared.

Tom, aghast, stepped hastily back. The circle of surprised humanity which instantly formed, hedging the two closely about, saw a curious spectacle. The lads, both of extreme height, were in violent action. Jimmy’s move had been so quickly made, so unlooked for, that before any one could lay a restraining hand upon him the struggle had begun.

On Tom Clifton’s part it was merely an effort to keep away. Not a spark of anger shone in his eyes. Quick, agile, he easily evaded Jimmy’s rushes and presently the Texas Rangers dragged the excited young pianist aside.

A surging, noisy crowd now hemmed them all in. Their curiosity was insatiable, not only in regard to the event which had just taken place, but to the other and greater battle fought on the opposite side of the Rio.

“For goodness’ sake, let’s get away from here fast!” exclaimed Dick. He turned to the Rangers and speaking in a low tone, told them that they were bound for the company headquarters of the force.

“We’ve seen you over there,” said one, with a huge grin. “An’ Carl Alvin’s never done talkin’ about ye. I’m sorry, son.” He slapped Jimmy on the shoulder. “We’re only followin’ out our orders, you know.”

The pianist had already begun to regret his outburst. Like a flash he recalled the pleasant time he had spent with the others; how they had helped to cheer him, and make his self-imposed exile easier to bear. And there was Tom, regarding him in the most friendly manner. Yet only a moment before he had flung himself upon him with all his force.

In those seconds while the staring, gaping crowd waited, hoping for new developments, he began to get a truer insight into his own character. Dimly it dawned into his mind that his way was not the right way.

“Tom,” he said, simply, “here’s my hand!”

The Rambler accepted it. The crowd grinned and made some comments; the horsemen smiling cheerfully mounted again.

Followed by the two Rangers they soon reached headquarters, and after hitching their horses to the row of posts outside bounded up the steps, Cranny in the lead.

“We’ve got him, cap’n!” he shouted to the astonished official, the moment the big door had opened to let them pass. “Bring on the ball an’ chains—where’s the darkest dungeon?”

“Got whom?” queried Captain Braddock, hastily rising to his feet.

“Jimmy Raymond!”

The grizzled old commander of the Texas Rangers, a great friend of Colonel Sylvester, was highly delighted at the news.

“Jimmy Raymond actually found at last,” he cried. “That’s splendid. I must ’phone to the colonel at once. Who came across him and where? Jimmy, my lad, step this way. I want to hear all about it! I’m delighted!”

Tom Clifton’s impatience to learn all about Dick’s experiences in the Mexican town made him urge every one to speak rapidly and to the point. His commands were obeyed so successfully that within half an hour he and the others were seated comfortably on a bench, ready to listen, as were several interested Rangers, to the Rambler’s tale.

A great change had come over Jimmy Raymond’s face. The gracious, kindly treatment he had received at the hands of Captain Braddock, and the assurances received from him that he had been resting under a serious misapprehension, chased away entirely the curiously discontented expression, which had so often marred his looks.

“What an awful duffer I’ve been,” he reflected, “and would be still but for these chaps. It certainly doesn’t pay to nurse a grievance!” But Dick was speaking now. He began to listen with rapt attention.

“You see, it was this way!” said Dick. “When that awful explosion happened,” he made an expressive gesture, “our ponies got just as wild as any wild horses of the plains.” Then the lad rapidly sketched the course of events. He told about the mad dash the horses had made; how he had narrowly escaped being jerked from the saddle by Cranny Beaumont’s horse; the wild race that followed, during which “Starlight” succeeded in breaking away and was seen no more.

“An’ if I don’t ever get hold o’ him again, I’ll certainly be on my uppers with a vengeance!” murmured Cranny.

Fortunately the party had managed to keep together, but in their efforts to capture “Starlight” a great deal of time elapsed before they rode back into the plaza again.

Passing the hotel every one was surprised and delighted to see Jimmy Raymond standing on the veranda. While the party had gone in search of him the lad was making his way to the hotel in order to find his new-found friends.

“Oh! If you had only known!” murmured Tom, regretfully.

“However, when we saw Jimmy it all looked as though the finish of the story had been written,” declared Dick.

“And how did the ‘to be continued’ part come in?” questioned Cranny eagerly.

“Two whopping big policemen, seeing the bunch, sauntered up. I guess they imagined the Constitutionalists’ attack would be easily repulsed. Both of ’em began to fire a lot of questions at us. Then one suddenly discovered a pocket camera in Edmunds’ coat. That settled it—we might be spies for all they knew—several Americans had been caught doing just that sort of work for the Constitutionalists—we couldn’t bluff them!”

“Well, wasn’t that about the limit!” exclaimed Tom, indignantly.

“Ralph Edmunds, of course, talked right up to the men. It didn’t do a bit of good, however; the bunch was ordered to proceed at once to the police station.”

“I wouldn’t have gone!” cried Tom.

“Oh, yes you would, Tom! A chap doesn’t feel like arguing when a revolver is flashing under his nose. The chief of police wasn’t a bad sort of chap. He looked over Edmunds’ newspaper credentials, asked Professor Kent and Parry a whole lot of questions, flung two or three at us; then told the big cops they had made fools of themselves!”

“To cut it short the affair took up so much time that when he reached Jimmy’s hotel again the bird had flown.”

“Cranny’s a bird all right,” grinned Jimmy.

“What was the next thing on the program?” queried Bob.

This question had the effect of making an uncomfortable, embarrassed look come over the Texas lad’s face. He shifted uneasily on his seat for a moment, then blurted out:

“Those three men had come to Mexico on business. Parry was wild to get some moving pictures of a real bona-fide scrap, and Edmunds wanted to absorb impressions, so he said, for a special article which he intended to write with Cranny’s help later on. And,” he grinned, “their chief anxiety was for me. Helpless little thing, eh?”

“You have as much grit as a provisional president o’ Mexico!” chirped Cranny.

“Dick assured ’em that you were certainly able to look out for yourself, Cranny; then I put in a word, and after a long confab all three were finally persuaded to attend to the work which had brought them to Mexico. They thought,” a rather sheepish grin this time overspread his face, “that Dick and I would hike right across the International bridge.”

Dick laughed merrily.

“I certainly met a big surprise, eh, Jimmy?” he said.

“The more said about that the worse!” declared the pianist, soberly. “Now, boys, you’ve got the whole story. Have we seen the other bunch since they left us? No, but you can just bet they are all right.”

“You’re correct there, old chap, I’m sure!” assented Bob.

A general discussion, in which the highly interested Rangers joined, was interrupted by Captain Braddock.

“Come here, Jimmy, I have your uncle on the ’phone at last,” he cried. “And by the way, Tom, I wish to speak to you a minute.”

While the Texas lad held a long distance conversation with Colonel Brookes Sylvester at the “Eagle Pass” Ranch, Tom conferred with the Ranger chief.

A few minutes later he rejoined the group, regarding them with quite a stern and dignified air.

“The captain wants me to skip right off so that I can pilot Sergeant Howell and a detail of Rangers over to the exact place where I came across that fallen steer!” he explained. “Maybe there’s some more fun ahead of us, eh, Cranny! We’ll chip in and hire a horse for you, old chap!”

“Thanks, Tom,” said Cranny. “But even if I had ‘Starlight’ right here,” he smiled, the old joyous smile the crowd knew so well, “I wouldn’t go along!”

Tom looked at him in absolute amazement.

“Wouldn’t go along!” he gasped. “Say—where’s the joke, Cranny?”

“As the politician says, ‘I haven’t anythin’ to say at this time!’”

“But you surely don’t—can’t mean it!”

“I surely do, Tom, old boy!”

This time there could be no longer any room for doubt. Cranny’s tone, the aggressive tilt of his jaw, the shrug of his shoulders, symptoms which every one of the crowd knew denoted an iron determination to stick to his resolution, were all in evidence.

Tom Clifton’s surprise was almost ludicrous in its intensity. This was the first time in all the Ramblers’ experiences with Cranny Beaumont that he hadn’t eagerly grasped at an opportunity of being a participant in anything which promised adventure.

The Rambler looked at him narrowly. A dreadful suspicion flitted into his mind. Had Cranny’s nerve been shaken by the stirring events in Mexico? Could it be possible? Tom didn’t want to think so. Or perhaps the scorching heat and hard ride had affected him. Yet, as he sat there among the crowd, Cranny looked to be about as healthy a specimen of a boy as could be found in the whole of the United States. No! it evidently wasn’t that! Oh, yes; how stupid of him not to have thought of it before! The Tacoma lad’s financial situation, the dread of returning to his home and being forced to confess to his father that he hadn’t made good, must be the cause! Well, it certainly did seem pretty tough! And no doubt the loss of “Starlight” had struck the finishing blow to Cranny’s dream of surprising the folks at home!

“Poor chap, I’m awful sorry we didn’t try to help him a bit more,” soliloquized Tom. “The crowd must try to make up for it, and——” Why, what was the matter? Hadn’t he struck it right this time, either? There was Cranny slapping one of the Texas Rangers on the shoulder in the exuberance of his mirth over some remark which had just been made.

“Well, I’ve got to give it up!” he pronounced to himself, helplessly. “It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of!”

“What’s the matter, old chap?” asked Dick, suddenly. “See anything particularly beautiful in that knot-hole in the floor you’ve been gazing at for the last few moments?”

Tom recovered himself with a start.

“I—I was thinking about something,” he stammered.

“Take my advice, Tom, and don’t think too hard on any one subject!” exclaimed Jimmy, who was just returning to the group. “Boys, my uncle wants me to meet him at detachment headquarters of the Rangers this afternoon—are you going to lead me to it?”

“Well, rather,” responded Bob.

“That’s bully!”

“Say, fellows,” broke in Cranny, “Edmunds told me an awful odd thing—I wonder if you’ve ever noticed it?”

“We’re listening,” chortled Dick.

“He says I never pronounce the final g’s and d’s in words ending that way.”

“I remarked it—that is, at times,” answered Dick cautiously.

“Say—has anybody else? Confess now!”

“If you insist upon it, we will,” laughed Bob. “’Tis true.”

“An’ I try so hard to be perfect,” gurgled Cranny. “Fellows, I’m goin’ to reform. Honest I am. Every time I don’t sound those final letters just give me a punch!”

“No, that wouldn’t do at all!” protested Dick. “No tragedy in our crowd if you please. Besides, you enjoy life too much!”

“Then s’pose instead that whenever I catch myself makin’ a slip I give one of you chaps a punch as a reminder of——”

“Oh, dear me, no!” broke in Bob. “Tom, you know, doesn’t carry a whole dispensary with him.”

“All right, fellows.” The Tacoma lad’s mirth increased. “I’ll do all the reforming by my own strength of will! And——”

“Listen—listen! Did you hear it—the final g’s and d’s at last!” cried Dick. “Hooray! Boys, what a day this has been!”

About two hours later Cranny, whose singular resolve to remain in town held firm in spite of Tom’s pleadings, stood on the steps of the Ranger headquarters and watched the boys preparing for departure. His face just then wore a rather clouded expression.

“When will you chaps be back?” he asked.

“Before very many days,” answered Tom. He sighed. “Too bad, fellows, our stay in Texas is almost over. Now, Cranny Beaumont, what are you going to do while we’re away?”

“For one thing, try to square myself with that horse-dealer. And I’m nearly busted as it is.”

“Too bad! What else, Cranny?”

“I’ll tell you later on, Tom. Honest, I’m not going to say another word about it—but—oh, hang it all, how I’d like to go along with you!”

“Just do it!” pleaded Tom.

For a moment the Tacoma lad’s resolution seemed to waver, then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he laughed, exclaiming:

“No, Tom. Nothing doing!”

“Cranny’s right on the job,” chuckled Dick. “The final g’s are in their place—bravo, old chap!”

“If he won’t let the bunch help him out, I’ll be downright mad,” murmured Tom.

This time Jimmy Raymond clambered up behind Bob Somers.

“Remember, boys!” he exclaimed jocularly. “No more racing to-day!”

Good-byes were shouted. The mustangs, well fed and freshly groomed, trotted briskly off at the word of command. Frequently the riders turned to look back, and, as long as the building remained in view, they could see Cranny Beaumont vigorously waving his hand.

During the long route over the prairie, Bob Somers and Jimmy Raymond became a great deal better acquainted with one another. Bob, the recipient of many confidences, was enabled to give his companion words of helpful advice.

The young pianist, after listening to his enthusiastic comments regarding the law as a profession, began to see the matter in another light.

“It’s a mistake to consider it dry,” declared Bob. “The law is full of the most interesting and complex problems. Vital problems, too, for in many cases they affect the well-being of the human race.”

“My experiences have done me a pile of good, Bob,” confessed Jimmy. “Honestly, I never stopped to consider the hardships and dangers of cowboy life. Looking back on it now, I can’t really understand what ever possessed me to chuck away such good advice as my uncle gave. I reckon some chaps can acquire wisdom only by having plenty of hard knocks come their way.”

“What are your plans now, Jimmy?” asked Bob.

“I’m going right back to Brownsville and get hard to work at my studies again. Yes, sir, you’ve set me straight on a whole lot of things, Bob. If every chap could have put to him as clearly as you have put to me the reason why he should make every effort to learn, I reckon there wouldn’t be so many boys loafing about the streets.”

“Thanks,” laughed Bob. “One thing is certain; it makes the road through life much easier, and the possibilities of eventually arriving at some goal worth while far greater.”

CHAPTER XXIV
JIMMY GETS BACK

“Really, fellows, I’m beginning to feel as though I belonged to the Ranger Force of Texas myself,” exclaimed Don Stratton.

Dave Brandon, lolling in the grass close by, nodded. “I have that policeman feeling, too,” he drawled. “It’s becoming a settled habit with me to be on the constant lookout for cattle rustlers and other kinds of outlaws.”

“Same here,” declared Sam Randall, who was also reclining on the ground in a position of the greatest ease. “Order on the prairie must be kept at any cost. Say—it seems lonely without the Ranger bunch around, eh?”

“Yes,” said Dave, “we haven’t been on very many trips alone.”

Some hours earlier, the three lads had left the Ranger encampment for a ride across the prairie. The day was hot and in the field of deep blue sky a few long strips of hazy clouds seemed to be resting almost motionless.

Discovering a thick growth of timber which bordered a narrow, twisting stream, the boys had headed for it and dismounting in the shadowy depths tethered their mustangs. Then, lured on by the musical tinkle of running water, they had penetrated still deeper into the dense brake, finally reaching the shelving shore of the creek.

It was a delightfully cool and pleasant retreat after the heat and glare of the open prairie, and when their thirst was quenched with the clear, cool water, the lads found a little open space that, Dave declared, seemed to fairly invite them to seek repose.

Between the leafy masses overhead came streaks of brilliant sunshine which, by contrast, made the greenish depths about them all the more mysterious and inviting. From their position they could see the water bubbling and rippling past the moss-covered rocks that jutted above the surface, its never ceasing melody occasionally broken by the chattering of birds. Over the air, like incense, floated the fragrant perfumes of the thicket and the faint odor of the fresh cool water.

“How delightful,” mused Dave, in dreamy tones.

“I wonder if it’s safe to leave our mustangs over yonder,” remarked Sam, reflectively.

“I wonder if Bob and Tom will have any trouble in finding that young pianist again,” said Don.

“And I wonder if the mosquitoes will allow me to take a short siesta,” murmured Dave. “This is certainly a capital place to study insects at first hand, eh, fellows? Really, since seeing so many of varied kinds, I’m becoming interested in the creatures.”

“And I know that a good many of varied kinds have paid such keen attention to my face and hands that they must have been greatly interested in me,” chuckled Sam. “Gracious—I can’t keep my eyes from blinking!”

“Lazy thing,” drawled Don, in muffled tones.

Under the influence of the heat, the soft lulling notes of the running water, and fatigue, due to several hours in the saddle, the three lads were soon in a pleasantly somnolent state which made the things about them assume a curiously vague and unreal appearance. Probably but for the mosquitoes and the occasional visitation of other six-legged creatures, all would have quickly dropped off into a deep slumber, though, as it was, none lost consciousness for more than a few minutes at a time.

It was the usually active and alert Sam Randall who finally became aware of the fact that a series of sounds in the underbrush might mean something worth investigating.

“Hello! What’s that?” he murmured.

Sitting up the lad listened attentively, while his companions, their faces partly covered with handkerchiefs, lay drowsily regarding him.

“It’s mighty queer,” mused the Rambler. “Some wild inhabitants of the woods are evidently bound in this direction—the sounds are growing louder,—Dave—I say, Dave!” he reached over and touched the stout lad’s shoulder. “Wake up.”

“Lemme be,” protested the historian.

“If I do, something else may not,” returned Sam, rather grimly. “Visitors are on the way—don’t you hear them coming?”

Dave did, and he rose to a sitting posture so abruptly that Don at once followed his example, at the same time demanding in a startled tone: “For goodness’ sakes, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing just now, but there may be soon,” responded Sam cheerfully. “Dave, I guess Tom would be horrified at the thought of our being guilty of such an amateurish proceeding—all of us almost going to sleep at the switch.”

“Say, that sounds like a big bunch of something!” broke in Don, peering eagerly in the direction from whence the sounds of snapping twigs and loud rustling were coming. “What—what can it be—oh—Great Scott—look there!”

Several animals, resembling hogs, had suddenly emerged into view from behind a tangled mass of vegetation, and behind these were evidently a great number of others.

“Peccaries!” remarked Dave, briefly. “Fellows, I think we’d better be on the move.”

“Peccaries!” echoed Don, with a little tremor of alarm. He gazed at the animals with fascinated attention. Never before in his life had he seen any wild animal larger or more dangerous than a jack-rabbit, and, somehow, he felt thrilled at the sight of these savage denizens of the woods. He rather wondered, too, at the calmness of both Dave and Sam.

The peccary, with its big head, long snout and small ears, is not a handsome animal, and the actions of these particular specimens made them look still less attractive to the New Orleans lad.

“By George, fellows!” he blurted out suddenly, “they’re coming this way!”

As he spoke the leader of the advancing horde, a large, vicious-looking beast, uttered a peculiar, challenging grunt and increased his pace, whereupon the three began a hasty retreat.

“We’ll give ’em all the room they want!” panted Don.

The peccaries were now pouring into view in great numbers, pushing through and scrambling over obstructions with an apparent ease that the lad for the moment heartily envied.

“Ugh! what ugly looking customers!” he exclaimed, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. “And they actually have the nerve to follow us. Can you beat it?”

“I’m doing my best!” grinned Sam.

By this time the peccaries, probably emboldened by the precipitous flight of the boys, were pursuing them, and with an earnestness that caused Don to experience feelings of great uneasiness.

In a few minutes the three found themselves separated, and the New Orleans boy, to his great disgust and alarm, made the unpleasant discovery that the leader and several others had singled him out for special attention. Paying not the slightest heed to the branches and twigs which continually lashed his face and shoulders with stinging force he made progress at a rate of speed which a short time before he would have considered impossible. And every glance that the lad gave toward the solid, stocky wild Mexican hogs, and their eyes, which seemed to express a most disturbing degree of savageness, acted as an incentive for him to make still greater efforts.

“Gee whiz!” he breathed. “Maybe I won’t be jolly glad to get out of this!” He shuddered at the thought of coming in closer contact with the animals, though the revolver at his Belt served to bolster up his courage.

Meanwhile both Dave and Sam were having a similar experience. The Ramblers, however, more accustomed to situations in which courage and resourcefulness played a most important part, did not feel any of the thrills of alarm which assailed their companion. To them there was an element of grim humor in this retreat before the advancing horde of wild hogs.

“We might lead ’em right over to the Ranger encampment,” chuckled Sam, “and—— Great Scott!”

A loud shout coming from Don Stratton abruptly brought his sentence to a close. The lad had been succeeding admirably in keeping his lead, when a projecting root unfortunately caught his foot and sent him sprawling into the midst of a mass of bushes. It began to look as though the foremost of the peccaries would be upon the lad before he could extricate himself from his unpleasant position.

“Keep cool, old chap!” yelled Dave. “We’ll be over there in another moment!”

Both lads began struggling toward him with an energy and determination that sent the perspiration streaming over their faces.

“I guess this thing has gone far enough!” panted Dave. “We’ll give them a jolly good scare!”

“It doesn’t pay to be too good-natured to peccaries,” said Sam.

Don Stratton passed through some decidedly unpleasant moments before he was once more on his feet, and by this time Dave and Sam were not far away, and neither were the wild hogs.

“Just leave them to us, Don!” cried Dave. “We’ve declared war—no—don’t shoot—keep on moving!” Before he ceased speaking the stout lad had drawn out his revolver. Don saw the weapon, its muzzle pointed upward, flashing in the gray half-light of the woods. Then came a spurt of vivid flame and a loud startling report which echoed weirdly, while a thin wisp of bluish smoke floated lazily off among the bushes.

“Hooray! hooray!” yelled Don.

The advance was instantly halted. Frightened squeals and grunts came from the animals, some of which in their wild efforts to escape scrambled over one another’s backs.

“Let ’em hear a few more!” shouted Don. Disregarding Dave’s shake of the head he pulled out his own revolver and, with a newly-awakened enthusiasm for sport, began blazing away. Crack! crack! In rapid succession the shots rang out until every chamber was emptied and a cloud of smoke hovered in the air.

Sam, with a broad smile, for good measure fired a single shot, though it was not at all necessary, for the peccaries in full flight were tearing and crashing through the underbrush, the noise of their passage rapidly becoming fainter.

The boys watched until the last form was lost to view and then burst out into a roar of laughter.

“Ha, ha!” gurgled Sam. “That fusillade sounded like a pretty good imitation of a Mexican Revolution, didn’t it?”

“Well, rather!” cried Don. “Awful forward things, aren’t they? Gee! but for that confounded root I’d have been all right.” His face wore a vastly relieved expression.

“We have had another proof that naturalists speak the truth,” remarked Dave. “They tell us that peccaries are often very bold, and attack people without provocation—they do!”

“Yes,” grinned Don, “for we never said a single word to them.”

The three began forcing their way through the thicket, soon reaching their mustangs. Leading the animals toward the edge of the woods they were presently about to mount when Sam’s loud exclamation: “Hello—look, fellows!” made his companions pause.

A distant horseman, riding at a speed which seemed to indicate that he was in the greatest hurry, was riding over the plain.

The rider evidently observed the boys at about the same time for he immediately changed his course, heading toward them.

“He doesn’t look like a bandit,” remarked Dave, with a smile.

“Nor a cowboy either,” said Sam.

“Nor a Texas Ranger,” supplemented Don. “Wonder why he’s in such an all-fired rush—I don’t see any peccaries chasing him!”

Quite interested the three stared hard toward the approaching horseman, uttering a hearty salutation when a short time later he reined up in their midst.

He was a tall, stern-looking man, though the lines on his face were relaxed by a curious smile as his eyes traveled over the group.

“’Pon my word!” he exclaimed, in bluff, hearty tones—“it must be—yes, I’m sure of it—some of the Ramblers young Clifton told me about.”

“Good-afternoon, Colonel Sylvester,” said Dave.

A twinkle came into the colonel’s eyes; then with a sudden change of tone he said: “Yes, that’s my name. Boys, you must have heard some pistol shots a short time ago. Have you any idea where——”

“Yes, sir, we have,” spoke up Don with a chuckle.

“Peccaries!” explained Dave.

A broad smile illuminated the ranchman’s face as he listened to a description of their experience.

“I was on my way to the Rangers’ quarters when a series of very faint reports reached my ears,” he explained. “I judged they came from this direction and hurried over, thinking that perhaps the Rangers were having a scrimmage with a band of outlaws. Boys! I have a bit of news for you”—the colonel’s face was beaming—“your friends are returning to the encampment this afternoon bringing my nephew, Jimmy Raymond, with them.”

“Fine, splendid!” cried Dave. “Ever since the boys told me about Jimmy I’ve wanted to meet him.”

“And I’ll be jolly glad to see the pianist, too!” exclaimed Sam. “Yes, sir—we’re going right over to the Rangers’ quarters now.”

“And I’ll bet Tom will have a whole lot to tell us,” grinned Don.

The lads sprang into the saddle, and followed the ranchman, who was already cantering off.

The eight miles which lay between them and the Rangers’ hut was covered at a good rate of speed.

Policemen Cole and Cooper were quite surprised to see Colonel Sylvester swinging down upon their quarters and so expressed themselves.

“Too bad the Sarge isn’t here,” said Fred Cole. “What’s the latest news, Colonel?”

“That Jimmy Raymond will be here shortly,” answered the ranchman.

Both of the Rangers were greatly pleased at this piece of news.

“It’s a mighty good thing,” declared Cole. “That country across the river is surely no place for him.”

“No, indeed,” said the colonel. “And I owe Tom Clifton and the other lad a big debt of gratitude for getting him safely away.”

“This is certainly some crowd of boys, all right,” laughed Cooper, taking charge of the visitor’s horse.

As a rule Colonel Sylvester was not a man to show his feelings, but on this occasion he made little effort to conceal his growing impatience. Restlessly he paced to and fro while the men and boys busied themselves in the preparation of the evening meal.

When the after-glow still lingered, touching up the landscape with mellow notes of color, they all took their places around a crackling bed of red-hot coals and began to partake of a meal, which, to appetites sharpened by outdoor life, tasted wonderfully good.

The colonel was as much pleased with the boys as they were with him, and he asked them many questions regarding their various trips.

“It’s a capital idea!” he declared. “Traveling broadens the mind, and, besides this, through life you will always have pleasant memories to look back upon.”

The light slowly faded from the sky; cooler shades began stealing over the prairie, and dusk was fast approaching when over the air came a sound which brought the ranchmen and the others instantly to their feet—the faint clatter of horses’ hoofs.

“At last!” murmured Colonel Sylvester.

“Yes, I reckon they’re coming all right,” declared Roy Cooper.

Walking quickly to a point beyond the thick grove of cottonwoods the entire party peered earnestly over the great stretch of plain, now growing dim and mysterious in the rapidly waning light.

“Hooray! There they come!” cried Don.

Three horsemen, mere patches of dark against the somber background, were seen approaching. On they came uttering lusty shouts, which, leaving no room for doubt as to their identity, made the colonel give vent to a few words expressive of the greatest satisfaction.

When the tired and dusty travelers at last clattered up, Jimmy Raymond was the first to dismount. With a whoop of joy he sprang toward his uncle and man and boy clasped hands.

“My! but I am glad to see you, Jimmy!” exclaimed the ranchman.

“Not any gladder than I am to see you!” cried the lad.

Yes, the meeting between uncle and nephew was a most cordial one. If Jimmy Raymond had learned some valuable lessons by hard experience the ranchman had too. The fact was brought forcibly to his mind that sternness and unyielding insistence on obedience by elders over those in their charge sometimes approach pretty close to the line of tyranny. He was beginning to realize that Jimmy, like most boys, could be led, but not driven.

He enthusiastically praised the Ramblers and told them he could never thank them enough for the great work they had performed. Tom’s face continually glowed with pride and pleasure.

Of course Dave and the others were astonished to learn about Cranny Beaumont’s remarkable exhibition of self-denial and speculated upon it with the greatest interest.

After a refreshing wash in the cool water of the creek the lads gathered about the fire to enjoy a well-earned meal and tell their stories. Naturally Jimmy Raymond’s came first, and when Colonel Sylvester could think of no more questions to ask him, Tom launched forth. And his graphic description of the events through which they had recently passed brought many and varied comments from his intensely interested auditors.

The colonel was highly delighted at the change which had come over his nephew, and to hear of his resolution to return to Brownsville and work hard at his studies.

“One good thing, anyway,” he remarked as they sat around the cheerful blaze, now a little oasis of light amid the deep, somber shadows of the night, “in taking you to be a boy, Jimmy, I discovered you to be a man.”

Jimmy laughed heartily.

“Thanks, uncle,” he said. “And in thinking myself a man I discovered myself to be a boy.”

“Say, if them two sayin’s ain’t pretty good, them there rustlers didn’t turn another trick the other day,” remarked Roy Cooper.

Tom Clifton’s eyes instantly sought the colonel’s. His interrogative glance brought a quick response.

“Yes, what you saw, Tom, was the work of those bandits. Quite a big haul they made, too. My cattle? No! Some belonging to a live-stock company.”

“And look here, Tom,” broke in Ranger Cole, “when are you going to join Sergeant Howell’s detail over by the river?”

“We’ll start off the very first thing to-morrow morning,” cried Tom. “Eh, fellows?”

And even Dave Brandon joined in the chorus of hearty assents that followed.

CHAPTER XXV
CAPTURING THE “RUSTLERS”

For three days the detail of Texas Rangers under command of Sergeant Howell had been encamped near the shores of the Rio Grande. They were surrounded by a wilderness of precipitous bluffs and deep ravines, in the shadowed depths of which the paths worn by wild animals, notably the peccaries, or Mexican wild hogs, could be frequently traced.

It was a paradise for myriads of mosquitoes and other insects and among them, lurking about in search of prey, was that deadly spider,—the tarantula, always a menace to both man or beast.

And those three days had been scorching hot ones, when for hours at a time not the faintest breath of air stirred the leaves or grasses. Yes, the boys were fully satisfied now that the life of the Texas Ranger was not an enviable one.

Tom had piloted the party to the place where he had come across the prostrate steer. The animal had evidently recovered and wandered off to other parts.

The Rangers, skilled in following the faintest trails, able to read signs in nature which to an ordinary observer would have meant nothing at all, had by tireless efforts found a passageway leading between jagged hills to the Rio. Here were the unmistakable tracks of cattle, hoof-prints clear-cut and comparatively fresh.

The deep chasms, overhung with dark beetling cliffs, led into a cup-shaped valley, where tall grasses and rank vegetation flourished in the greatest profusion. On the shores of the river, extremely shallow at this point, were still other evidences to show that the Texas Rangers had actually discovered at last the retreat of the outlaws.

“And we have Tom Clifton to thank for that!” exclaimed Carl Alvin. “Without his help we might have searched around this rugged country for weeks without finding a single trace.”

“You’re certainly right there,” assented Jack Stovall. “Now all we have to do is to play a waitin’ game. Rustlers, an’ ’specially Mexican rustlers, ain’t never satisfied. They’ll sure come ag’in.”

And the “waiting game” was being played. Stationed at various points from where the cup-shaped valley could be observed, the men kept vigil, often viciously attacked by hordes of ravenous mosquitoes. Hot, tiresome and monotonous work it was, for the most part unrelieved by comfort of any sort. But the hardy, courageous policemen of the plains seldom uttered a word of complaint.

And with the exception of Don Stratton, neither did the boys. Don emphatically declared that he had had all the roughing experiences he wanted or ever would want, and after this little affair was concluded that sort of life for him would be over forever.

“Don’t you believe it!” grinned Tom. “I’ll bet you’ll be out with us again some time.”

For the entire three days the boys, Carl Alvin, Jack Stovall and Oscar Chaney had had a little camp together in a pass so small that it was with difficulty space could be found to quarter their mustangs. The place possessed many advantages, however; it was wild and secluded, and from a point part way up on the bluff they could see, between a deeply gashed opening in the barren, rocky walls, a bit of the cup-shaped valley, and beyond the “Rio Bravo.”

On the morning of the fourth day Tom Clifton, rolled up in his blanket, was sleeping peacefully, when a light nudge on the shoulder suddenly awakened him. Starting up with an exclamation, he saw Carl Alvin’s hand raised in a warning gesture.

“Not a sound, Tom,” exclaimed the Ranger, in a scarcely audible voice. “Come with me—bring your field-glass along.”

As effectually as though cold water had been dashed upon him, his drowsy feelings vanished. Rising to his feet and throwing the blanket aside, with field-glass in hand he followed the Ranger.

With all the precautions that Alvin took, Tom worked his way up the slope, presently reaching the Ranger’s side. Eagerly his eyes were turned toward the cup-shaped valley, to see something which brought a faint exclamation from his lips.

Somber and dark against the water of the Rio Grande were the figures of several horsemen. In a few minutes more they would reach the shore.

“Rustlers!”

The words, low and tense, were whispered in the Ranger’s ears. Carl Alvin, his face stern and thoughtful, nodded: “It looks that way, Tom. And we have them bottled up. The only thing to do is to nab them as suspects and work up the evidence afterward. If they’re the guilty parties, count on the Rangers to find a way to prove it!”

The Rambler, crouching behind the shelter of a shelving piece of rock, raised the field-glass, and the moment his eyes took in the riders under this changed condition he gave vent to a whistle of great astonishment.

The man leading the advance was the benevolent-looking Mexican who had ridden with him a few days before across the plains.

And so his hastily formed suspicions had been right! And Blimby, the cowboy, had also guessed the truth!

So stunning was the surprise that Tom scarcely heard Alvin’s repeated and impatient demands for an explanation. Through the binocular he could plainly see the patriarchal-looking man, all unsuspicious of the fact that human eyes were fixed keenly upon him, urge his dripping horse up to the beach.

So, after all, he was one of the cattle rustlers. It gave him a great thrill to reflect that he had ridden for miles and miles in the company of an outlaw. It came as a distinct shock, too.

He revealed the nature of his discovery to Carl Alvin. The Ranger’s eyes brightened; he, too, whistled softly.

“Too bad! too bad!” he murmured. “I liked the old chap so well! I can scarcely believe it. This is a bad day’s work for him. In another moment we must be off!”

Tom made no reply; he was too busily studying the other members of the party. They were much younger men, strongly built, and had the same refined appearance which characterized the leader.

“Which makes it all the worse!” thought the lad.

Alvin was now busily bucking on his cartridge belt. He turned to the Rambler.

“You’d better keep out of this, Tom!” he exclaimed in earnest tones. “Rustlers are a desperate lot and there may be a lot of gun play!”

“I’m going along,” answered Tom, briefly.

A half grin fluttered across the Ranger’s face, but it lasted only for an instant.

“Now is the time when the Ranger force of Texas is going to perform another signal service for the state,” he said. “How little those fellows suspect they are bottled up!” He began to descend the slope.

The sleepers were awakened. There was no excitement, no alarm, either on the part of boys or men. The expected had simply happened. That was all!

Less than five minutes later a party of horsemen, Carl Alvin in the lead, were picking their way through the winding ravines, with dark gloomy crags hanging menacingly above their heads.

All arrangements having been made beforehand they halted at a certain point and there they were almost immediately joined by the other policemen. Now Sergeant Howell took command.

Those were thrilling moments for the boys. It was a dangerous game they were mixed up in. What would be the outcome? Silently, with sober faces, they followed the sergeant’s stern injunction to keep well to the rear.

There was only one outlet to the less rugged country beyond and through this the riders must pass. At the most favorable point for decisive action the Texas Rangers halted.

“Not a word, men,” commanded Sergeant Howell, in a stern, cautious tone. “Remember, don’t let one escape.”

The silent, motionless horsemen waited, their ears strained to catch the faintest sounds which would tell them of the others’ approach.

The boys saw Alvin raise his hand.

Yes, they could now hear the steady beating of the horses’ hoofs.

Louder they came—still louder!

Around a bend swung the benevolent-looking Mexican. Close behind him clattered the others. But a few paces more, and the policemen’s horses sprang forward. Then the astounded Mexicans found themselves facing a group of the famous Texas Rangers, every member of which had them covered with a Winchester rifle.

CHAPTER XXVI
GOOD-BYE TO THE RANGERS

Stopping with a suddenness that sent the horses back on their haunches, the men made no attempt to draw their weapons. After the first instant of stunning surprise, they seemed to face the determined-looking officers with singular calmness.

Carl Alvin’s loud order to halt, uttered in Spanish, was received in silence, but the moment following, to the astonishment of all, the benevolent-looking Mexican leader broke out in a hearty peal of laughter, which was promptly taken up by the others, until the narrow pass was filled with the echoes of their mirth.

What could it mean? Was it a trick to disarm suspicion, to throw the policemen off their guard? If so, it had failed. Not a glistening barrel was lowered.

Carl Alvin, the only Ranger who had a fluent command of the Spanish language, began to speak. Rapidly he demanded explanations. They were promptly given by the elderly man, who spoke in the most calm and even tones, while Carl Alvin listened with a puzzled air which gradually changed into another suggesting a mingled state of amusement and elation.

“Well, Alvin,” demanded Sergeant Howell, “what’s the rigmarole all about?”

“Sergeant,” the Ranger laughed heartily, “I don’t think we have the right bunch after all. Listen. Here’s his story and it sounds to me like a straight one.”

“Thunderation! but I shall be glad if he is all right,” almost shouted Tom. He nodded to the Mexican, who, apparently noticing the lad for the first time, returned his salute with an air of much astonishment.

In a few words Ranger Alvin related the following tale which was listened to by all with the most rapt attention.

Formerly the Mexican and his sons, the men who were now accompanying him, had been prosperous cattlemen. Under the lawless conditions prevailing in their country a certain band of outlaws had managed to make away with so many of their cattle that eventually the ranchmen were practically ruined.

They knew the men responsible for the depredations and swore they would keep on their trail until justice was meted out to them. Learning by accident that the band had changed their scene of operations to the United States side of the Rio, the father crossed the river in an effort to get on their track. Meanwhile the sons’ investigations in Mexico had led them to a spot on the shores of the stream where the cattle had entered their own country. Then the men at last discovered the pass in the hills which led to the cup-shaped valley. The rest was easy. They had played the same game on the outlaws that the policemen had on them, with the result that the band was driven back across the river into Mexico and handed over to the proper authorities.

Every member of the band was now confined in certain quarters which would effectually prevent him from giving either the ranchmen or the Texas Rangers any further trouble for many years to come.

The Mexican said that he and his sons were on their way to the detachment quarters of the Rangers to report this cheering information to the authorities.

“Well, well, isn’t the Rambler Club always running into the most remarkable things!” cried Tom; “eh, fellows?”

“No truer words ever spoken, Tom,” yawned Dave, “but really I must go back now to see if I can’t get another as uncommonly comfortable nap as the one I was having when this little excitement began!”

Once more in the little frontier town in Texas the crowd met Cranny Beaumont—a new Cranny—one they had never known before. They were amazed and delighted. Yes, actually the Tacoma lad was hard at work; it didn’t really seem possible.

Cranny didn’t intend to be a failure. Little things in life sometimes turn the scale. The Tacoma lad’s meeting with Ralph Edmunds had been the means of calling his attention to a line of work which thoroughly appealed to him—that of corresponding for the newspapers. To Cranny, long groping in the dark, it came as a great and welcome surprise. He was not now the irresponsible Cranny, with no particular plans for the future, but an earnest Cranny, working with a view and enthusiasm that augured well for his future.

All the boys including Jimmy Raymond had gathered together in his room.

“Now you know, fellows, the reason why I didn’t go on that trip,” he said. “Let me show you something!” He flaunted a check in their faces. “That’s for some Mexican stuff I sold to the syndicate. Mr. Edmunds put in a good word for me, and say,” it was now the bubbling, joyous Cranny again who spoke, “I’ve got a whole lot of articles to write on the very same subject. What do you think of that?”

There was no question of what they thought about it and Cranny smiled with pleasure.

“Yes, Professor Kent, Parry and Edmunds came through that little scrimmage all right,” he said, in answer to a question from Bob. “Parry told me he got some dandy motion-pictures, and say—isn’t this the greatest piece of luck?”

“What?” asked Sam.

“Why, young ‘Starlight’ was found, and is back in the stable.”

“Fine, fine,” exclaimed Tom enthusiastically. “Say, fellows, hasn’t this been a great trip?”

“Do we ever have any other kind?” asked Bob, with a smile.

The Books in this Series are:

THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT
THE RAMBLER CLUB’S WINTER CAMP
THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS
THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH
THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS
THE RAMBLER CLUB’S GOLD MINE
THE RAMBLER CLUB’S AEROPLANE
THE RAMBLER CLUB’S HOUSEBOAT
THE RAMBLER CLUB’S MOTOR CAR
THE RAMBLER CLUB’S BALL NINE
THE RAMBLER CLUB WITH THE NORTHWEST MOUNTED
THE RAMBLER CLUB’S FOOTBALL TEAM
THE RAMBLER CLUB’S MOTOR YACHT
THE RAMBLER CLUB ON THE TEXAS BORDER

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAMBLER CLUB ON THE TEXAS BORDER ***

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Table of Contents

- The Rambler Club on the Texas Border
- Introduction
- Contents
- Illustrations
- CHAPTER I CRANNY
- CHAPTER II MACHINE GUNS
- CHAPTER III THE RANGERS
- CHAPTER IV THE INVADERS
- CHAPTER V NEW FRIENDS
- CHAPTER VI IN THE SADDLE
- CHAPTER VII SCOUTING
- CHAPTER VIII IN MEXICO
- CHAPTER IX A LONE HORSEMAN
- CHAPTER X MOVING PICTURES
- CHAPTER XI SOLDIERS
- CHAPTER XII RIFLE SHOTS
- CHAPTER XIII THE STORM BREAKS
- CHAPTER XIV THE STAMPEDE
- CHAPTER XV THE FIGHT
- CHAPTER XVI A WILD RACE
- CHAPTER XVII A NIGHT IN THE OPEN
- CHAPTER XVIII ON THE TRACK OF “RUSTLERS”
- CHAPTER XIX CAPTURED BY COWBOYS
- CHAPTER XX UNDER FIRE
- CHAPTER XXI THE FUSILLADE
- CHAPTER XXII KIDNAPPING JIMMY
- CHAPTER XXIII SAFE AGAIN IN TEXAS
- CHAPTER XXIV JIMMY GETS BACK
- CHAPTER XXV CAPTURING THE “RUSTLERS”
- CHAPTER XXVI GOOD-BYE TO THE RANGERS
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE