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CHAPTER X.
A BATTLE IN MID–AIR
But Jack Merrill’s mind never worked quicker or to better effect than in an emergency. He perceived the instant that the creature crouched that its intention was to spring on him. Swift as a flash he reached down and seized a stone.
As the bob–cat hurled itself into the air Jack’s arm shot out. The stone sped from his hand and caught the creature fairly between the eyes. Had a bullet struck it the animal could not have been checked more effectually. It dropped to the ground, rolled up in a furry ball, scratching and spitting furiously, and then, with a yowl of rage and pain, it lost its footing on the edge of the watercourse.
The last Jack saw of it the creature plunged over the brink of the precipice up which the Border Boy had so laboriously toiled. As he heard the body go rolling and bumping down toward the valley, Jack shuddered. Had things turned out differently he might have been in its place, for the boy well knew that if once the maddened animal had fastened its claws in him he would not have stood a chance without a weapon.
Jack sat down to rest once more, this time keeping a cautious lookout for any other wild creatures; but none appeared, and it was evident that his theory that the animal had accidentally dropped from above was a correct one.
“Well,” said Jack to himself, after an interval, “if I’m to get to the top of that cliff I’ve got to start in right now. Ugh! It doesn’t look as if I could possibly make it; but then it’s equally certain that I can’t climb down again. The thought makes me sick; so I’ve got to tackle it. There’s no other way out of it.”
Fortifying himself by a cooling drink, to which he added another wash, the boy prepared to take up his task again.
Above the dry watercourse the cliff shot up more precipitously than the part he had already traversed below it; but Jack steeled himself to the thought of the dizzy climb. Knife in hand he worked his way up, clinging to the face of the cliff desperately at times, and again resting where some vagrant bush offered him a hand or foothold.
In the meantime, below in the valley, Alvarez, returning from a hunt for more food, began to worry about the boy. Not a bad man at heart, Alvarez was a true son of the Mexican revolution. He decided that all Americans, or Gringoes, as he contemptuously called them, were the born foes of the Mexicans. It had been with this conviction that he and his companions had set out to spy on the Rangers who, they thought, menaced them, instead of merely patrolling the Border to prevent lawless acts on American soil.
Since his brief acquaintance with Jack, however, Alvarez had found cause to revise his opinion. Himself a courageous man, he admired courage and grit in others, and of these qualities we know Jack possessed full and abundant measure.
Returning, then, from his hunt with some quail and rabbits, Alvarez began to be seriously alarmed about Jack. Not for one moment did the Mexican deem it possible that the lad could have actually found a way to scale those awful cliffs. He had confidently expected that on his return to camp he would find Jack awaiting him. When, therefore, he could see no trace of the boy his alarm was genuine and deep.
He carefully deposited his game out of harm’s way in the trees, and then set out to see if he could find any trace of the boy to whom he had become attached in their short acquaintance.
As he advanced below the cliffs he carefully scanned the foot of the precipitous heights for what he dreaded to find; for Alvarez had begun to fear that Jack had made a daring attempt to escape and summon help and had met death in a fearful fall from the rocky crags.
“The boy would have been mad to attempt such a climb,” he muttered, as he moved along, “why, not even a mountain goat could find a foothold up yonder. It is impossible that he should have tried such a thing. It would have been sheer madness. And yet – and yet when it comes to such things the Gringoes are assuredly mad. They will dare anything it seems.”
Musing thus the Mexican traversed the greater part of the valley, pondering deeply over the possible fate of his young friend.
“It is a thing without explanation that he could have climbed even a few feet up those cliffs,” ran the burden of his thoughts; “yet if he has not, why do I not see a trace of him here below?”
“Caramba! Can it be that he has slipped on a lofty crag and is suspended high above the valley, injured, perhaps dying, and beyond reach of human aid?”
On and on trudged the Mexican, growing more and more alarmed every instant.
Suddenly, as he cast his eye up toward the summit of a lofty precipice, his attention was caught by an object moving slowly up its surface, like a fly on a high wall.
The Mexican gazed steadily at it. He believed that it was an eagle or condor hovering about its nest in the dizzy heights, but still something odd about the moving object arrested and gripped his attention irresistibly.
“No, it is not an eagle,” he muttered, “but, then, what is it? No quadruped could climb that cliff. What, then, can it be?”
The sun was sinking low over the western wall of the cañon and the valley itself was beginning to be shrouded in purple shadow. But at that great height the light was still bright. Suddenly the moving object emerged from a patch of shade cast by an overhanging rock.
Simultaneously the Mexican almost sprang into the air under the shock of his amazement. He crossed himself and then his lips moved.
“By the Saints! It’s Jack Merrill!” he cried, in a hollow voice.
For an instant he stood like a thing of wood or stone, every muscle rigid in terrible suspense. And all the time that tiny speck on the cliff face was moving slowly and painfully upward.
Clasping his hands the Mexican stood riveted to the spot. Then his dry lips began to move.
“The saints aid him! The brave boy is working his way to the top of the cliff. He has neared its summit. But can he win it? And, see, there are the steps he has cut in the lower cliff face. It must be that he is working his way upward still by those means. Santa Maria! What courage!
“I dare not call out to him. At that fearful height one backward look might cause him to lose his hold and plunge downward like a stone. Oh, if I could only help, only do something to aid him! But, no, I must stand here helpless, unable to move hand or foot.
“Never again will I say anything against a Gringo. No boy south of the Border would dare such a feat. See now! Caramba! For an instant he slipped. I dare not look.”
The Mexican buried his face in his hands and crouched on the ground. Emotional as are all of his race, the sight of that battle between life and death, hundreds of feet above him, had almost unstrung him.
At last he dared to uncover his eyes again and once more fixed them on the toiling atom on the sunlit cliff face.
But now he burst out into tones of joy.
“Sanctissima Maria! See, he is almost at the summit. Oh, brave Gringo! Climb on. May your head be steady and your hands and feet nimble.”
The sweat was pouring down the Mexican’s face, his knees smote together and his hands shook as he stood like one paralyzed, stock still, watching the outcome of Jack Merrill’s fearful climb. His breath came fast and the veins on his forehead stood out like whip cords. As he watched thus his lips moved in constant, silent prayers for the safety of the young Border Boy.
At last he saw the infinitesimal speck that was Jack Merrill reach the summit of that frowning height. He saw the boy thrust his knife into his belt, and watched him place one hand on the ridge of the precipice and draw himself up.
The next instant the cliff face was bare of life. The fight with death had been won. But Alvarez as he saw Jack attain safety on the summit of the precipice sank back with a groan. The strain under which he had labored had caused the Mexican to swoon.
As he lay there perfectly still three figures appeared at the upper end of the valley in the direction of the Pool of Death. They began advancing down the valley just as Alvarez opened his eyes and staggered dizzily to his feet.
CHAPTER XI.
RANGERS ON THE TRAIL
It was about an hour after he had secured the firearm which he intended for Jack’s use that Baldy rode back into the Rangers’ camp in, what was for him, a state of great perturbation. The Chinaman was still up scouring dishes, and to him Baldy rode, spurring his pony almost into the remains of the camp fire in his anxiety.
All about lay the recumbent forms of the Rangers, sleeping under the stars on the expanse of plain. Snores and deep breathing showed that every one of them was deeply wrapped in the healthy slumber of the plainsman.
“Wallee maller, Massel Baldy?” cried the Mongolian, as Baldy spurred his pony up to him.
“Nuffin, you yellow–mugged Chinee,” shot out Baldy, breathing tensely, despite his effort to appear careless; “have you seen anything of that Tenderfoot that went on watch with me a while ago?”
“No, me no see him, Massel Baldy. Whafo’ you so heap much ’cited?”
The keen–eyed Oriental had pierced Baldy’s mask of carelessness, and saw readily enough that the old plainsman was badly worried.
“Me excited, you pig–tailed gopher!” roared out Baldy angrily. “I was never so easy–minded in my life. Where’s the cap sleeping?”
“Over yonder, Massel Baldy. Him litee by chuck wagon.”
Baldy did not wait to make a reply. He steered his plunging pony skillfully among the sleeping Rangers till he reached a bundled–up heap of blankets which he knew must contain Captain Atkinson. Baldy threw himself from his horse in an instant, at the same time slipping the reins over his pony’s head, according to the plainsman’s custom.
Reaching down, he shook the captain vigorously.
“Hello! hello, there, what’s up?” came a muffled rejoinder from amidst the blankets.
But the next instant Captain Atkinson, broad awake, was sitting up.
“Oh, you, Baldy? Well, what’s the trouble?”
“Dunno jes’ erzackly, boss,” stammered out Baldy, “but it’s about that Tenderfoot kid that you gave me ter mind.”
Baldy was plainly embarrassed. He shoved back his sombrero and scratched his head vigorously. At the same time he jingled his spurs as he shifted his feet nervously.
Captain Atkinson’s tone was sharp when he next spoke.
“You mean Jack Merrill? I’d have you understand, Baldy, that he is no Tenderfoot. He’s only a boy, but he’s been through as much as most men of twice his years. But what about him?”
If the question was sharp and to the point, as was Captain Atkinson’s wont, so was Baldy’s answer. Rangers are not men who are in the habit of wasting words.
“He’s went.”
“What?”
“I mean what I say, boss. The kid’s vamoosed, gone, skidooed.”
“No nonsense, Baldy. Explain yourself.”
“There ain’t much to explain, boss.”
“If Jack Merrill has gone, I should say that there was a good deal to explain on your part.”
Baldy shifted uneasily.
“It warn’t no fault of mine, boss,” he protested.
“I’ll be the judge of that. What’s your story?”
“Just this. The kid went on watch with me. As you told me, I kept him close alongside. He didn’t hev no shootin’ iron, so I rode back to camp to git one. When I got back to the Rio he was gone.”
“Gone?”
“That’s what.”
“Have you looked for him?”
“Beat the brush frum San Antone to breakfus’, but ther ain’t no sign uv hair nor hide uv him.”
“You saw the other men?”
“Sure!”
“Did they know nothing?”
“Not a thing. But the kid couldn’t hev passed in either direction without goin’ up in an air ship.”
“None of your jokes. This is serious. Answer my questions. You left him where?”
“Not far from the foot of the trail to the waterin’ place.”
“You told him to stay there?”
“Sure thing. You see I lef’ him ter git him a shootin’ iron. I didn’t think it was right that he shouldn’t be heeled. The greasers – ”
“All right, never mind that part of it. Well, you got the gun?”
“Yes; and when I took it back fer him ther kid had gone.”
“How long did all this take?”
“Waal, I’ve bin huntin’ fer ther dern little pinto ever since. But I should say that I rode to camp and back in about half an hour. You see, I hurried.”
“Humph! You found no sign of trouble when you got back?”
“Nary a bit. All wuz quiet as a Chink’s funeral in Tombstone.”
“Had the others heard nothing while you were away?”
“Not a sound so fur as they told me.”
“It’s not possible to ford the river at that point?”
“Boss, a cayuse couldn’t swim it, the current’s that swift.”
“That’s so, too, I thought for a moment that the boy might have foolishly tried to cross into Mexican territory.”
“Ef he did, it’s flowers fer his’n ef we ever find him,” declared Baldy piously.
“Let us hope it is not as bad as that. But it is most mysterious.”
“Very consterious,” agreed Baldy. “You see, there were men to the east and west of where the kid was, and they didn’t hear nor see nothing.”
“And yet the boy has vanished.”
“Waal, he ain’t ter be found,” admitted Baldy, ignoring the long word.
Captain Atkinson sat up in his blankets lost in thought. At length Baldy ventured to break in on the silence.
“What yer goin’ ter do, boss? Ther young maverick may be needin’ help right now and needin’ it bad, too.”
“That’s correct, Baldy. We must take some action at once. But the case is so puzzling that I hardly know what to do about it. Jack Merrill didn’t impress me as the kind of boy that would run needlessly into danger.”
“No; ther young pinto had some hoss sense,” admitted Baldy, flicking his chaps with his quirt.
“That being the case, how are we to account for his disappearance? If he had been attacked by greasers there would have been some noise, some disturbance.”
“Maybe he jes’ fell in ther Rio and was drown–ded,” suggested Baldy.
“I don’t think that. Jack Merrill is an athletic lad, and among other things, I am told, a first–class swimmer. No, we have to figure on some other line.”
“Waal, I’m free to admit that I’m up a tree, boss,” grunted Baldy.
By this time Captain Atkinson was out of his blankets and hastily drawing on his chaps and pulling his blue cowboy shirt over his head. When his boots had been drawn on and spurs adjusted he ordered Baldy to saddle his pony and bring it over. As soon as this was done the Captain of the Rangers and Baldy rode out of the camp as silently as possible and made their way to the river. But all Captain Atkinson’s questioning failed to elicit any more facts than he had been able to glean from Baldy. There was nothing left to do but to wait for daybreak to make an examination for tracks that might throw some light on the mystery.
In the meantime Ralph and Walt were informed of Jack’s mysterious disappearance. To Captain Atkinson’s astonishment, they did not appear nearly so much alarmed as he had feared. Instead, they accepted the news with almost stoical faces.
“You think that Jack is safe, then?” asked the captain of the Rangers. “At any rate, you don’t seem much worried about him.”
“It’s not our way to worry till we know we have good cause to, Captain,” rejoined Ralph. “If Jack has vanished, I’m willing to swear that he is off on some sort of duty connected with the Rangers. Possibly he had not time to report back before leaving. Depend upon it, Jack will come out all right.”
“That’s my idea, too,” declared Walt stoutly.
“Well, I admire the confidence you boys have in your leader,” declared Captain Atkinson warmly, “but just the same as soon as it’s daylight I mean to start a thorough investigation, and if harm has come to him it will go hard with those that caused it.”
CHAPTER XII.
A BAFFLING PURSUIT
But a close scrutiny of the river banks by daylight failed to reveal anything more definite than a maze of trampled footmarks and broken brush at the spot where Jack had encountered his combat with the three Mexican spies. Captain Atkinson, one of the most expert of men in the plainsman’s art of reading signs from seemingly insignificant features, confessed that he was baffled.
“It is plain enough that Jack was involved in some sort of a fight,” he said, “but beyond that I cannot say. The most puzzling thing about his disappearance, in fact, lies in the absence of pony tracks. I can’t imagine how whoever it was attacked him reached this vicinity without being heard by the sentries east and west of the trail.”
“Can it not be possible that in some manner he fell into the river and was swept away by the swift current?” inquired Ralph.
The captain shook his head.
“Of course, it is possible, but it hardly lies within the range of probabilities,” he declared.
They were still discussing the extraordinary situation when Baldy uttered an exclamation. He had been examining the river bank and now he held up a bit of rope that he had discovered on the verge of the stream.
“Look here, cap,” he cried, “I’m a long–horned maverick if this ain’t queer.”
“A bit of rope, eh, Baldy?” rejoined the captain. “Well, that would seem to indicate that something had been tied there. Clearly it was not a horse or we should see the tracks. It must then have been – ”
“A boat!” burst in Walt, unable to control himself.
“How could a boat ever get along in this shallow, swirling stream?” cried Ralph.
“No; but some contrivance of logs that would float, such as a raft, might have navigated the river,” suggested Captain Atkinson, little guessing how close he was to the truth.
The captain now had the rope in his hands and was examining the frayed end.
“This rope has been recently severed,” he decided.
“Cut?” questioned Ralph.
“No, broken,” was the rejoinder.
“Then ther kid must have gone down the river,” said Baldy.
“Undoubtedly,” rejoined the captain.
“In that case we must follow the stream in search of him,” cried Walt.
“Yes. We will start as soon as possible, too. Baldy, see that everything is made ready for us at once.”
“Ain’t I going along, cap?” pleaded Baldy.
“No; I shall leave you in command of the camp till I return. In the meantime the boys and I will ride back with you to camp and prepare for our expedition.”
The boys’ faces were flushed with excitement as the return ride was begun. Eagerly they discussed between themselves the probabilities of recovering Jack, while the captain rode with bowed head as if buried in thought. The mystery of Jack’s fate worried him deeply, and he was beginning to think that there were more complications to it than he had at first imagined.
It was an hour after that the search party set forth. They carried blankets, emergency kits, food, firearms and hatchets. Also each had a stout rawhide lariat, each “rope” being about forty feet in length. Thus equipped they started out on what was to prove a most eventful journey, and one in which they were destined to encounter more surprises than they dreamed.
By sunset the first day of their search they found themselves in a wild canyon through which the river flowed swiftly. Camp was made at a spot near which a clear spring of water gushed from a wall of the place. It was slightly alkaline, but they did not mind that, as it was preferable even as it was to the muddy, discolored waters of the Rio Grande. The ponies were picketed, a fire was lighted, supper cooked and things put in order for the night.
It was not a cheerful party that gathered about the camp fire. All of them were pretty well exhausted and disheartened by their absolute failure to find any trace of Jack. Captain Atkinson alone would not admit discouragement. He did all he could to keep up the flagging spirits of the two lads, and after supper had been despatched he inquired if they would care to hear some of his experiences on the Border.
“Gladly,” declared Ralph, relieved to hear something that might, for a time at least, take his mind off the possible predicament of his chum.
Captain Atkinson paused to cram his old black pipe with strong tobacco, light it with a glowing coal, and then plunged into his story. As he talked the murmuring voice of the river and the sighing of the night wind in the scanty trees of the canyon formed a fitting accompaniment to his narrative.
“Some years ago,” he began, “I was foreman of a small ranch in the neighborhood of Las Animos, in the eastern part of the state. It was at a time when cattle and horse thieves, ‘rustlers’ as we call them, had been particularly active. Hardly a rancher in the vicinity but had suffered from their depredations, and feeling ran pretty high against them, I can tell you.
“Well, our ranch, which was known as the Flying U, had managed somehow to escape unscathed, although all round us the rustlers had been operating boldly and openly. Their method was to raid a ranch, drive the cattle or horses across the Border and then sell them to Mexican dealers, who drove them to the coast and there disposed of them as best they could. Many were shipped to European ports, so I heard.
But it was impossible that our ranch should long remain untouched in the midst of the general robberies and rascality going on. Although we guarded against it in every possible way, one night our ‘Far Pasture’ as it was called, was raided and a fine bunch of young steers carried off. It was known that the leader of the band was a man named Alvarez; but beyond this fact and the further one that he had been a leader in several of the frequent revolutions in his country, we knew little about him. He was, however, without doubt the most successful and daring rustler that the Border was ever harassed with.
“In fact, so bold was he, and so impossible of capture did he appear, that some of the more superstitious men in the district began to hint that he was of supernatural origin. Those were wild, uncultured days, and the belief began to spread. Every fresh raid added strength to the rumor, until at the time of the robbery of the Flying U I was unable to persuade anyone to accompany me in pursuit of Alvarez; for I was determined to take after the rascal even if the chase led me across the Border.
“It may have been a foolish resolve, but I was younger then and hot–blooded. Well, when I found that I would have to go alone or lose valuable time getting some men to accompany me, I delayed no longer. I oiled up my revolver and rifle and loaded some provisions on my saddle, together with a roll of blankets. Then, with a tough little pinto pony that was good for his fifty miles a day, I took the trail.
