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CHAPTER XXI.
THE STAGE HOLD–UP

Suddenly Jack saw the driver lurch forward in his seat. Perhaps he had been killed, perhaps he was only badly injured.

Instantly Jack’s mind was made up. Snatching off his hat, he waved it about his head.

At the same time he turned in his saddle and yelled back down the trail, as if a numerous band was coming round the turn:

“Come on, boys! Hurry up and we’ll get them!”

The pursuers of the coach stopped suddenly. Then they wheeled their ponies about and dashed off at top speed. Jack’s ruse had succeeded. Evidently the highwaymen thought that a large body of horsemen was behind Jack. At any rate, they deemed it more prudent not to wait to find out.

But only one serious aspect of the situation was relieved by the abrupt departure of the highwaymen. The limp form of the coachman hung on the box, almost toppling off the seat. The lines had dropped from his hands and lay on the backs of the terrified wheelers. On they came, thundering at runaway speed, while Jack hesitated, his mind full of the thought of that dangerous bit of road that lay ahead.

He shouted up to his companions on the roof:

“Hullo, boys! I’m with you again!”

There was a yell of joy. An answer to his hail came quickly.

“Jack Merrill, by all that’s wonderful!”

“Jack! How under the sun did he get here!”

“It’s Jack on deck again as usual!”

But Jack heard none of these joyous exclamations. He had turned his horse almost on its haunches, owing to the narrowness of the trail. In one swift flash of inspiration he had made up his mind as to the course he would pursue in checking the runaways.

He spurred his pony alongside the wheelers, crying out in as soothing a tone as he could:

“Whoa, boys! Whoa, there!”

But the terrified animals paid no attention to him, nor had he much expected that they would. He only spoke to them in order that he might not frighten them worse when he spurred his pony alongside them.

He might have ridden in front of them, but the risk of causing them to swerve and precipitate the whole coach from the trail was too great. The most dangerous part of the road lay about a mile ahead. If only he could check the team before they reached it, all might be well; if not – well, Jack did not dare to think of what would be the consequences in such a case. Thus began a mad, dangerous ride, a ride of grave risk to the daring young Border Boy.

Of one thing he was thankful – the pony under him was a sure–footed, fast little beast, and perfectly broken, a rare thing in that part of our country. This made it possible for Jack to loop his own reins about the saddle horn and then, leaning out of the saddle, to seize the lines which the wounded driver had dropped.

This done, he began to pull gently on them, taking care not to terrify the runaways further by jerking on their bits. Bracing himself in his stirrups, Jack exerted a steady pressure on the reins, at the same time using every means he knew of to soothe the maddened beasts.

“Good boy, Jack! Good boy!” breathed Captain Atkinson from the roof of the coach, while he lifted the stricken stage driver to a place of safety. “Boys, Jack will save us yet,” he added, turning to his young companions.

“You can bet on him every time,” came admiringly from Ralph. “He’ll conquer them yet.”

But had Ralph known of the danger place that lay not so far ahead now, he might not have been so confident.

“Put on the brake!” Jack shouted back over his shoulder as they tore along that dangerous trail.

“Bless my soul! Why didn’t I think of that?” exclaimed Captain Atkinson.

Handing the driver over to the care of the boys, he clambered into the former’s seat, and, placing his foot on the heavy California–style brake, he jammed it down with all his force.

“Good!” cried Jack as the wheels screeched and groaned.

The horses appeared more terrified than ever at the racket made by the brake, but it was strong enough to check their speed perceptibly, struggle as they would.

A short distance further came a little rise, beyond which lay the dangerous spot that Jack dreaded. The rise completed what the brake had begun.

“They’re slackening speed, Jack!” cried Captain Atkinson.

“They are, indeed!” hurled back Jack. “I think I’ll have them under control in a jiffy.”

Jack’s words came true, but none too soon. A few seconds more and they would have reached the curve, beyond which lay the bit of narrow road. A thrill ran through Jack’s frame as he drew tight on the reins and felt the tired animals slow up to a trot and then, obedient to his voice, come to a halt, sweating and trembling, with distended nostrils.

Jack lost no time in riding round to the heads of the leaders and holding tightly on to them. But there was little fight left in the horses. Dragging the coach with its locked brake up that hill had thoroughly exhausted them; they seemed glad to rest.

“Get out, boys!” shouted Jack. “Come and give me a hand to uncouple the traces. I don’t think they’ll run again, but we won’t take chances.”

In an instant Ralph Stetson and Walt Phelps had sprung to the ground and one on either side of the coach were running forward to help Jack complete one of the bravest tasks a boy ever set himself to perform.

Naturally, it was not till the horses were calmed down that they had a chance to talk. In the meantime the stage driver, whose name was Jed Hoster, had been revived and was found to be painfully but not seriously injured. He had been shot through the shoulder.

We are not going to relate all that took place at that odd reunion in the heart of the Ragged Range, as the barren hills were called. Every one of my readers can picture for himself what a confusion of tongues reigned as the boys all tried to talk at once, and relate their many adventures since last they had met.

After awhile the coach, with Captain Atkinson at the “ribbons” and Jack riding close alongside, was driven to a broad part of the road and then turned around, as San Mercedes was closer to the spot where the attack had occurred than was Go ’long.

Captain Atkinson told the boys that he had not the least idea who the men that made the attack could have been, but surmised that they must have possessed information that the coach was carrying a consignment of gold dust from a desert mine for shipment at Go ’long.

“Had it not been for your smart trick, Jack,” he declared, “we should never have got off as easily as we did.”

A sharp lookout was kept all the way back to San Mercedes for another sight of the would–be robbers. But nothing more was seen of them, and the return journey was made without incident. There was much rejoicing in the camp of the Rangers over the safe return of Jack, and even Shorty appeared to be glad that the boy had come unscathed through so many perils.

That was a gala night in camp. Songs and stories filled the time till far into the night. The three boys, who possessed remarkably good voices, sang several popular songs and were much applauded. At last they had to stop from sheer weariness.

Each lad was anxious to go out on duty along the Rio Grande that same evening, but Captain Atkinson sternly forbade them doing so.

“You turn into your blankets and get a good sleep,” he ordered. “I’ve got another job on hand for you to–morrow and I want you to be fresh when you tackle it.”

Much mystified and not a little excited at these words, the boys obediently turned in and were soon sound asleep. They were astir bright and early the next morning – just as the last patrol of the night was coming in, in fact. The night had been an eventless one, they learned, the rebels having given no sign of their presence.

Soon after breakfast Captain Atkinson approached the boys, who were polishing up their saddles and bits, accompanied by a tall, bronze–bearded man, whose tanned skin and keen gray eyes bespoke him a dweller in the open places.

“This is Mr. Lionel Reeves, the rancher, of whom you may have heard,” he said. “Mr. Reeves, these are the lads of whom I spoke to you.”

“I am sure you could not have picked better young fellows for the task you wish accomplished,” spoke Mr. Reeves, shaking hands warmly with each of the boys in turn. “By the way, do they know about it?”

“Not yet,” rejoined Captain Atkinson, with a smile at the eager looks that three pairs of eyes turned on him.

CHAPTER XXII.
OFF ON A MISSION

“Mr. Reeves lives on the Rio Grande about fifty miles from here,” went on Captain Atkinson, while the boys listened eagerly, feeling that they were on the verge of some fresh adventure. “He has, as you may know, one of the biggest cattle ranches in this part of Texas. Word has been brought to him that the rebel army of Mexico, which is hard up for food, has planned a raid on his ranch to drive off a band of cattle.”

The boys nodded attentively, but as there was no necessity for speech they said nothing.

“Now, then,” continued the captain of the Rangers, “most of his punchers are off on another of his ranges rounding up stock for shipment on a rush order. That leaves the Border ranch practically unprotected. Mr. Reeves is an old friend of mine, and has come to ask me for aid. I cannot spare any of my men, as I need them all to patrol this part of the river. I have offered, subject to your consent, of course, your services to Mr. Reeves. You will rank as Rangers yourselves while performing patrol duty at Lagunitas Rancho. Will you go?”

Would they? The cheer that went up was more than ample evidence that the Border Boys fairly leaped at the chance. Captain Atkinson went on to explain that their duties would be to watch the cattle at night and instantly give the alarm if anything out of the way occurred.

“But mind,” he warned, with a half humorous look playing about his mouth, “mind, you are not to get into any danger.”

“Oh, no, captain,” chorused three voices in unison.

“I am not so sure about that,” rejoined Captain Atkinson. “You Border Boys appear to have a remarkable faculty for getting into scrapes of all kinds.”

“But, then, we always get out of them again,” struck in Walt Phelps quite seriously, at which both Captain Atkinson and Mr. Reeves and the boys themselves had to laugh.

“Do we start right away?” asked Walt anxiously.

“No; not until to–morrow morning. Mr. Reeves, however, will go on ahead. I will give full instructions as to the road to take and there will be no chance of your being lost.”

“As if we couldn’t find the road,” whispered Ralph indignantly to Walt. “That would be a fine thing for full–fledged Rangers to do, wouldn’t it?”

Soon after, Mr. Reeves said good–bye, as he had a long ride ahead of him and could not expect to arrive home much before midnight. The rest of that day the boys spent in getting their outfits ready. Baldy showed them how to do up their kits in real Ranger fashion. In the town the boys also procured for themselves Ranger hats and gauntlets, so that when the time came for their departure the next morning they were three as doughty looking Rangers as could have been found along the Rio Grande.

“Good–bye, boys,” were Captain Atkinson’s parting words. “Keep out of danger and remember that you are going on Rangers’ work as Texas Rangers.”

“We won’t forget,” called back Jack, with a hearty ring in his voice.

“So–long! Yip–ye–e–e–ee!” yelled the Rangers.

“Yip! Yip!” shouted the boys.

Their three ponies bounded forward, and in a cloud of dust they clattered through the town and out upon the plains upon the trail for Lagunitas Rancho.

As they had a long trip before them, they did not ride fast after they had passed the town limits, but allowed their ponies to adopt that easy, single–footed gait known all over the west as the “cow trot.” At noon they halted by some giant cottonwood trees to eat the lunch they had brought with them. Large clumps of bright green grass grew in great profusion all about, and the boys decided to let the ponies graze while they ate. They made a hearty meal, washing it down with water from their canteens. These canteens were covered with felt, which had been well soaked with water before leaving camp.

The evaporation from the wet felt as the hot sun struck it kept the fluid within the canteens fairly cool.

“Gee whiz! I just hate to go out into the hot sun again,” declared Walt Phelps, throwing himself down on the ground and luxuriating in the shade.

“Same here, but we’ve got to be pressing forward if we are to go on duty to–night,” declared Jack.

“Thunderation!” fairly shouted Ralph, “do we have to go on duty to–night?”

“Why, yes. You didn’t think we were going to Lagunitas for a vacation, did you?” inquired Jack with a smile.

“N–n–no,” stammered Ralph, looking rather shamefaced, “but I thought we’d have a rest before we started in.”

“I reckon Rangers do their work first and rest afterward. Isn’t that the way, Jack?” asked Walt.

“I guess that’s it,” was the reply. “But let’s go and get the cayuses and saddle up.”

“Well, I suppose what must be, must be,” muttered Ralph, with a groan at the idea of leaving the friendly cottonwoods.

The three lads rose to their feet and looked about them. To their dumbfounded amazement no ponies were to be seen.

“Great Scott, what can have become of them?” cried Jack.

“Stolen, maybe,” suggested Ralph.

“How on earth could that be? No one came near while we were resting.”

“But they are not to be seen,” objected Walt.

“Why, yes, they are,” cried Jack suddenly. “Look, they are all lying down out yonder.”

“Gracious, they lie as if they were – ” began Walt, when Ralph interrupted him with a sharp cry of:

“Dead!”

In a moment the boys were at the side of their little mounts. The animals lay stretched out as if they had not an ounce of life in their bodies. But their hearts could be seen beating, and their nostrils moved as the breath passed in and out; so it was quite evident that they were alive.

“What on earth can have happened to them?” asked Jack.

“You’ve got me,” confessed Walt. “I can’t imagine.”

“It’s certain that they were all right and lively a few minutes ago,” said Ralph.

“Not a doubt of it,” agreed Jack. “Well, then, it must be something that they’ve eaten right here.”

“Yes, but what?” objected Ralph Stetson. “There’s nothing here for them to eat but this grass.”

“Maybe it’s the grass, then. It is peculiar looking grass, now you come to look at it. Look at these funny tufts on it.”

“I guess you’re right, Walt,” agreed Jack, “but let’s try if we can’t get the ponies on their feet. Maybe it will work off.”

Not without a lot of exertion were the ponies induced to stand up, and then they appeared to be so sleepy that they could hardly keep their feet.

“Let’s mount them and ride them up and down,” said Jack; “that may help to work off whatever it is that ails them.”

The three lads mounted as Jack suggested and began riding their ponies vigorously up and down under the cottonwoods. After a short time the treatment did appear to be effective. The ponies’ eyes, which had been dull and lifeless, brightened up and they shook their heads and tossed their manes vigorously.

“Well, they seem to be all right again. I guess we’d better be pushing on,” said Jack.

“Hold on a minute. Let’s take some of that grass along,” suggested Walt. “Mr. Reeves may be able to tell us what it is.”

“That’s a good idea,” assented Jack.

Each of the boys picked a big bunch of the queer–looking grass and stuffed it in his pocket. Then they rode on once more, the ponies seeming to be as well as ever after their odd sleeping fit. It may be said here that Mr. Reeves told them later on that the grass the ponies had eaten was of a rare sort known as “lazy grass.” It grows in parts of the southwest and is readily recognizable by its peculiar tufts. It has the effect of a narcotic, and if taken in large quantities may prove fatal. But the ponies had only eaten enough to make them sleepy, fortunately for the boys.

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE HERMIT OF THE YUCCA

Late that same afternoon the three boy travelers found themselves riding amidst a perfect forest of stiff–armed yucca plants. Here they came upon a small shack where lived a strange character of the Texan wilds. This old man was known to the cowboys and ranchers who passed that way as Mad Mat. He was supposed to have been driven to the solitudes of the yucca desert by some unfortunate love affair, but of this he never talked, and all concerning his former life was merely rumor.

Hot and dusty as the boys were, they decided that it would be pleasant to stop in at the shack and see if they could obtain some fresh water and a cooked meal, for, although they had plenty of cold grub, they had neglected to bring any cooking appliances. Jack knocked at the door of the dilapidated shack and the boys, who had not been prepared for the strange appearance of Mad Mat, almost shrank back as he appeared.

The old hermit was dressed in a collection of filthy rags, apparently secured from all sources, for no two pieces matched. A long gray beard hung almost to his waist, and out of the hairy growth which half covered his face his eyes glowed like two coals of fire. However, he did not appear half so formidable as he looked, and the boys concluded that the old hermit of the yucca waste would be an interesting character to study.

Mad Mat invited them cordially enough into his shack, and opened the door to them with as consequential a flourish of his hand as if this had been the dwelling place of an emperor. He lived, so he told them, by tending his little flock of sheep, most of which, so rumor in that part of the country had it, had been stolen from passing herds.

However that might be, Mad Mat was able to set forth some excellent mutton before his hungry guests, and, although the surroundings were not suited to the fastidious, the boys had roughed it too much in the southwest to be over–particular.

They found Mad Mat talkative on every subject but himself. In fact, when Ralph asked him where he came from the old man became quite angry and glared at them out of his beard like an “owl in an ivy bush,” as Ralph put it afterward.

Jack found an opportunity to draw Ralph aside and warned him that it was not good policy in that country to ask personal questions of strangers.

“Most of these odd characters of the plains have a reason for being out here which they don’t like to talk about,” he said.

By way of changing the subject, Walt turned to that safe topic, the weather.

“You evidently haven’t had much rain here lately?” he said.

“Nope,” rejoined Mad Mat in his odd, jerky way of talking; “no rain. No rain for a year.”

“No rain for a year!” echoed the boys.

“That’s right. Maybe a drop now and then, but not to amount to anything.”

“How do you get water then?” asked Ralph, for the ponies had been watered from a big tub filled from a wooden pipe.

“Pipe it from a dry spring.”

“That’s a funny sort of spring – a dry one,” exclaimed Walt.

“It’s so, just the same,” replied the hermit, rather angrily. “We call a dry spring one that you have to dig out, one that doesn’t come to the surface. We find ’em with divining rods.”

“Well, it looks to me as if you might get some rain to–night,” said Jack, who had risen and looked out of the door.

“I guess not,” said the hermit confidently. “The sheep ain’t baaing, and they mos’ gen’ally always do afore rain.”

“Well, there’s something coming up then, or I’m no judge of weather.”

At the same time a low, distant rumbling was heard.

“Thunder!” cried Walt, springing to his feet.

“That’s what,” agreed Ralph. “I guess we are in for a wetting.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said the hermit, shrugging his thin shoulders.

He rose and accompanied by Walt and Ralph came to the door, where Jack was already standing.

“Goshen!” he exclaimed, “it is makin’ up its mind to suthin’, fer sure.”

Far off to the southwest lightning was ripping and tearing in livid streaks across the sky. It had grown almost as black as night, and there was a distinctly sulphurous smell in the air.

It was a magnificent sight as the storm swept down on them, although it was also awe–inspiring. The sky grew like a black curtain spread above the earth. Across it riven fragments of white cloud were driven, like flying steam. Through this sable canopy the lightning tore and crackled with vicious emphasis.

But, strangely enough, there was no rain. Instead, great clouds of dust heralded the coming of the storm. The air was stifling and heavy, too, like the breath from an open oven door.

“There ain’t much rain up yonder,” said the old hermit, his long white hair and beard blown about wildly by the wind.

“No rain?” questioned Jack. “What is there, then?”

“Lightning,” exclaimed the old man, his eyes glowing strangely as he spoke. It seemed that he rejoiced and triumphed in the advance of the storm. He held his arms extended to the heavens like a prophet of olden days.

Suddenly with an ear–splitting crash a bolt tore its way across the sky and fell with a sizzling crash almost in front of the shanty. It bored into the earth, throwing up a cloud of stones and dust on every side. So great was the force of the explosion when it struck that Jack was sent reeling back against the door post.

“No more of that for me,” said the boy. “I’m going inside.”

“A lot of good that will do you,” scoffed Walt Phelps. “It wouldn’t much surprise me if this house was hit next.”

Ralph’s face turned pale as he heard. In truth the constant display of heavenly artillery was discomposing. A green glare lit up the surroundings, the yuccas standing out blackly against the constant flashes.

The thunder, too, was terrific and incessant, shaking the earth as it reverberated. All at once came a crash that seemed as if it must have split the earth wide open. Balls of green and white fire spattered in every direction. The boys were hurled helter–skelter all over the hut. It was almost pitch dark, and they called to each other nervously. Not one knew but that the other might have been killed or seriously injured.

But although bruised and badly scared, they were all right, it was found. Yet as they scrambled to their feet the lightning outside showed them a still form lying across the door of the hut.

“It’s the hermit!” cried Jack.

“He’s dead!” shouted Ralph.

“Hold on a minute,” warned Jack.

He went outside and Walt helped him drag the old man into the hut. The lightning, by one of those freaks for which it is noted, had stripped his miserable collection of rags right off him and there did not appear to be much life in him.

The boys laid him on a table and then lighted a lantern, for it was too dark to see but by artificial light. All this time the storm raged and crashed alarmingly about them, but they were too intent on discovering a spark of life in the old hermit to pay any attention to it.

“Get some water, quick!” ordered Jack.

There was a tub in one corner of the hut and the boys dipped cloths into it, which Jack applied to the base of the old man’s skull. After a time, to Jack’s great delight, the old hermit began to give signs of recovery. He opened his queer, bloodshot eyes and looked up at the boys.

“How do you feel?” asked Jack.

“As if I’d bin kicked by a blamed mule,” answered Mad Mat.

The boys could not help laughing at his whimsical description of the effects of the lightning.

“It took all the – the – ” – Jack hesitated as to what to call the hermit’s rags – “the clothes off you.”

“Consarn it, so it did,” grunted the old man, sitting up. “The last time it hit me it did the same thing.”

“What! Have you been hit before?” demanded the boys in astonishment.

“Sure. This makes the third time, an’ I guess as I’ve got through this safely, I’m all right now.”

“Well, that’s one way of looking at it,” declared Walt with a grin, “but once would be quite enough for me.”

“Anyhow, it didn’t rain,” said the hermit triumphantly. “I told yer it wouldn’t.”

It was all the boys could do to keep from breaking out into hearty laughter at the strange old man who seemed to mind being hit by lightning no more than any ordinary occurrence.

“Waal, now I’ve got to stitch all them rags together agin,” he said presently in a complaining tone, regarding the scattered collection of stuff that had been torn off him by the lightning.

“Gracious! I should think you’d get a new outfit,” declared Jack.

The hermit glowered at him.

“Git a new outfit? What’d I git a new outfit fer? Ain’t them clothes as good as ever? All they want is stitching together agin and they’ll be as good as new.”

So saying, he went outside, for the storm had passed over by this time, and began gathering his scattered raiment.

“Hadn’t you better put on some clothes?” suggested Jack, trying to stifle his laughter.

“Oh, that’s right!” exclaimed the hermit, who had apparently quite forgotten that he was bereft of all garments. He returned to the shack, put on an old blanket, and with this wrapped about him he set about collecting his rags once more, grumbling to himself all the time.

“I s’pose that blame lightnin’ will hit one of my sheep next trip,” he grunted, as if the fact that he had been struck was nothing compared with the loss of one of his sheep.

“Speaking of sheep, we’d better go and see how the ponies are getting along,” said Jack presently.

They ran to the rough shed where the ponies had been tied. Two of them, they found, had been knocked down by a bolt, while the other was half wild from fright. The two that had been struck were just struggling to their feet.

The boys quieted their distressed animals and saddled them up ready to depart from the strange old hermit and his abode.

“You can’t blame the ponies for being scared,” declared Jack with a laugh; “being knocked out twice in one day is pretty tough.”

“Unless you’re a hermit,” laughed Walt, at which they all roared.

Jack handed the hermit some money to pay for their entertainment as they were leaving. The old man took it without a word, except to say that he would have to hurry and stitch a pocket on his rags so as to have some place to put it.

Then, without a word of farewell, he continued picking up his scattered raiment, and the last the boys saw of him he was still intent on his odd task.