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CHAPTER XXIV.
BY SHEER GRIT
Owing to the delay caused by the storm, it was late when they reached the Lagunitas Rancho. It was too dark for them to form any idea of the place, but Mr. Reeves, who greeted them warmly, ushered them into a long, low room hung with skins and trophies of the hunt, and ornamented at one end by a huge stone fireplace. The boys were surprised to find the ranch very comfortably furnished, almost luxurious, in fact. Every comfort of civilization was to be found there, even down to a grand piano and a phonograph. After a plentiful supper Mr. Reeves entertained the boys with selections on both of these instruments.
The rancher was married and had three children, but his family was at the time away on a visit to the East. Mr. Reeves said that while he was sorry that the boys had not had an opportunity to meet them, he was glad of their absence in another sense, for times were very troublous along the Border.
It was decided that the boys were not to go on duty that night, but would turn in early and spend the next day getting acquainted with the ranch so that they could ride over it “blindfold,” as Mr. Reeves put it. He informed them that he had six cowboys on duty, but that two of them were not very reliable and could not be depended upon in an emergency.
“I feel much easier in my mind now that I have three of the famous Texas Rangers to help me out,” he said with a kindly smile.
“I hope we shall be able to live up to what the name stands for,” said Jack gravely.
“Bravo, my lad; that’s the proper spirit,” declared the rancher warmly.
The boys slept that night in a comfortably furnished bedroom containing three cots. Before daybreak they were awake and discussing the coming day. Sunrise found them outside the ranch house, eagerly inspecting their new surroundings. But, early as they were, Mr. Reeves had been up before them and was ready to show them around.
“Now, you boys must each pick yourself out a pony,” he said, leading them toward a big corral in which several ponies were running loose.
“But we have our own,” objected Ralph, who knew what western bronchos are when they are first taken out of a corral.
“I know that,” responded Mr. Reeves, “but your ponies are pretty well tuckered out after all they went through yesterday. Fresh mounts will be very much better.”
“You have some fine ones here, too,” said Jack, who had been inspecting the twenty or more cayuses in the corral.
“Yes, Lagunitas is famous for its stock,” was the response. “Will you rope the ones you want for yourselves, or shall I tell a puncher to do it for you?”
“We’d be fine Rangers if we couldn’t rope our own ponies,” laughed Jack.
So saying, he selected a rope from several which were hanging on the corral posts. He tried it out and found it a good, pliant bit of rawhide. In the meantime Walt and Ralph had each taken another “riata” and were testing them.
So far as Ralph was concerned, his knowledge of lariat throwing was strictly limited. He had practiced a bit on the Merrill ranch, but he did not know much about the art – for an art it is to throw a rope with precision and accuracy.
By this time several of the cow–punchers attached to the ranch had assembled and watched the boys critically.
“Watch the Tenderfeet throw a rope, Bud,” said one of them, a short, freckle–faced fellow.
“Waal, I don’t know but that tall one knows how to handle a lariat,” rejoined Bud, fixing his eyes on Jack as he entered the corral with his rope trailing behind him, the loop ready for a swing. As soon as the boys were within the corral they started “milling” the ponies, as it is called, that is, causing them to run round and round in circles. In this work they were aided by the shrill whoops and yells of the cow–punchers, who perched on the fence like a row of buzzards.
A buckskin pony with a white face and pink–rimmed eyes caught Jack’s fancy, and in a jiffy his rope was swishing through the air. It fell neatly about the buckskin’s neck, and Jack quickly brought the little animal up with a round turn on the “snubbing post” in the center of the corral. Then came Walt’s turn and after some difficulty he succeeded in lassoing a small but wiry chestnut animal that looked capable of carrying his weight finely.
Last of all came Ralph. He set his lips firmly and made the best cast he knew how at a sorrel colt that was galloping past him. The cowboys set up a jeering yell as they saw the way he handled his rope, and Ralph flushed crimson with mortification. Again and again he cast his rope, each time failing to land his animal. At last Mr. Reeves ordered one of the punchers to catch the pony for him. Ralph, feeling much humiliated, saw the sorrel caught with neatness and despatch.
“Must have bin practicing ropin’ with yer maw’s clothes line,” grinned the cowboy who had effected the capture as he handed the pony over to Ralph.
While this was going on Jack had secured his heavy stock saddle and approached the buckskin to put it on its back. But the instant the little brute saw the saddle it began a series of wild buckings, lashing the air frantically with its hind feet.
“Now look out for fun!” yelled a cow–puncher.
“The kid’s got hold of old Dynamite,” laughed another.
Jack heard this last remark and realized from it that the pony he had selected was a “bad one.” But he determined to stick it out.
Mr. Reeves came over to his side.
“I wouldn’t try to ride Dynamite, my boy,” he said. “He’s the most unruly broncho on the ranch. Take a quieter one like your chums have.”
“I like this buckskin, sir, and, if you have no objection, I mean to ride him,” spoke Jack quietly.
Something in the boy’s eye and the determined set of his mouth and chin told the ranch owner that it would be useless to argue with Jack.
“At any rate, I’ll send Bud in to help you cinch up,” he volunteered.
“Thank you,” said Jack, keeping his eyes on the buckskin, which had his ears laid back, and was the very picture of defiance.
Bud, grinning all over, came into the corral swinging a rope. He skillfully caught the broncho’s legs and threw the refractory animal to the ground. The instant the pony was down Jack ran forward and put a blindfold over his eyes.
“Waal, I see you do know something,” admitted Bud grudgingly, “but you ain’t never goin’ ter ride Dynamite.”
“Why not?”
“Cos there ain’t a puncher on this ranch kin tackle him and I ’low no bloomin’ Tenderfoot is going ter do what an old vaquero kain’t.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said Jack, with a quiet smile.
Having blindfolded the pony, a “hackamore” bridle was slipped over his head. To this Dynamite offered no resistance. The blindfold made him quiet and submissive for the time being. When the bridle was in place he was allowed to rise, and before the pony knew it, almost, Jack had the saddle on his back and “cinched” up tightly. This done, the boy threw off his hat, drew on a pair of gloves and adjusted his heavy plainsman’s spurs with their big, blunt rowels.
“All right?” grinned Bud.
“All right,” rejoined Jack in the same quiet tone he had used hitherto. To judge from outward appearances, he was as cool as ice; but inwardly the Border Boy knew that he was in for a big battle.
“Waal, good–bye, kid, we’ll hev yer remains shipped back home,” shouted a facetious puncher from the group perched on the fence.
“Dynamite ’ull send you so high you’ll get old coming down,” yelled another.
“Better let the job out, kid,” said Bud. “We don’t want to commit murder round here.”
“I guess I’m the best judge of that,” spoke Jack quickly. “Get ready to cut loose that rope when I give the word, and take the lasso off the snubbing post.”
This was quickly done and Dynamite stood free, but still blindfolded. Jack poised on his tip toes and gave a light run forward. His hands were seen to touch the saddle and the next instant he was in it. He leaned forward and lifted the blindfold.
For an instant Dynamite stood shivering, his ears laid back, his eyes rolling viciously. Then, before the broncho knew what had happened, Jack’s quirt came down on his flank heavily.
“Yip!” yelled the cow–punchers.
“Yip! Yip!” called Jack, and hardly had the words left his mouth before he was flying through the air over the pony’s head. Dynamite’s first buck had unseated him. Mr. Reeves ran forward anxiously as Jack plowed the ground. But his anxiety was needless. By the time he reached the boy’s side Jack was up again, brushing the dirt of the corral from his clothing. He was pale but determined.
“You see, I told you it was impossible,” said the ranch owner. “Give it up.”
“Give it up!” exclaimed Jack. “Why, I’ve only just begun.”
“The kid’s got grit,” exclaimed a cowboy who had heard this last.
“Yep, more grit than sense, I reckon,” chimed another.
Jack picked up his rope once more and recaptured the buckskin, which was trotting about the corral, apparently feeling that the fight was over and he had won. Once more Bud held the rope while Jack vaulted into the saddle.
This time, however, there was no preliminary pause. Dynamite plunged straight into his program of unseating tactics.
With a vicious squeal the pony’s hind feet shot out and the next instant as Jack jerked the little animal’s head up it caroomed into the air, coming down with a stiff–legged jolt that jarred every nerve in Jack’s body. Then began a series of amazing bucks. It seemed impossible that anybody, much less a mere boy, could have stuck to the pony’s back through such an ordeal.
“Wow! Dynamite’s sure steamboatin’ some!” yelled the cow–punchers.
Suddenly Dynamite ceased bucking.
“Look out for a side–jump!” shouted Mr. Reeves; but, even as he spoke, it came.
The broncho gave a brain–twisting leap to the left, causing Jack to sway out of his saddle to the right. Luckily he caught the pommel and cantle just in time to save himself from being thrown. Dynamite seemed surprised that he had not unseated his rider by his favorite and oft–tried method. He repeated his famous side–jump. But Jack stuck like a cockle–burr to a colt’s tail.
All at once the buckskin gave a semi–turn while in the air. It was a variation of the regular “buck” that would have unseated half the veteran cowboys perched on the corral fence watching the fight between boy and broncho.
“Good fer you, kid!” they shouted enthusiastically, as Jack maintained his seat.
“Stick to it, Jack!” chimed in the voices of Ralph and Walt.
But it is doubtful if Jack heard any of the applause. He was too busy watching Dynamite’s antics. Suddenly the pony rushed straight at the corral fence and tore along it as closely as he could without cutting his hide. His object was to scrape off the hateful human who stuck so persistently to his back. But Jack was as quick as the buckskin and as the pony dashed along the fence he had one leg up over the saddle and out of harm’s way.
All at once Dynamite paused. Then up went his head, his fore feet beat the air furiously. Straight up he reared till he was standing almost erect. Then without the slightest warning he toppled over backward.
A shout of alarm went up from the punchers, but Jack did not need it. As the pony crashed to earth Jack was not there. He had nimbly leaped from the saddle and to one side.
Before the buckskin could rise again Jack was straddling the saddle. As the animal sprang up Jack was back in his seat once more with a sadly perplexed broncho under him. Dynamite had tried everything, and more too, that he had used on the ranch riders and all had failed to remove the incubus on his back.
“Good for you, Jack. You’ve finished him!” yelled Walt Phelps.
“Don’t be too sure,” warned Mr. Reeves, who was standing by the boys. “See the way those ears are set? That means more trouble coming.”
The words had hardly left the ranch owner’s mouth before the “trouble” came. Dynamite darted off as if he had been impelled from a cannon’s mouth. Then all at once he set his legs stiff and slid along the ground, ploughing up dusty furrows with his hoofs in the soft earth of the corral. Had Jack not been prepared for some such maneuver, he might have been unseated. But he had guessed that something more was coming off and so he was prepared. Hardly had Dynamite come to his abrupt stop before he threw himself on his side and rolled over. If Jack had been there, he would have been crushed by the pony’s weight – but he wasn’t.
As the pony rolled Jack stepped out of the saddle on the opposite side. The moment he slipped off he picked up the loose end of the lariat which was still around the pony’s neck.
“Yip! Get up!” he cried.
Dynamite, not thinking of anything but that he was free at last, was off like a shot. But, alas! he reckoned without his host. As the little animal darted off Jack took a swift turn of the rope around the snubbing post. When Dynamite reached the end of the rope he got the surprise of his life. His feet were jerked from under him and over he went in a heap.
Before he could rise Jack was over him. As Dynamite struggled up Jack resumed his seat in the saddle; but now he rode a different Dynamite from the unsubdued buckskin he had roped a short time before. Trembling in every limb, covered with sweat and dirt, and his head hanging down, Dynamite owned himself defeated.
A great shout of applause went up from the cow–punchers and from Jack’s chums.
“His name ain’t Dynamite no longer; it’s ‘Sugar Candy’!” shouted an enthusiastic cow–puncher.
“Wow! but the kiddy is some rider,” yelled another.
“You bet!” came an assenting chorus of approval.
“Splendid work, my boy,” approved Mr. Reeves warmly, coming forward and shaking Jack’s hand. “It was as fine an exhibition of horsemanship and courage as ever I saw.”
“Thanks,” laughed Jack lightly. “I’ve got an idea that Dynamite and I are going to be great chums. Aren’t we, little horse?”
Jack patted the buckskin’s sweating neck and the pony shook his head as if he agreed with the boy who had conquered his fighting spirit by sheer grit.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE GREAT STAMPEDE
“How is it going, Jack? All quiet?”
Walt Phelps paused in his ride around the herd to address his chum.
“Yes, everything is going splendidly, Walt. Dynamite’s a real cow–pony.”
“No doubt about that. Well, I’ll ride on; we must keep circling the herd.”
“You’re right. They seem a bit restless.”
Walt rode off with a word of farewell, while Jack flicked Dynamite with the quirt and proceeded in the opposite direction.
The time was about midnight the night following Jack’s little argument with Dynamite. Since nine o’clock the Border Boys had been on duty with the Reeves herd. Under the bright stars the cattle were visible only as a black, evershifting mass, round and round which the boys, Bud and two cow–punchers circled unceasingly. Some of the animals were feeding, others standing up or moving about. The air reeked of cattle. Their warm breaths ascended into the cool night in a nebulous cloud of steam.
From far off came the sound of a voice singing, not unmusically, that classic old ballad of the Texas cowman:
“Lie quietly now, cattle,
And please do not rattle,
Or else we will ‘mill’ you,
As sure as you’re born.
A long time ago,
At Ranch Silver Bow,
I’d a sweetheart and friends,
On the River Big Horn“
Jack pulled up his pony for a minute and listened to the long drawn, melancholy cadence. It was the cow–puncher’s way of keeping the cattle quiet and easy–minded. Steers at night are about as panicky creatures as can be imagined. The rustle of the night wind in the sagebrush, the sudden upspringing of a jackrabbit, the whinnying of a pony, all these slight causes have been known to start uncontrollable “stampedes“ that have been costly both to life and property.
The night was intensely still. Hardly a breath of wind stirred. Except for the occasional bellow of a restless steer or the never–ending refrain of Bud’s song, the plains on the border of the Rio Grande were as silent as a country churchyard.
Jack resumed his ride. He began whistling. It was not a cheerful tune he chose. “Massa’s in the Cold, Cold Ground,” was his selection. Somehow it seemed to the lad that such a tune was suited to the night and to his task.
Jack’s course led him to the south of the herd, between the main body of cattle and the Rio Grande. He kept a bright lookout as he passed along the river banks. He knew that if trouble was coming, it was going to come from that direction. Almost unconsciously he felt his holsters to see if his weapons were all right.
Once he paused to listen. It was at a spot right on the river bank that he made his halt. He was just about to ride on again, whistling his lugubrious tune, when something odd caught his eye and set his heart to thumping violently.
A head covered with a white hood containing two eyeholes had suddenly appeared above the river bank. The next instant a score more appeared. All wore the white hoods with the same ghastly eyeholes, giving them the appearance of so many skulls.
Greatly startled and alarmed, Jack yet realized that the figures that had appeared so suddenly must be those of cattle–stealing Mexican rebels and that they had adopted the hoods with the idea of scaring the superstitious cowboys. Hardly had he arrived at this conclusion before the hooded horsemen rushed up the bank. They aimed straight for the boy.
Instantly Jack’s hand sought his holster.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
It was the three shots agreed upon as a signal of trouble. From far back on the eastern side of the herd came an answer. Jack had just time to hear it when the hooded band swept down upon him. He felt bullets whiz past his ear and then, without exactly knowing how it happened, he was riding for his life, crouched low on Dynamite’s withers.
Off to the north, east and west other six–shooters cracked and flashed. The signal of alarm was being passed around rapidly. Jack was riding for his life toward the west side of the herd. Behind him pressed one of the hooded horsemen. All the others had been distanced by the fleet–footed Dynamite. But this man behind him clung on like grim death.
From time to time he fired, but at the pace they were going his aim was naturally poor and none of the bullets went near the fleeing boy on the buckskin pony.
The air roared in Jack’s ears as he dashed along. All at once he became conscious of another roar, the roar of hundreds of terrified steers. Horns crashed and rattled. Startled bellows arose. Then off to the east came more firing. Jack judged by this that most of the hooded band had gone off in that direction and were now engaged in fighting with Bud and the rest of the cattle watchers.
The next instant the lad became conscious of a thunderous sound that seemed to shake the earth. It was the roar and rush of thousands of hoofs.
“The cattle have stampeded!” gasped Jack to himself, and the next instant:
“The firing to the east has started them off; and I am right in their path.”
He swung his pony in an effort to cut off part of the herd. But through the darkness they thundered down on him like a huge overpowering wave of hoofs and horns. Jack fired with both his six–shooters, hoping to turn the stampede; but he might as well have saved his cartridges. No power on earth can stop stampeding cattle till they get ready to quit.
Jack was in the direst peril. But he did not lose his head. He swung Dynamite around once more and urged him forward. It was a race for life with the maddened cattle. He had lost all thought of the hooded rider who had pursued him so closely. His sole idea now was to escape alive from the stampede behind him. Had he dared, he would have tried to cut across the face of it. But he knew that he stood every chance of being trapped should he do so. He therefore decided to trust to Dynamite’s fleetness and sure–footedness. It made him shudder to think what would befall him if the pony happened to get his foot in a gopher hole and stumble.
A Texas steer in a stampede can travel every bit as fast as a pony, and it was not long before the steers were in a crescent–shaped formation, with Jack riding for his life in about the center of the half moon. On and on they thundered in the mad race. To Jack it felt as if they were beginning to go down hill, but he was not certain. Nor had he the least idea of the direction in which he was going. He bent all his faculties on keeping ahead of that hoofed and horned wave behind him.
Dynamite went like the wind. But even his muscles began to flag under the merciless strain after a time. He felt the effects of his strenuous lesson of the morning. Jack was forced to ply quirt and spur to keep him on his gait. But the signs that the pony was playing out dismayed the boy. His life depended on Dynamite’s staying powers, and they were only too plainly diminishing.
The slope down which they were dashing was a fairly steep one, which accounted for Jack’s feeling the grade. It led into a broad, sandy–bottomed, dry water course, or “arroyo” as they are called in the west. But of this, of course, Jack was unaware.
All at once Jack felt Dynamite plunge into a thick patch of grease–wood. The pony slowed up as he encountered the obstruction, but Jack’s quirt and spur urged him into it. But that momentary pause had been nearly fatal. Jack could now almost feel the hot breath of the leading cattle. Despite his grit and courage, both of sterling quality, Jack’s heart gave an uncomfortable bound. He felt his scalp tighten at the narrowness of his escape. But still he urged Dynamite on. Luckily he wore stout leather “chaps,” or the brush would have torn his limbs fearfully.
Dynamite tore on, with seemingly undiminished valor, but Jack knew that the end was near.
“Only a few yards more, and then – ” he thought, when he felt a different sensation.
It filled him with alarm. He was dropping downward through the air. Down he plunged, while behind him came the thunder of the maddened steers.
“Good heavens! Is this the end?” was the thought that flashed through the boy’s mind in that terrible fraction of time when he felt himself and his pony dropping through space.
The next instant he felt the pony hit the ground under him. Like a stone from a slingshot, Jack was catapulted out of the saddle. He landed on the ground some distance from the pony. He was shaken and bruised, but he was up in a flash. In another instant the steers would be upon him. He would be crushed to a pulp under their hoofs unless he found some means of escape.
“If I don’t do something quick, it’s good–bye for me,” he told himself.
In frantic haste he looked about for some means of saving himself. All at once he spied through the darkness the black outlines of a cottonwood tree. In a flash his plan was formed. He slipped behind the trunk of the cottonwood, using it as a shield between himself and the oncoming cattle.
Hardly had he slipped behind his refuge when an agonized cry came to his ears, the cry of a human being in mortal terror. Jack peered from behind his tree trunk. As he did so the form of a man rolled almost to his feet and lay still.
With a thrill Jack recognized the white hood the figure wore and knew it must be the hooded horseman who had pursued him. Like himself, the man had been caught in the stampede and been thrown from his horse almost at the foot of the tree. Exerting all his strength, Jack pulled the man into shelter behind the tree scarcely a second before the crazed steers were upon them. In their blind frenzy of terror many of them dashed headlong into the tree, stunning and killing themselves. But the main herd swept by on both sides, leaving Jack and the unconscious man in a little haven of safety behind the tree trunk.
Jack found himself wedged in between two barricades of bellowing, galloping steers, and for his deliverance from what had seemed certain death a few minutes before he offered up a fervent prayer of thanks.
For some time the rush continued and then thinned out to a few stragglers. At last Jack thought it safe to emerge from behind his tree. In front of it lay several dead cattle, their brains knocked out by the force with which they had collided with the cottonwood. A few injured animals limped about moaning piteously. Some of them were so badly injured that Jack, who could not bear to see an animal suffer, put them out of their misery with his six–shooter.
It was now time to turn his attention to the hooded man. The fellow had been stunned when he was thrown from his horse; but he was now stirring and groaning. Jack bent over him and pulled off his hood. As he did so he staggered back with an amazed exclamation.
The face the starlight revealed was that of Alvarez, the man whose destiny had been so oddly linked with Jack’s!
“Where am I? What has happened?” exclaimed the man in Spanish as he opened his eyes.
“’You have been engaged in the despicable work of cattle stealing, Alvarez,” spoke Jack sternly. “If you had not been thrown at my very feet, you would have perished miserably under the hoofs of the herd you planned to steal.”
At the first sound of Jack’s voice Alvarez had staggered painfully to his feet. Now he uttered a cry.
“It is you, Señor Merrill! I thought you were miles from here.”
“Well, I am not, as you see. Are you badly hurt?”
“I do not know. I think my arm is broken. It pains fearfully.”
“I will examine it by daylight. Are you armed?”
“I was, señor, but I lost my pistol in that fearful ride before the stampede.”
The man’s tone was cringing, whining almost. Jack felt nothing but contempt for him. He held that the Mexican revolutionists were about as much in the right as the government troops; but cattle stealing on the Border is a serious offense and Jack Merrill was a rancher’s son. He made no reply to Alvarez, but, telling him to remain where he was, he went off to see if he could find some water to bathe the man’s injuries, for, besides his injured arm, he had a nasty cut on the head.
He did not find water and was returning to the tree rather downcast, when through the darkness ahead of him he saw something moving. The object was not a steer, he was sure of that. He moved cautiously toward it, his heart beating with a hope he hardly dared to entertain.
But at last suspicion grew to certainty.
“It’s my pony! It’s Dynamite!” he breathed, not daring to make a noise lest the pony take fright and dash off.
Cautiously he crept up on the little animal. He now saw as he drew closer that another horse was beside it. He had no doubt that this latter beast was the one Alvarez had ridden. How the horses had escaped death or serious injury Jack could not imagine; but escape it they had, although they both stood dejectedly with heads hung down and heaving flanks.
“Whoa, Dynamite! Whoa, boy!” whispered Jack, moving up to the broncho with outstretched hand.
Dynamite stirred nervously. He pricked up his ears. Jack crept forward once more. In this way he got within a few feet of the pony. Then he decided to make a dash for it. He flung himself forward, grabbed the pommel of the saddle and swung himself on to Dynamite’s back. With a squeal of fear the pony started bucking furiously.
“Buck all you want,” laughed Jack. “I’ve got you now and, by ginger, if I can do it, I mean to get back those cattle, too.”
Dynamite soon quieted down and then Jack set himself to catching the horse Alvarez had ridden. This was not an easy task, but the brute was not so fiery as Dynamite, and at last Jack got him. The dawn was just flushing up in the east when Jack, leading the Mexican’s horse, rode back toward the cottonwood tree. Alvarez, looking pale and old, sat where Jack had left him.
He glanced up as the boy approached, but said nothing. Jack hitched the horses and then examined the Mexican’s arm. He decided that it was not broken, only badly sprained. He concluded, therefore, that the Mexican was quite able to perform the task he had laid out for him.
“Get on your horse, Alvarez,” he ordered.
“Si, señor,” rejoined the swarthy Alvarez without comment.
Only when he was mounted and Jack told him to ride in front of him, did he inquire what was to be done with him.
“You are going to help me drive those cattle back first,” said Jack grimly. “Then we’ll decide on what comes next.”
In silence they rode up the far bank of the arroyo and the plain lay spread out before them. Jack could not restrain a cry of joy as in the distance he saw a dark mass closely huddled. It was the missing band of steers.
“Now, Alvarez,” he warned sternly, “what will happen to you may depend on just how we restore his property to Mr. Reeves. Do you understand?”
“Si, señor,” nodded the man, whose spirit appeared completely broken.
They rode up cautiously. But the steers appeared to be as quiet as so many sheep and merely eyed them as they approached. The animals were in pitiful shape after their frantic gallop and one look at them showed Jack that he would have no trouble in driving them back to the home ranch once they were got moving.
Keeping a sharp eye on Alvarez, he ordered the Mexican to begin “milling” the steers, that is, riding them around and around till they were bunched in a compact mass. This done, the drive began. At times Jack hardly knew how he kept in his saddle. He was sick, faint, and thirsty, with a burning thirst. The dust from the trampling steers enveloped him, stinging nostrils and eyes, and, besides all this, he dared not take his eyes off Alvarez for an instant.
The boy surveyed himself. He was a mass of scratches and bruises, his shirt was ripped and hung in shreds, his chaperajos alone remained intact. Even his saddle was badly torn, and, as for the poor buckskin, he was in as bad shape as his master.
“Well, I am a disreputable looking object,” thought the boy. “The Rangers wouldn’t own me if they could see me now.”
********
It was late afternoon at the Reeves ranch when Bud and the two boys rode in with the news that they could find no trace of the missing cattle. Nor, of course, had they any news of Jack. Mr. Reeves was much downcast at this, almost as much so as Walt and Ralph. Yet somehow the two latter felt sure that Jack would come out all right.
