The Border Boys with the Mexican Rangers

Truly, it was not a cheerful predicament. In fact, as Ralph had said, it looked very much like the last ditch. But Coyote was not of the kind of human that gives in and throws up its hands just because on the surface of things it seems time to abandon hope. Far otherwise, as the readers of other volumes of this series know. There probably was not a cooler head nor a better one along the border than Coyote Pete, but even he had to own that, for the present anyhow, he was “stumped.”

At noon a halt was made for a few minutes, and frijoles, corn bread and muddy black coffee (cold) was given the prisoners. The professor could not eat, he was in such a state of mind. But the others fell to heartily enough; the boys, because they were boys, with appetites that nothing could upset, and Coyote Pete, with the idea of “firing up” with nourishment in case he might find some way out of it for all of them.

All the afternoon they traveled, reaching higher and higher altitudes. Every now and again Ramon would consult earnestly with the red-haired outlaw of unmistakably American origin, who had, as Jack felt certain, left the warning notes on two occasions, – once at the camp in the canyon, and again at Don Alverado’s fete. But on the latter occasion, unless it was one of the band that hurled the sombrero at Firewater’s head, the outlaw’s plans did not seem to have materialized.

But if this man was friendly to the boys he did not give any sign of it. Instead he glared at them as malevolently as did any of the others.

“You’re the kind of American that looks best decorating a tree,” thought Pete, who was now allowed to sit erect on his pony, although, like the boys and the professor, his feet were tied underneath.

On and on they traveled throughout the afternoon, Ramon urging his followers up to a terrific pace considering, that is, the nature of the country they were traversing. Now they would plunge down into dark and gloomy defiles where perpetual purple twilight reigned, and again on mounting some crest they would see, spread out before them, a panorama of much the same sort as had so delighted Jack on the cliff summit before he fell in with the Mexican Rangers.

“If I don’t miss my guess,” said Pete, when he found a chance to exchange a word with the boys, “we are getting into the Trembling Mountain country. See that big peak over thar? It’s smokin’ away like old man Jones with his corn cob evenin’s.”

This was a fact. The smoking mountains, smoldering volcanoes that the boys had observed in the distance on their trip into this wild country, were in fact getting closer. And splendid sights they were, too. Some of them shot up into the blue sky to a height of fully seventeen thousand feet. The walls of the canyons they began to traverse now were different, too, from those they had left behind them. Instead of being composed of dull gray or slate colored rocks, these great rifts flamed with red and yellow strata, intermingled with gorgeous bands of purple and sometimes wavy strata of green. Evidently the internal fires of the earth had been busy here in the youth of the globe.

Occasionally, boiling springs sending up jets of sulphurous-smelling steam and bordered by brilliant green plants, were encountered. It was the most impressive country the boys had ever traveled through, and had a few fiends, all dressed in red, with hoofs, horns and tails complete, suddenly appeared from behind a mass of rocks, they would hardly have been surprised. The place seemed a fitting setting for an Inferno.

By dusk they were on a sort of plateau at the mouth of one of these mountain canyons. Trees and rocks of normal shapes and hues stood about in almost park-like fashion. Wild oats and plenty of bunch grass offered good and abundant feed for the horses, and from a cliff side of this little oasis in that land of gloomy horrors bubbled a crystal spring of cold water.

No wonder Ramon, with his countrymen’s instinct for selecting good camp sites, elected to halt there. As for the boys, even in their predicament, they could not help admiring the soft intimate character of the scenery, coming, as it did, after their experiences in the gloomy abysses and profundities behind them.

The prisoners were taken from their horses and then carefully rebound, although so stiff were their limbs from their long confinement that it is doubtful if they could have run just then, even had they found an opportunity. Supper was the same rough meal as the midday refection had been. To add to the unpalatable nature of the food, the boys had the doubtful pleasure of watching Ramon and his followers dine sumptuously on the contents of the Border Boys’ packs.

As night fell sentries were posted about the camp, and the prisoners could not but admire the caution which led Ramon, although in a presumably uninhabited part of the country, to post his outguards as carefully as if an immediate attack was to be expected. One by one the outlaws threw themselves on their blankets and were soon wrapped in that heavy slumber characteristic of the hardy dwellers of the open places. Only Ramon did not sleep. For hours he strode up and down in front of the fire with his head sunk on his breast. He seemed lost in thought. Once or twice he paused and seemed to listen intently. Was it possible that with his half-wild instinct he sensed the peril that was even then drawing in upon him through the night?

At last, however, even he sank off into slumber, and then, with the exception of an armed outlaw posted to guard the captives, the camp was enveloped in dense silence. The guard hummed softly to himself some old Spanish riding songs as he sat by the blaze, the firelight playing on his almost black features.

There was some tall grass at the back of the spot in which the boys and their elders had spread themselves out to snatch uneasy slumbers, and before long Pete’s quick ear detected a stirring in it. Suddenly a voice spoke softly:

“Don’t say a word or appear surprised, I’m going to help you out, just because I’m a Yankee myself and I know Ramon means to kill you all when he gets a chance.”

Coyote kept a hold on himself, and hardly moving his lips, rejoined in the same cautious tones:

“Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter,” replied the other, who was the man we know as Canfield, the former friend of Ruggles the miner, “it’s enough to say that I was once decent, back north; but that’s long ago, and no use crying over it. Look out, I’m going to cut you loose.”

As the words were spoken, Coyote felt the unseen Samaritan slash his bonds, but the cow-puncher prudently did not at once draw his hands from behind his back. Instead, he darted a furtive look about. The sentry, crooning by the fire, seemed to be half asleep. Doubtless he didn’t see much sense in giving too vigilant a watch to such helpless prisoners.

“I tried to keep you out of this, you know,” came the voice again; “I got one note to you and got shot for my pains. Then again at Don Alverado’s fete I despatched another one. It was Ramon’s intention to shoot Jack Merrill that day, but the vengeful Mexican, Jose, took the task out of his hands.”

“Was Ramon in the crowd?” gasped Coyote in astonishment.

“Yes. But he is as skillful in disguise as he is in most other things. He was disguised as an old peddler of sweetmeats. But in his basket he had hidden a carbine, which if he had ever used it, would have put that young Merrill out of the way forever.”

“Great bob cats! he – ”

But a sudden rustling in the grass behind him apprised Coyote at that juncture that he was alone. With another quick glance about he set to work on his leg-thongs. So intent was he on his work that perhaps he relaxed his vigilance a trifle, for when he looked up, directed by some strange instinct to do so, it was to see the form of Ramon standing over him with a revolver pointed grimly at the cow-puncher’s head.

In this terrible emergency Pete’s mind was made up in a flash. With one quick slash he finished freeing himself, and then, shooting up like an uncoiled spring, he rocketed forward just as Ramon fired. The ball grazed his cheek, but before Ramon could pull the trigger a second time, Pete had rushed in between his legs upsetting him with a crash. So heavily did the Mexican chief fall that he was stunned for the instant, but the drowsy guard by the fire suddenly galvanized into action, and sent a bullet flying after the cow-puncher as he vanished in the darkness.

The uproar awakened the other captives, who realized as soon as they saw that Coyote had gone, what must have occurred. Their hearts beat fast with apprehension for the brave plainsman, as Ramon, coming out of his swoon, ordered the now aroused camp to saddle at once and scatter in pursuit of the refugee. The outlaw chief himself took part in the search, leaving only three men in the camp to guard the captives. As the sound of the pursuing hoofs grew faint and far the boys interchanged gloomy looks. If Coyote had not seized a horse the chances were all against his making good his escape, however he had managed it.

“I fear we are worse off than ever, now,” moaned the professor, shaking his head gloomily.

Coyote, meanwhile, who had familiarized himself with the nature of the country as they rode through it in the afternoon, made at once for the tall scrub and brush at the lower end of the valley. Through this he glided like a snake, and had put half a mile between himself and the outlaws’ camp before he heard the clatter of horses’ hoofs. He listened a minute and then shook his head grimly.

“Bad!” he muttered, “they’re doing just what I thought they would, spreading out in fan-shaped formation. The only chance fer me ter escape that human fine comb is to outflank ’em and double back.”

Crouching low he darted along once more, heading this time, however, in a direction sideways from his former course. If he could reach the end of that line of horsemen before they encroached on his line of progress he might escape them yet. He found himself hoping that they were riding in open formation. If that were the case, – although the starlight was pretty bright, – he might be able to slip in between two of the riders.

On and on he dashed and was just deeming that success had come to him when he was brought to an abrupt halt. Before him yawned blackly a chasm of some sort, and Coyote had seen it only just in time to avoid plunging over its brink into the unknown depths below. The thought chilled him. He shuddered apprehensively.

“One more step and it would have been ‘goodnight, Coyote,’ fer sure,” he soliloquized.

Suddenly there came a loud shout behind him. It was followed by a fusilade of bullets whistling about his ears and pattering against the rocks. In his shock at finding how near he had been to a terrible death, Coyote had thoughtlessly stood erect. Thus he offered a target that could be seen for some distance against the stars. That this had been the case, he could not doubt as the shouts grew closer.

For one of the very few times in his life that such had been the case, the old plainsman was at a loss. In front was the chasm. Behind, the Mexicans. But suddenly he saw something that he thought might serve at a pinch.

It was a log, decayed and hollow, that lay near the edge of the gulf into which he had so nearly fallen. The instant he perceived it, Pete dived into it. Not that he did not feel some repugnance to such a thing, for it was punky and rotten and might, for all he knew, have sheltered snakes. But there was nothing else for it. Hardly had he crawled inside it, carefully drawing in his legs, before Ramon and the advance guard of the pursuers rode up.

Coyote Pete lay perfectly still. He hardly dared to breathe, and heartily wished that he could suspend his heart-action.

“Caramba! He was here an instant ago!” exclaimed Ramon, glaring about, “where is the accursed Gringo now?”

“Possibly struck by a bullet,” put in Canfield, the red-headed man, who, having aided Pete to escape, was now compelled to assume a bloodthirsty role once more.

“Not likely. Perhaps he dropped over the edge of the cliff and has escaped,” put in another of the outlaw band who had just ridden up.

“But that would be suicide. The gully is deep and he would be dashed to pieces in its depths,” struck in another.

“Hold on!” shouted Ramon suddenly, “I have it!”

“What, you see him?” the query came from a dozen throats.

“No, but I can guess where he is.”

“Where?”

“Here!” Ramon tapped the log with his foot, while Coyote Pete fairly perspired in rivers.

“Let’s make sure,” cried the voice of Canfield. He was about to dismount when Ramon checked him.

“No. I have a better way.”

A kick on the log emphasized the Mexican’s statement, and a sharp shock passed through Coyote at the thought of the awful fate in store for him. Had he had time at that moment he would have emerged from the log and risked all. But before he could move, a dozen hands laid hold of the timber and began to roll it toward the cliff edge.

“Stop!” shouted Pete.