The Border Boys with the Mexican Rangers

“Ha!” exclaimed Ramon, “then I was not mistaken. Good! Go to your grave, you Yankee pig, in the coffin you have made for yourself!”

Faster and faster the log rolled, while cries of real fear and entreaty broke from Coyote’s lips. In vain he tried to extricate himself.

All at once, the log gave a clumsy leap, and, amid a brutal shout from the Mexicans, it spun over the edge of the gulch and shot sheer over into the black void that yawned below.

CHAPTER XX

WITH THE MEXICAN RANGERS

Coyote Pete felt that he was passing through the most critical moments of his adventurous life. At the very least, he estimated the drop to the bottom of the gully must be several hundred feet.

Obviously it was impossible for him to extricate himself from the hurtling log, yet to remain in it was to doom himself to almost certain destruction. Yet, as the log shot down like an object dropped from a balloon, he realized that when it struck the earth he would be battered into annihilation.

But even in a situation which would have caused most men to swoon with terror, Coyote could think, and think coolly, too.

Suddenly, though, there came a sudden interruption to the downward progress of the great log with its human freight enclosed.

Crash!

Every nerve in Coyote Pete’s frame seemed to be ripped asunder. Every tooth in his head was jarred. He lay still, feeling pounded and stunned, like a boy who has just had a hard fight with some school tyrant.

“The log has landed, evidently,” he exclaimed, “but how? Where? Why aren’t I dead?”

Suddenly he became aware that the wood encasing him like a coffin had become easier in its pressure on him. He moved, and with a tearing, rending sound the log burst asunder.

Like a butterfly from its cocoon, – if Coyote will forgive me for comparing his rugged form to a butterfly, – the cow-puncher, bruised, wounded and sore in every limb, peered forth. Where was he?

All at once he felt the portion of the log which remained beneath him gently swaying like a boat on rippling waves. In a short time, by cautious feeling about him, he found that the log had, by some providential miracle, landed on a sort of island of trees growing, apparently, right straight out from the cliff face. As he realized his position the cold sweat burst out in great drops on his brow and all over his body. If this was the case his fate was to be worse than if he had been dashed to pieces and mercifully killed outright.

Hung where he was between heaven and earth, he would have to die miserably of starvation, unless madness intervened and he leaped crazily to his own destruction. All at once, as he made his investigations, his foot slipped, and with a cry of actual terror the cow-puncher felt himself beginning to dart downward through space. By a desperate, despairing effort he clutched the branches as he fell, and drew himself, with infinite pains, back upon his precious perch. Once there he lay trembling and nauseated at the thought of the narrowness of his escape from a plunge into the abyss.

Of all the tight places he had ever been in, Coyote Pete was surely now in the very worst. He felt the wall behind him when he had somewhat recovered from his attack of deadly sickness. It was smooth as glass. No chance of climbing up. He would have examined his surroundings at greater length, but he dared not risk another slip like the one that had so unnerved him.

It was many years since Coyote Pete had prayed, but he did so then, commending his soul to his Maker, for that he would ever escape from his frightful predicament he did not dare to hope. Somewhat calmer after his devotions he lay still, not daring to move lest the motion of his body might dislodge some of the rotten wood, and he could not bear to think of hearing it go dropping down into that awful gorge beneath, finally losing all sound in the dread profundities.

It was unlikely in the extreme that he would ever be found, for in that unfrequented part of the mountain fastnesses it was most improbable that anyone ever passed. It was only the thirst for gold that had brought Ramon into the rugged place.

There came no sound from above, and Coyote concluded that the outlaws, hearing the crash of the landing, had concluded that he was dead, and departed.

“What a story fer the boys and the professor to hyar,” groaned the unhappy man, burying his face in his hands.

So the dark hours rolled away and daylight came. But those hours of terror had unnerved Coyote terribly. With the coming of day he dreaded more than ever to look beneath him. He felt that if he ever dared to gaze into the voids which he felt must lie beneath his fragile perch, that he must be impelled by a crazy desire to leap into space.

So strong did this feeling become that he lay there, not daring to look about him, until a sudden sound smote on his ears, – the sharp rattle of hoofs, coming apparently from the canyon above which his log was perched in such a precarious condition.

The sound in arousing Coyote’s hopes of rescue, – though how they were to rescue him he did not know, – had likewise temporarily banished his keener fears. Cautiously he peeped over the edge of his eyrie and then gave vent to a shout of astonishment that went echoing and roaring off among the canyon walls.

“Mother of all the bob cats!” he howled, “here I’ve bin lying all night ez scared ez a sick puppy and not ten feet above the ground!”

Such, in fact, was the case. The trees in which the log had so fortunately landed, grew out from almost the base of the great cliff. Coyote, glancing up, saw that they were the only ones on its hundred and fifty feet of height.

“Coyote, you old idjut, ain’t you never goin’ to larn?” the cowboy admonished himself. “Why didn’t you drop suthin’ down ter see how far you was above the ground, you consarned, double-barreled old chump? You’d hev saved yourself some gray hairs ef you hed.”

Reproaching himself thus, the cow-puncher dropped lightly from one of the lower branches of the trees to the ground.

“Wish I’d done that when I slipped last night,” he said. “Hold on, though, on second thoughts, I don’t. I’d have bin dead o’ fright afore I touched the ground in that case.”

But now the hoof beats which had attracted his attention were coming nearer. The floor of the canyon was so strewn with Titanic rock masses, though, that it was impossible to see more than a few yards in either direction.

“Wonder if that ain’t thet Ramon and his bunch come ter look at ther remains?” thought Pete. “Guess I’ll be on the safe side and jes’ duck a ’hind this yar rock till I make sure.”

So saying, he slipped between two boulders into a small natural cave in which he felt he would be secure from observation, and yet be able to see what was going forward. He had not long to wait. Suddenly, around the corner of one of the huge rock piles, there swung a troop of gaily caparisoned riders; Mexicans, beyond a doubt. Their serapes streamed out behind them in the wind like gaudy streamers.

“Now, what bunch of pesky greasers is this yar?” Pete was beginning to himself, when suddenly he broke off in amazement:

“Jack Merrill’s among ’em, by ginger. He’s a prisoner! No, he ain’t! He’s talking ter that chap in front with ther silver-mounted rifle. Bob cats! I have it now. It’s a troop of rurales, and they’re on the trail of Ramon!

“Yip-yip-yee-ee-ee!”

Giving vent to the long-drawn cow-puncher yell, Coyote Pete dashed from his place of concealment, and a more astonished lad than Jack Merrill I can assure you, you never saw, when he perceived the old plainsman suddenly bob up out of a great rock mass in that lonely canyon.

In his excess of joy Coyote fairly flung his arms about Jack’s neck.

But scant time could be given to greetings. Explanations were in order. Exclamations of indignation and of fury ran like wildfire among the Rangers, as the old plainsman told his tale. Then Jack related how he had fared, and how they had trailed the marauders, being much delayed at times, though, by faulty tracks where the party had passed over hard ground.

“By ginger, I never noticed till now, that we are in the same canyon we came through with that outfit of Ramon’s late yesterday!” exclaimed Pete. “Gloomy place, ain’t it? And it seemed pretty glum to me last night, I can tell you.”

He gazed at the cliff and shuddered a little. He could not help it.

“Say, Jack, hez my hair turned white?” he asked suddenly.

“No,” laughed the boy, “why?”

“Arter what I went through, I hearn tell of such things. Me for a nice snug place in a stampede, or the front rank in a shooting scrape arter this. I’ve no more use for exciting sports.”

“Senors,” interrupted the leader of the Rangers presently, “we had better be proceeding. Ramon may have broken camp and gone on by this time, and again he may have – ”

“May have what?” asked Jack, for the capitano paused and seemed unwilling to proceed.

“I do not wish to alarm you unduly, senor,” said the young officer, “but I know the character of that notorious outlaw well. It is possible that if we do not hurry we may arrive too late to save your friends from a terrible fate.”

The thought was maddening to Jack.

“Oh, that we have been fooling away time here!” he exclaimed impatiently; “Pete, you can mount behind me. There. Are you all right? Yes? Then forward!”

“Forward!” shouted the officer, and the bugle rang shrilly out.

Amidst a cloud of dust the Mexican Rangers swept on down the canyon, intent on their errand of vengeance.