The Motor Rangers Through the Sierras

CHAPTER VII

A PHOTOGRAPHER IN TROUBLE

The boys were not up as early the next morning as they had anticipated. In the first place, it was somewhat dull and overcast, and in the second they were naturally tired after their exciting adventures of the preceding day and night. The first person to hail them as they left the dining room where they had partaken of a hearty breakfast was Cal Gifford. The stage driver drew them aside and informed them in an irate voice that on account of the stage having been held up the day before, he had been notified by telegraph early that morning that his services would be no longer required by the Lariat Stage Company.

"What are you going to do?" asked Nat, after he had extended his sympathies to the indignant Cal.

"Wall, I've got a little mine up north of here that I think I'll go and take a look at," said Cal.

"How far north?" asked Nat interestedly.

"Oh, 'bout two hundred miles. I'm all packed ready ter go, but I cain't git a horse."

He indicated a battered roll of blankets and a canteen lying on the porch. Surmounting this pile of his possessions was an old rifle – that is, in pattern and design, but its woodwork gleamed, its barrel was scrupulously polished, and its mechanism well oiled. Like most good woodsmen and mountaineers, Cal kept good care of his weapons, knowing that sometimes a man's life may depend on his rifle or revolver.

"Can't get a horse?" echoed Nat. "Why, I should think there would be no trouble about that."

"Wall, thar wouldn't hev bin, but thet little Dutchman bought a nag this mornin' and started off ter take picters on his lonesome."

"I guess you mean he hired one, don't you?" asked Joe.

"No siree. That Teutonic sport paid hard cash fer ther plug. He tole the landlord that he means ter make a trip all through the Sierras hereabout, making a fine collection of pictures."

"He must be crazy, starting off alone in an unknown country," exclaimed Nat.

"Thet's jes' what they all tole him, but there ain't no use arguin' with er mule or a Dutchman when their mind's set. He started off about an hour ago with a roll of blankets, a frying pan and his picture box."

"He stands a chance of getting captured by Col. Morello's band," exclaimed Joe.

"It's likely," agreed Cal, "but what I was a goin' ter tell yer wuz that ther plug he bought was ther last one they had here. An' so now I'm stuck I guess, till they git some more up from ther valley."

"Tell you what you do," said Nat after a brief consultation with his chums, "why not take a ride with us as far as your way lies, and then proceed any way you like?"

"What, ride with you kids in thet gasolene tug boat?"

"Yes, we'd be glad to have you. You know the roads and the people up through here, and could help us a whole lot."

"Say, that's mighty white of yer," said Cal, a broad smile spreading over his face, "if I wouldn't be in ther way now – "

"We'll be very glad to have you," Nat assured him, while Joe and Ding-dong nodded their heads in affirmation, "are you ready to start?"

Cal nodded sidewise at his pile of baggage.

"Thar's my outfit," he said.

"All right. Then I'll pay our bill and we'll start right away."

And so it was arranged. Ten minutes later the Motor Rangers in their big touring car rolled majestically out of the town of Lariat, while Cal in the tonneau waved his sombrero to admiring friends.

"This is ther first time I ever rode a benzine broncho," he declared as the car gathered way and was soon lost to the view of the citizens of Lariat in a cloud of dust.

The road lay through the same canyon in which they had so fortunately overheard the conversation of Al. Jeffries and his cronies the night before. It was a sparkling morning, with every object standing out clear and intense in the brilliant light of the high Sierras. A crisp chill lay in the air which made the blood tingle and the eyes shine. As they rolled on with the engine singing its cheering song Cal, too, burst into music:

"Riding along on my gasolene bronc;
Instead of a whinny it goes 'Honk! Honk!'
If we don't bust up we'll be in luck,
You'd be blowed sky-high by a benzine buck!"

About noon they emerged from the narrow canyon into a wide valley, the broad, level floor of which was covered with green bunch grass. Through its centre flowed a clear stream, fed by the snow summits they could see in the distance. Cattle could be seen feeding at the far end of it and it was evidently used as a pasture by some mountain rancher. As they drew closer to a clump of large redwood trees at one end of the valley Nat gave a sudden exclamation of surprise, and stood up in the tonneau. Joe, who was at the wheel, sighted the scene which had attracted the others' attention at the same instant.

A group of cattlemen could be seen under one of the larger trees, with a figure in their midst. They were clustered about the central object, and appeared to be handling him pretty roughly.

Nat snatched up the glasses from their pocket in the tonneau and levelled them on the scene. He put them down again with an exclamation of excitement.

"They're going to lynch that fellow," he announced.

"What!" roared Cal, "lend me them peep glass things, young chap."

Joe stopped the car, while Cal took a long look. He confirmed Nat's opinion.

"They've got the rope over a limb of that tree already," he said.

"How are we to help him?" cried Nat, whose first and natural thought had been to go to the unfortunate's assistance.

"What do you want ter help him fer," grunted Cal, "like as not he's some sort of a horse thief or suthin'. You bet those fellers wouldn't be going ter string him up onless he had bin doin' suthin' he hadn't orter."

Nat was not so sure about this. From what he knew of the West its impulsive citizens occasionally executed a man first and inquired into the justice of it afterward.

"Steer for those trees, Joe," he ordered sharply.

Joe, without a word, obeyed, while Cal shrugged his shoulders.

"May be runnin' inter trouble," he grunted.

"If you're scared you can get out," said Nat more sharply than was his wont.

Cal looked angry for a moment, but then his expression changed.

"Yer all right, boy," he said heartily, "and if ther's trouble I'm with you every time."

"Thanks," rejoined Nat simply, "that's the opinion I'd formed of you, Cal."

The car had now left the road and was rolling over the pasture which was by no means as smooth as it had appeared from the mountain road. However, they made good progress and as their shouts and cries had attracted the attention of the group of punchers under the trees, they at least had achieved the delay of the execution. They could now see every detail of the scene, without the aid of the field glasses. But the visage of the intended victim was hidden from them by the circle of wild-looking figures about him. As the Motor Rangers drew closer a big, raw-boned cattle puncher, with a pair of hairy "chaps" on his legs and an immense revolver in his hand, rode toward them. As his figure separated itself from the group Cal gave a low growl.

"Here comes trouble," he grumbled, closing his hand over the well-worn butt of his pistol.

"Howdy, strangers," drawled the newcomer, as he drew within earshot.