CHAPTER XXII.

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 anold 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 tohave 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 uptheir 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 thateasy, 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. Itis peculiarlooking 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 readilyrecognizable 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 anycooking 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 ofthe 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 somerain 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 thestorm. 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 oncecame 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 artificiallight. 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 factthat 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 tosay 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.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 avisit 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 comfortablyfurnished 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 wirychestnut 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 wildbuckings, 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.”THEN BEGAN A SERIES OF AMAZING BUCKS.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, comingdown 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 theveteran 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 updusty 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 surpriseof 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 shakingJack’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, evershiftingmass, 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 RioGrande. 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 whatwould 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 stayingpowers, 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 treescarcely 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, whocould 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 hadstaggered 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, besideshis 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!” whisperedJack, 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 willhappen 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 andeyes, 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.They had not had an easy night of it, either.The battle to the eastward of the herd that had started the stampede had resulted in a flesh wound for Walt and a bad cut on the hand for Ralph. But the boys and the cow–punchers had managed to make prisoners of ten of the hooded Mexicans, so that they felt they had not done a bad night’s work. If only they had possessed a clew to Jack’s fate, they would, in fact, have been jubilant. Ralph’s behavior during the fight had quite won him back the respect he had lost by his poor exhibition with the rope. The Border Boys were declared “the grittiest ever” by every puncher on the range.The ten prisoners were confined in the barn, but they all denied vigorously having seen anything of Jack. They confessed that their raid had been made for the purpose of getting beef for the rebel army, which had been practically starved out by the government troops.Bud had just dismounted by the corral and Walt and Ralph were dispiritedly doing the samewhen Mr. Reeves uttered a shout and pointed to the far southwest.“Wonder what that is off there, that cloud of dust!” he exclaimed.“I’ll get the glasses, boss,” declared Bud.He dived into the house and speedily reappeared with a pair of powerful binoculars such as most stockmen use.Mr. Reeves applied them to his eyes and gazed long and carefully at the distant object that had attracted his attention.“What is it?” demanded Bud.“I don’t know yet. I can’t see for dust. But I’m pretty sure it’s a band of cattle.”Walt and Ralph held their breaths.“Ourcattle?” almost whispered Bud, in a tense voice.“I can’t be sure. It might be any band of steers crossing the state. Tell you what, Bud, saddle the big sorrel for me and we’ll go and find out.”Ten minutes later the band of horsemen was riding at top speed toward the distant moving objects. As they drew closer it was seen that they were unmistakably cattle. All at once Bud gave a sharp cry.“Boss, they’re our cows. See the big muley steer in front? That’s old Abe. I’d know him among a thousand.”“By George, Bud, you’re right! But who can be driving them?”He was interrupted by a mighty shout from Ralph Stetson.“It’s Jack!” he cried.“Itisthe broncho bustin’ Tenderfoot as sure as you’re a foot high!” bawled out Bud.“But who’s that with him?” demanded Walt.“Dunno; looks like a greaser,” growled Bud, who had no liking for the “brown brothers” across the Border.And then, at the risk of starting anotherstampede, the cavalcade dashed forward, waving their hats and yelling like wild Indians.Mr. Reeves rode right down on Jack.“Boy, you’re a wonder. How did you do it? No; stop; don’t tell me now. I can see you’re about tuckered out. How are you?”“Roasted out,” rejoined Jack with an attempt at a smile. But his voice was hoarse as a crow’s and his lips were too baked and cracked to smile naturally.“Great heavens, boy, you’ve been through an awfully tough ordeal, I can see that. But who is this personage here?”Mr. Reeves indicated Alvarez, who shrank under his gaze.Jack forced his voice out of his parched throat.“That is my assistant driver, Mr. Reeves,” he said. “We have had a good deal of talk as we came along and he tells me that he has a great longing to go back to his own country andstay there. He knows what it means if he comes backacross the Border again, don’t you, Alvarez?”“Si, Señor Merrill,” stammered the Mexican while Bud glowered at him.“There’s something behind all this, Jack, that I can partly guess at,” declared Mr. Reeves, “but if you really want him to go, let him go.”“You hear?” croaked Jack in Spanish.“Si, señor.”“Then go.”The Mexican wheeled his horse, doffed his peaked hat in a graceful wave and in a loud, clear voice shouted:“Adios, señors!”He struck his spurs home and brought down his quirt. His horse sprang forward. Straight for the Rio Grande he rode and vanished over its northern bank. Five minutes later he was off American soil. On the opposite bank he paused once more, wheeled his horse and waved his sombrero in token of farewell. Then he vanished, so far as the boys were concerned, forever.“Now, forward,” cried Mr. Reeves. “Bud, you hold the cattle here till I send out some boys to help you bring them in. Jack, you come with us at once. You need doctoring up.”“Can’t I stay and bring the cattle in?” pleaded Jack.“Son,” said the rancher in a deep voice, “you’vedoneyour duty; mine begins now. I haven’t heard your story yet, but I’ll bet my last dollar that you’ve done a big thing out there, and that the Rangers will be mighty proud of their boy recruits.”And then they rode forward to the ranch house and food and drink, and later to the unfolding of Jack’s story.As Mr. Reeves had prophesied, the Rangers were proud of their young comrades. And not only the circle of Rangers, but the whole state of Texas rang with their praises until the boys were afraid to look at a newspaper. As for Jack’s generous action in letting Alvarez go free, none but Captain Atkinson, Mr. Reeves and theBorder Boys themselves knew of it, though Bud suspected, or “suspicioned” as he called it.A few days later the revolution was crushed, and they heard afterward that Alvarez had died fighting bravely for what he deemed the right cause. A few days later, too, the boys had to leave their kind Texan friends and wend their way homeward.And now we, too, have reached the parting of the ways so far as this part of the Border Boys’ adventures is concerned. Here, for a time, we will take leave of our young friends, wishing them well till we meet them again in further stirring adventures. What befell them after leaving Texas and how they acquitted themselves in scenes and situations as exciting and thrilling as any through which they have yet passed, will all be related in the next volume of this series, which will be called: “The Border Boys in the Canadian Rockies.”The End.

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 anold 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 tohave 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 uptheir 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 thateasy, 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. Itis peculiarlooking 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 readilyrecognizable 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.

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 anold 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 tohave 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 uptheir 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 thateasy, 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. Itis peculiarlooking 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 readilyrecognizable 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 anycooking 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 ofthe 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 somerain 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 thestorm. 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 oncecame 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 artificiallight. 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 factthat 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 tosay 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.

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 anycooking 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 ofthe 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 somerain 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 thestorm. 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 oncecame 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 artificiallight. 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 factthat 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 tosay 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.

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 avisit 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 comfortablyfurnished 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 wirychestnut 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 wildbuckings, 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.”THEN BEGAN A SERIES OF AMAZING BUCKS.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, comingdown 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 theveteran 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 updusty 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 surpriseof 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 shakingJack’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.

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 avisit 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 comfortablyfurnished 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 wirychestnut 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 wildbuckings, 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.”

THEN BEGAN A SERIES OF AMAZING BUCKS.

THEN BEGAN A SERIES OF AMAZING BUCKS.

THEN BEGAN A SERIES OF AMAZING BUCKS.

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, comingdown 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 theveteran 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 updusty 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 surpriseof 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 shakingJack’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, evershiftingmass, 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 RioGrande. 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 whatwould 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 stayingpowers, 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 treescarcely 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, whocould 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 hadstaggered 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, besideshis 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!” whisperedJack, 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 willhappen 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 andeyes, 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.They had not had an easy night of it, either.The battle to the eastward of the herd that had started the stampede had resulted in a flesh wound for Walt and a bad cut on the hand for Ralph. But the boys and the cow–punchers had managed to make prisoners of ten of the hooded Mexicans, so that they felt they had not done a bad night’s work. If only they had possessed a clew to Jack’s fate, they would, in fact, have been jubilant. Ralph’s behavior during the fight had quite won him back the respect he had lost by his poor exhibition with the rope. The Border Boys were declared “the grittiest ever” by every puncher on the range.The ten prisoners were confined in the barn, but they all denied vigorously having seen anything of Jack. They confessed that their raid had been made for the purpose of getting beef for the rebel army, which had been practically starved out by the government troops.Bud had just dismounted by the corral and Walt and Ralph were dispiritedly doing the samewhen Mr. Reeves uttered a shout and pointed to the far southwest.“Wonder what that is off there, that cloud of dust!” he exclaimed.“I’ll get the glasses, boss,” declared Bud.He dived into the house and speedily reappeared with a pair of powerful binoculars such as most stockmen use.Mr. Reeves applied them to his eyes and gazed long and carefully at the distant object that had attracted his attention.“What is it?” demanded Bud.“I don’t know yet. I can’t see for dust. But I’m pretty sure it’s a band of cattle.”Walt and Ralph held their breaths.“Ourcattle?” almost whispered Bud, in a tense voice.“I can’t be sure. It might be any band of steers crossing the state. Tell you what, Bud, saddle the big sorrel for me and we’ll go and find out.”Ten minutes later the band of horsemen was riding at top speed toward the distant moving objects. As they drew closer it was seen that they were unmistakably cattle. All at once Bud gave a sharp cry.“Boss, they’re our cows. See the big muley steer in front? That’s old Abe. I’d know him among a thousand.”“By George, Bud, you’re right! But who can be driving them?”He was interrupted by a mighty shout from Ralph Stetson.“It’s Jack!” he cried.“Itisthe broncho bustin’ Tenderfoot as sure as you’re a foot high!” bawled out Bud.“But who’s that with him?” demanded Walt.“Dunno; looks like a greaser,” growled Bud, who had no liking for the “brown brothers” across the Border.And then, at the risk of starting anotherstampede, the cavalcade dashed forward, waving their hats and yelling like wild Indians.Mr. Reeves rode right down on Jack.“Boy, you’re a wonder. How did you do it? No; stop; don’t tell me now. I can see you’re about tuckered out. How are you?”“Roasted out,” rejoined Jack with an attempt at a smile. But his voice was hoarse as a crow’s and his lips were too baked and cracked to smile naturally.“Great heavens, boy, you’ve been through an awfully tough ordeal, I can see that. But who is this personage here?”Mr. Reeves indicated Alvarez, who shrank under his gaze.Jack forced his voice out of his parched throat.“That is my assistant driver, Mr. Reeves,” he said. “We have had a good deal of talk as we came along and he tells me that he has a great longing to go back to his own country andstay there. He knows what it means if he comes backacross the Border again, don’t you, Alvarez?”“Si, Señor Merrill,” stammered the Mexican while Bud glowered at him.“There’s something behind all this, Jack, that I can partly guess at,” declared Mr. Reeves, “but if you really want him to go, let him go.”“You hear?” croaked Jack in Spanish.“Si, señor.”“Then go.”The Mexican wheeled his horse, doffed his peaked hat in a graceful wave and in a loud, clear voice shouted:“Adios, señors!”He struck his spurs home and brought down his quirt. His horse sprang forward. Straight for the Rio Grande he rode and vanished over its northern bank. Five minutes later he was off American soil. On the opposite bank he paused once more, wheeled his horse and waved his sombrero in token of farewell. Then he vanished, so far as the boys were concerned, forever.“Now, forward,” cried Mr. Reeves. “Bud, you hold the cattle here till I send out some boys to help you bring them in. Jack, you come with us at once. You need doctoring up.”“Can’t I stay and bring the cattle in?” pleaded Jack.“Son,” said the rancher in a deep voice, “you’vedoneyour duty; mine begins now. I haven’t heard your story yet, but I’ll bet my last dollar that you’ve done a big thing out there, and that the Rangers will be mighty proud of their boy recruits.”And then they rode forward to the ranch house and food and drink, and later to the unfolding of Jack’s story.As Mr. Reeves had prophesied, the Rangers were proud of their young comrades. And not only the circle of Rangers, but the whole state of Texas rang with their praises until the boys were afraid to look at a newspaper. As for Jack’s generous action in letting Alvarez go free, none but Captain Atkinson, Mr. Reeves and theBorder Boys themselves knew of it, though Bud suspected, or “suspicioned” as he called it.A few days later the revolution was crushed, and they heard afterward that Alvarez had died fighting bravely for what he deemed the right cause. A few days later, too, the boys had to leave their kind Texan friends and wend their way homeward.And now we, too, have reached the parting of the ways so far as this part of the Border Boys’ adventures is concerned. Here, for a time, we will take leave of our young friends, wishing them well till we meet them again in further stirring adventures. What befell them after leaving Texas and how they acquitted themselves in scenes and situations as exciting and thrilling as any through which they have yet passed, will all be related in the next volume of this series, which will be called: “The Border Boys in the Canadian Rockies.”The End.

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, evershiftingmass, 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 RioGrande. 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 whatwould 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 stayingpowers, 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 treescarcely 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, whocould 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 hadstaggered 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, besideshis 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!” whisperedJack, 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 willhappen 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 andeyes, 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.

They had not had an easy night of it, either.The battle to the eastward of the herd that had started the stampede had resulted in a flesh wound for Walt and a bad cut on the hand for Ralph. But the boys and the cow–punchers had managed to make prisoners of ten of the hooded Mexicans, so that they felt they had not done a bad night’s work. If only they had possessed a clew to Jack’s fate, they would, in fact, have been jubilant. Ralph’s behavior during the fight had quite won him back the respect he had lost by his poor exhibition with the rope. The Border Boys were declared “the grittiest ever” by every puncher on the range.

The ten prisoners were confined in the barn, but they all denied vigorously having seen anything of Jack. They confessed that their raid had been made for the purpose of getting beef for the rebel army, which had been practically starved out by the government troops.

Bud had just dismounted by the corral and Walt and Ralph were dispiritedly doing the samewhen Mr. Reeves uttered a shout and pointed to the far southwest.

“Wonder what that is off there, that cloud of dust!” he exclaimed.

“I’ll get the glasses, boss,” declared Bud.

He dived into the house and speedily reappeared with a pair of powerful binoculars such as most stockmen use.

Mr. Reeves applied them to his eyes and gazed long and carefully at the distant object that had attracted his attention.

“What is it?” demanded Bud.

“I don’t know yet. I can’t see for dust. But I’m pretty sure it’s a band of cattle.”

Walt and Ralph held their breaths.

“Ourcattle?” almost whispered Bud, in a tense voice.

“I can’t be sure. It might be any band of steers crossing the state. Tell you what, Bud, saddle the big sorrel for me and we’ll go and find out.”

Ten minutes later the band of horsemen was riding at top speed toward the distant moving objects. As they drew closer it was seen that they were unmistakably cattle. All at once Bud gave a sharp cry.

“Boss, they’re our cows. See the big muley steer in front? That’s old Abe. I’d know him among a thousand.”

“By George, Bud, you’re right! But who can be driving them?”

He was interrupted by a mighty shout from Ralph Stetson.

“It’s Jack!” he cried.

“Itisthe broncho bustin’ Tenderfoot as sure as you’re a foot high!” bawled out Bud.

“But who’s that with him?” demanded Walt.

“Dunno; looks like a greaser,” growled Bud, who had no liking for the “brown brothers” across the Border.

And then, at the risk of starting anotherstampede, the cavalcade dashed forward, waving their hats and yelling like wild Indians.

Mr. Reeves rode right down on Jack.

“Boy, you’re a wonder. How did you do it? No; stop; don’t tell me now. I can see you’re about tuckered out. How are you?”

“Roasted out,” rejoined Jack with an attempt at a smile. But his voice was hoarse as a crow’s and his lips were too baked and cracked to smile naturally.

“Great heavens, boy, you’ve been through an awfully tough ordeal, I can see that. But who is this personage here?”

Mr. Reeves indicated Alvarez, who shrank under his gaze.

Jack forced his voice out of his parched throat.

“That is my assistant driver, Mr. Reeves,” he said. “We have had a good deal of talk as we came along and he tells me that he has a great longing to go back to his own country andstay there. He knows what it means if he comes backacross the Border again, don’t you, Alvarez?”

“Si, Señor Merrill,” stammered the Mexican while Bud glowered at him.

“There’s something behind all this, Jack, that I can partly guess at,” declared Mr. Reeves, “but if you really want him to go, let him go.”

“You hear?” croaked Jack in Spanish.

“Si, señor.”

“Then go.”

The Mexican wheeled his horse, doffed his peaked hat in a graceful wave and in a loud, clear voice shouted:

“Adios, señors!”

He struck his spurs home and brought down his quirt. His horse sprang forward. Straight for the Rio Grande he rode and vanished over its northern bank. Five minutes later he was off American soil. On the opposite bank he paused once more, wheeled his horse and waved his sombrero in token of farewell. Then he vanished, so far as the boys were concerned, forever.

“Now, forward,” cried Mr. Reeves. “Bud, you hold the cattle here till I send out some boys to help you bring them in. Jack, you come with us at once. You need doctoring up.”

“Can’t I stay and bring the cattle in?” pleaded Jack.

“Son,” said the rancher in a deep voice, “you’vedoneyour duty; mine begins now. I haven’t heard your story yet, but I’ll bet my last dollar that you’ve done a big thing out there, and that the Rangers will be mighty proud of their boy recruits.”

And then they rode forward to the ranch house and food and drink, and later to the unfolding of Jack’s story.

As Mr. Reeves had prophesied, the Rangers were proud of their young comrades. And not only the circle of Rangers, but the whole state of Texas rang with their praises until the boys were afraid to look at a newspaper. As for Jack’s generous action in letting Alvarez go free, none but Captain Atkinson, Mr. Reeves and theBorder Boys themselves knew of it, though Bud suspected, or “suspicioned” as he called it.

A few days later the revolution was crushed, and they heard afterward that Alvarez had died fighting bravely for what he deemed the right cause. A few days later, too, the boys had to leave their kind Texan friends and wend their way homeward.

And now we, too, have reached the parting of the ways so far as this part of the Border Boys’ adventures is concerned. Here, for a time, we will take leave of our young friends, wishing them well till we meet them again in further stirring adventures. What befell them after leaving Texas and how they acquitted themselves in scenes and situations as exciting and thrilling as any through which they have yet passed, will all be related in the next volume of this series, which will be called: “The Border Boys in the Canadian Rockies.”

The End.

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