About a deep pit, filled to the brim with red-hot, glowing coals, swayed a long line of naked, copper-colored bodies. The glow of the flaming torches illuminated weirdly the surroundings. Steep, rocky walls, bare of timber or vegetation, and the flat, basin-like floor of the deep depression in the mountains formed the secret valley of the Moqui snake dancers.
In lines behind the braves, who were swaying their lithe bodies so rhythmically above the red-hot pit, were grouped scores of stolid-faced Indians. By not the twitch of a single muscle did they display the frenzy that was already at work within them, but their beady, dark eyes glittered as they watched the weird gyrations of the swaying line above the fire.
All at once a low chant arose from the line.Its regular rhythm and booming inflection marked it as being of religious character. Steadily it grew in volume, till half the Indians in that rock-bound basin in the hills were intoning it.
As the line of chief chanters swayed back and forth, from time to time the firelight gleamed on a row of earthen vessels, quaintly illuminated, which stood behind them.
Suddenly one of the dancers turned, and while the shrieks of his fellows grew more and more frenzied, he plunged his hand into the mouth of one of the vessels. He drew his arm forth again, embellished by a hideous ornament—a writhing, struggling diamond-back rattler!
The creature's flat head darted at the man's face, and its fangs seemed to bury themselves in his arm, but his bronze form danced more furiously than ever, and the singing grew louder and more frenzied. The Moqui had reached a pitch of exaltation in which the venom of the serpent was harmless to him.
As the other Indians witnessed the sight their expression of stoicism changed as if by magic.The excitement of the dance was upon them. Suddenly a blood-curdling yell echoed against the rock-bound walls.
A young brave, one of those who had been seated in the front row of the onlookers, sprang to his feet. He cast off his blanket with a shout, standing upright in the firelight, a nude figure of bronze. The play of his muscles showed plain as day in the glare of the glowing pit. Straight up to the earthen jars he gyrated, chanting the refrain of the weird ritual.
Uttering a wild screech, he plunged his arm up to the elbow into its wriggling, deadly contents, and drew forth a vicious-looking sidewinder, or desert rattlesnake—a distinct species from the big diamond-back—and even more deadly.
Without the slightest hesitation, he thrust the monster's spade-shaped head into his mouth, and with one clean bite severed it. He then spat it forth into the glowing pit, where it fell hissing.
the boy leaped to his feetUttering a wild screech, he drew forth a vicious-looking desert rattlesnake.
Uttering a wild screech, he drew forth a vicious-looking desert rattlesnake.
This was the signal for yet wilder frenzies on the part of the Indians. One after another theyoung braves cast off their blankets and rushed forward to repeat the nauseous performance of the snake eater. The ground at the feet of the chanters of the ritual was littered with limp reptiles' bodies. An overpowering, musky stench arose on the air, the odor of scores of burnt envenomed heads.
In the midst of that maddened throng there was but one quiet, unmoved countenance, and that was that of a bearded man, who stood back some distance in the shadows. He eyed the ceremonies with a look that was half contempt and half pity. But he made no motion to interfere, nor did he, in fact, move at all. And for a very good reason. He was bound hand and foot to a post.
His face was white as ashes under its deep bronze, but not from fear, for not a tremor crossed his features. Perhaps a deep wound on the back of his head accounted for it. But Jeffries Mayberry—for our readers must have already recognized the Indian agent—never knew less fear than he experienced as he stood at that moment, captive among a dangerous tribe,rendered doubly formidable as they were by copious doses of cheap liquor and religious frenzy. The Indian agent knew well that the rattlers which the young braves were beheading were far less harmful than the human beings, of whom he was, perhaps, the only self-possessed one in that rocky bowl.
But if Jeffries Mayberry gazed on the ceremonies with contempt, mingled with pity, there was another in the valley who regarded them with almost similar feelings. That person was Black Cloud. The old chieftain had made as stiff a fight as he dared for Jeffries Mayberry's liberation, but had been hooted and jeered down. Diamond Snake was now in full control of the passions and adulation of the tribe, and Black Cloud, the only friend Jeffries Mayberry had within it, at that moment gazed powerlessly on the snake dance. One friendly turn, however, he had been able to do for his white friend, and that was to dispatch the messenger to the ranch of Mr. Harkness. But as Black Cloud, not daring to raise a voice of protest, gazed on the dance, hismind was busy with intense speculation. Even in the event of Mr. Harkness having been reached, it was doubtful if the rancher would arrive in time. The old Indian recognized the symptoms of an approaching climax in the ceremonies, and what that climax was to be he guessed only too well. No white man had ever seen the snake dance of the Moquis and lived to tell of it, if his presence were known. That Jeffries Mayberry was to share the fate of many another unfortunate victim in the tribe's past history, was what Black Cloud feared. That his fears were well grounded we shall presently see.
Suddenly the frenzy died down with the same rapidity with which it had arisen. Above the rim of the rocky basin the silvery edge of the new moon had shown. The height of the excitement was at hand.
Diamond Snake stepped forward from his place in the row of chanters and began to address the tribe in a high, not unmusical voice. As Jeffries Mayberry gazed at his almost faultless form, gleaming like polished bronze in the glareof the fiery pit, he realized what an influence this fine-looking, fiery young Indian must sway among his people. His talk was listened to with deep attention, and seemed to be impassioned and fervid to the last degree.
Although Diamond Snake spoke fast in his excitement, the Indian agent managed to pick out enough of the sense here and there to make out that, as he had suspected, he himself was the subject of the chief's address.
Had he been in any doubt of this, his uncertainty would soon have been dissipated, for all at once every eye in that assemblage was turned on him with a baleful, malignant glare. If Jeffries Mayberry had ever felt one ray of hope, it died out of even his brave heart in that instant.
"Well, I guess Indians are all they say they are, after all," he thought to himself. "Just to think that, after all I've done for those rascals, they've no more gratitude for me than that! Go on, stare away!"
Jeffries Mayberry fairly shouted these last words.
"I wish, though," he continued to himself, while the young chief's voice went on addressing his people, "I wish, though, that they'd turned Ranger loose. I kind of hate to think of him ever being an Indian's horse, for of all maltreaters of horse flesh, they are the worst."
He turned his head—the only portion of his body which was free to move—and gazed back into the shadows where he knew Ranger was tied. For hours after his capture the splendid horse had fretted and raged, but now he had grown quiet.
"Poor old fellow, they've broken his spirit!" thought Jeffries Mayberry. Which goes to show—in the light of what was to come—that a man can get "pretty close," as the saying is, to a horse and yet not know him.
Mayberry could not forbear winking back a little moisture that arose in his eyes as he saw the well-known form of his horse dimly outlined in the darkness behind him. Ranger's head was abjectly hanging down. His whole attitude spokedejection. As Jeffries Mayberry had said, the horse indeed seemed to be spirit-broken.
All at once, while Mayberry's mind was busy with these thoughts, the young chief ceased his oratory, and the moment for action appeared at last to have arrived. With a concerted yell, the band of naked warriors who had chanted the solemn ritual of the snake dance rushed at the Indian agent. Even in that trying moment he did not flinch. He gazed at them unmoved, as they cast him loose from the post, and then instantly rebound his hands. His legs, however, they left free.
Strange to say, the dominant feeling in Jeffries Mayberry's mind at that moment was one of curiosity. He wondered what they were going to do with him. For one instant a shudder passed through his frame. The fiery pit! Could they mean to thrust him into that?
Such, however, was evidently not their intention, for they led him round to the farther side of the glowing coals, past the rows of seatedIndians and squaws, who growled and spat at him as he passed.
"You ungrateful bunch of dogs!" shouted Mayberry, fairly stung into speech. "I hope after I'm gone you'll get what is coming to you!"
If only the soldiers would come, he thought; but realized that without him to guide them it would take the troopers hours, perhaps days, to find the secret valley. No, there was no hope from that quarter. It should be explained here that, although Mr. Mayberry knew about the Indian messenger, he had little faith in the ultimate arrival of Mr. Harkness and the Boy Scouts. Theymightcome, but it would be too late. However, any one would judge Jeffries Mayberry's character very much awry who should conclude that there was any bitterness in his soul. He accepted his fate as a brave man should, without complaint.
"Now what are they going to do?" he thought, as the young braves, having led him past the hissing, spitting ranks of the squaws, arraigned him close to the edge of the pit, which now laybetween him and the crowd of cruel faces beyond. His eyes pierced the darkness keenly, but the glare thrown up at his feet prevented him seeing whether or not Ranger still occupied his same position.
Jeffries Mayberry was not to be left long in doubt as to what his fate was to be. A shudder ran through even his strong soul as he saw what the inhuman ingenuity of the Moquis had contrived for his execution.
His legs, which had remained free, were rapidly bound, and he was forcibly thrown upon his face. As he measured his length, the chanting began once more, and the hand of Diamond Snake himself dived into the biggest of the earthen snake jars. He withdrew it, clasping the largest rattler that Jeffries Mayberry had ever seen,—an immense creature of the diamond-back species, fully eight feet long.
As Mayberry's eyes encountered the leaden glint of the deadly rattler's dull orbs, he felt that this was the beginning of the end.
Amid wild yells from the assemblage on the farther side of the pit, the young brave who had attained temporary ascendency over the tribe cast the snake down on the ground before the recumbent form of the Indian agent. The reptile at first appeared dazed, and made no move, hostile or otherwise. Presently, however, as a deep hush fell over the Indians gazing on the scene, the creature began to sound his rattle.
It was a dull, "horny" sound, like the rattling of dried peas in a bladder. The veins on Mayberry's forehead swelled as he made a desperate effort to burst his bonds, but the green hide held like iron, and he realized that all resistance was useless. Breathing a prayer, he resigned himself for what was to follow. Suddenly the serpent seemed to become endowed with furious rage. Itlashed its mottled tail, and then carefully gauging its distance from the captive, coiled itself for the death strike.
Not a sound was to be heard above the deep, expectant hush, as the red glow fell on the strange, cruel scene: the agonized man, helpless, and the flat, triangular head of the deadly reptile, drawn back as if to give greater force to its death blow.
The Indian agent, as he had abundantly shown, was no coward, nor was his a heart to be stirred by any ordinary ordeal. But the cruel suspense that now ensued broke down even his iron nerves. As he gazed like a fascinated bird into the leaden eyes of the menacing rattler, his courage faltered, and he uttered a despairing cry.
It was answered by a cruel jeer from the frenzied Indians. In the tense excitement none of them had, however, noticed the first moves in an act that was destined presently to change the whole complexion of the scene.
Old Black Cloud knew that the agent's heart was wrapped up in his horse. So far as any oneknew, Mayberry had neither relative nor close friend in the world. In the Indian's eyes, then, the captive would surely wish his horse near him in the hour of his doom.
For one as skilled in silent movement as the old chief, it was an easy matter to slip from his place in the shadows at the rear of the fascinated horde, and with a couple of deft strokes of his knife set Ranger at liberty. Then he silently stole back, and was seated in his former place in a less space of time than it took Ranger to realize that he was free.
The captive's despairing cry reached the horse's ears, and he knew his master's voice.
While the mocking laugh of the tribe was still echoing from the rocks, four iron-shod hoofs struck the earth in a mighty leap, and Ranger alighted heavily in the midst of the amazed throng. With yells and cries of terror, the Indians, who did not know what had occurred, were bowled over right and left. One young brave lay groaning with a pair of broken ribs. Another'sarm was snapped where Ranger's hoofs had struck.
Without pausing one instant, the animal, whose only anxiety was to reach Jeffries Mayberry's side, once more shook his head and, with a shrill whinny, sprang forward. This leap brought him over the heads of the red men, to the very brink of the fiery pit.
Overcoming his natural dread of fire—a far greater terror to horses than almost any other—Ranger gathered his clean-cut limbs for a mighty leap. In one clean jump he cleared the glowing coals. Diamond Snake and his attendant masters of ceremonies had not, in the brief space of time allotted to them for comprehension, made out what was occurring on the opposite side of the pit.
They had not the slightest warning, therefore, when, through the lurid glow, the form of Ranger, crimsoned by the reflection, came leaping like a thunderbolt.
Over went Diamond Snake, toppling backward to avoid the terrible hoofs. With a yell ofsuperstitious terror, the other "priests" gave way. Right and left they ran, shouting that the Great Spirit had sent an infernal messenger among them.
But above all the shrieks, and confusion, and angry shouts rang out one terrible cry. It issued from the lips of Diamond Snake. The hind hoofs of the alighting horse had struck him, and, as has been said, he toppled backward.
Too late he saw behind him the glowing pit of fiery coals. Nerving every muscle in his sinewy frame, the young Moqui warrior strove to avert his doom, but try as he would he could not check his impetus.
He reached the edge of the pit, and with one dreadful cry pitched over backward. For a brief space the red glow grew blackened where he had fallen, but an instant later the intense heat had consumed him, and nothing remained to mark the end of the ambitious young Moqui.
At the moment that Ranger had alighted, the rattlesnake, terrified by the near proximity of the trampling hoofs, released its body as if a steelspring had been set free, and gave its death strike. But as the poison-laden fangs drove toward him, Jeffries Mayberry jerked his head to one side. The rattler had missed. Before it could gather itself for a second attack, it lay, a trampled mass, under Ranger's hoofs. The horse whinnied with pleasure as it gazed at its master. Then it stamped with impatience as it received no response. For the first and last time in his life, Jeffries Mayberry had fainted.
With a howl of rage, like the angry voice of a storm, the Moquis, gathering up their weapons, rushed forward to avenge themselves for the tragic death of Diamond Snake. But they had not reached the edge of the fiery pit before a loud cry halted them. It was Black Cloud. The old Indian stood upright upon a bowlder, and pointed to the entrance of the rocky bowl.
"Now will my brothers listen to the voice of reason?" he shouted above the tumult.
A chorus of jeers and shouts greeted him. The mind of the tribe was a single one in that moment. The death of Jeffries Mayberry, in the same pitas that into which his steed had cast the popular young Diamond Snake, was their raging desire.
"Then look!" rang out the voice of Black Cloud, as he pointed to the rocky path at the westerly side of the bowl.
As the eyes of the redskins followed the patriarch's pointing finger, a perfect howl went up once more. The moonlight illumined the figure of a solitary horseman.
A score of rifles were instantly leveled at him, but as the weapons came to the marksmen's shoulders, the lone rider vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.
"Fools!" shouted Black Cloud, as the Moquis, with cries of rage, pressed on to Jeffries Mayberry's side, "that horseman is the forerunner of the white man's vengeance!"
As he spoke, a rifle cracked, and the noble old chief vanished from the rock. Apparently a bullet from the rifle of one of his own followers had felled him. But, as a matter of fact, Black Cloud, with native cunning, had perceived that in the mood his rebellious followers then were, hissafest plan was to keep out of sight. As the bullet hummed past his ear, therefore, he toppled from the rock as if dead. From behind the big bowlder he watched the events that were to follow.
A young brave, anxious to earn the plaudits of his tribesmen by being the instrument of vengeance on Mayberry, rushed forward, and throwing himself on the unconscious man, seized him by the waist and was about to swing him into the flaming pit, when, with a shrill whinny of rage, Ranger's forefeet struck him down. He lay breathing heavily, an ugly wound gaping in his head. As if maddened by this, the great horse plunged, striking and kicking, into the crowd of hated Indians, bowling over and injuring several. But the temporary panic thus created lasted but a minute.
A volley was fired at the noble figure of the raging horse, and he fell, still fighting, by his master's side.
At the same instant a young redskin sprang forward with an uplifted "agency" axe. He raised it above his head, and was about to buryit in the horse's skull, when something struck the axe and sent it whizzing out of his hand. Simultaneously a sharp crack sounded from the upper end of the rock bowl.
Shouts of alarm sounded on all sides. The Moquis realized they were attacked, and that it was a bullet that had sent the axe spinning out of the murderous young brave's hand.
"Hooray!"
The cry rang out loudly above the Indian whoops and cries, as Rob Blake swept down the rocky trail, followed by the Boy Scouts, cheering as if their throats would split.
Right and left the Moquis went down under their ponies' hoofs, too terrified by the very suddenness of the attack to offer any resistance. A few half-hearted shots were fired, and one or two sombreros were drilled, but, aside from that, no one was injured. The arrival of Mr. Harkness and his cow-punchers ended what little resistance there had been. It was soon over, and the Moquis herded in a sullen, defiant band at the lower end of the bowl.
Rob and his friends hastened forward to Jeffries Mayberry's side, and cut his bonds; and the first thing that the rescued man gazed upon when he recovered consciousness was a circle of friendly faces.
"Well, Mayberry," burst out Mr. Harkness, "I told you so. I hate to say it, but I told you so. If it hadn't been for the Boy Scouts here, we'd never have saved you."
"No, I guess not, Harkness," breathed the agent, "and this is not the place to tell you all how I feel. But, but——"
His voice faltered as he gazed at Ranger, who still lay on the ground. Blinky and some of the cow-punchers had been examining his injuries.
"Is Ranger seriously hurt?"
The agent's throat sounded dry. He could hardly bring himself to ask the question.
"No, he'll be around in a while," announced Blinky; "only a tendon on the off front leg is sprained. He'll carry a few scars, though."
And so it proved, for, though Ranger was soon as well as ever, he carried with him to his lastdays the marks of that night. But his owner, as you may imagine, treasured every one of them, for each blemish spoke to him of his horse's affection and nobility.
"Hullo, here come the soldiers!" exclaimed Tubby suddenly, with that fleshy youth's usual indifferent manner.
A bugle call and a loud cheer announced the news at the same moment.
"So they are!" exclaimed Mr. Mayberry, who by this time was standing upright, although he still had to lean weakly on the shoulder of Mr. Harkness.
"A good thing you didn't wait for them," remarked Blinky; "they'd have come too late."
"That was not their fault," put in Mr. Harkness. "The messenger I sent to Sentinel Peak could not have reached there more than an hour or two ago. They must have ridden like the wind."
Indeed, as the bronzed troopers clattered, cheering, into the rocky basin, their steaming,dripping horses bore ample testimony to the pace they had kept up.
"Confounded luck, arriving just too late for the music!" exclaimed the young officer at their head, after first greetings had been exchanged. "I see, though, that you have handled the situation well."
"Yes, thanks to the Boy Scouts," said Mr. Harkness.
"Ah, that is an organization of which I have often heard," observed the soldier. "They are destined to do great work for our country in the future."
"We hope so," said Rob simply.
Little more is left to be told of the Boy Scouts' adventures on the range. The rebellious Moquis, thoroughly cowed by their lesson, went peaceably back to the reservation, and accepted Black Cloud once more as their chief. Their break from the place set aside for them, though, was paid for by the stoppage of more than one privilege. In course of time Mr. Mayberry recovered some ofhis faith in the Indian character, but even he admits that his optimism has been severely shaken.
Possibly, if you were to pay a visit to the tribe, you might be tempted to ask who a certain graceful young squaw is, whose buckskin garments are literally covered with wonderful bead work, and round whose slender neck hang so many chains of red, yellow, amber and blue globules that you might be inclined to think it would make her stoop-shouldered.
If you asked her her name you would be told that she is Susyjan. She is regarded as the most attractive young squaw in the tribe, and her fortunate husband will have to give her old father many ponies and blankets before he can hope to win her hand. The source of Susyjan's beady splendor, however, has always, as you may imagine, remained a mystery to the tribe.
Clark Jennings and his unworthy accomplices were tried in due course for their offenses against the law, and received various heavy sentences. In a Western community few more serious crimes,for obvious reasons, can be committed than cattle stealing.
The days following the surrender of the renegade tribe were happy ones for the young Eastern scouts. In due course of time, the uniforms Rob had ordered for the Ranger Patrol arrived, and the organization is now one of the most flourishing in the B. S. of A.
Hunting trips were organized and many excursions made into the mountains. The boys, too, shared in the excitement of a round-up, and proved themselves of use in many ways. Altogether, the Boy Scouts has become a name to conjure with in that part of Arizona.
What became of Silver Tip?
Well, the story of how Rob had Silver Tip at his mercy, and let the huge brute go, has become a ranch classic. This is no place to relate it at length, but one day on a mountain hunt the monarch of the hills and the boy who had once rushed wildly upon the monster's shaggy form, met face to face.
Did Silver Tip recognize the lad? Who cantell? Animals possess many faculties and instincts we do not credit them with. Be that as it may, it seemed to the imaginative Rob that the monster's eyes bore a craven look, as if he realized that judgment was come upon him. Rob stood alone upon a rocky ledge. Below him the great brute gazed upward, in the position he had frozen into on his first discovery of the young hunter. Rob raised his heavy rifle to his shoulder. The great creature was at his mercy. He paused an instant and then slowly lowered the weapon again.
"Go on, old Silver Tip!" he said. "Let some one else wipe out your wicked old life."
Tubby was highly indignant when he heard of this.
"Gee whiz!" he exclaimed, "you ought to have thought of me, Rob. I've been hearing about bear steak ever since I've been out here, and now I've lost about the only chance I've ever had to stick my teeth into one."
One day a letter came to the ranch house which caused several long faces to be drawn. Itannounced the opening, within a week, of the Hampton Academy.
And so—as all good things have to draw to a close—the happy, eventful days of the Boy Scouts on the Range ended. But had they realized it, the exciting scenes through which they had passed were only a milestone in their adventurous lives.
We shall meet our young friends again, and follow them through many more stirring incidents and scenes in the next volume of this series. Some of these will be connected with the wonderful new science of ærial navigation.
This new installment of their adventures will be called:The Boy Scouts and the Army Airship.
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BYLIEUT. HOWARD PAYSONMODERN BOY SCOUT STORIES FOR BOYSCloth Bound — Price, 50¢ per volume.
The Boy Scouts of the Eagle Patrol.
A fascinating narrative of the doings of some bright boys who become part of the great Boy Scout movement. The first of a series dealing with this organization, which has caught on like wild fire among healthy boys of all ages and in all parts of the country.
While in no sense a text-book, the volume deals, amid its exciting adventures, with the practical side of Scouting. To Rob Blake and his companions in the Eagle Patrol, surprising, and sometimes perilous things happen constantly. But the lads, who are, after all, typical of most young Americans of their type, are resourceful enough to overcome every one of their dangers and difficulties.
How they discover the whereabouts of little Joe, the "kid" of the patrol, by means of smoke telegraphy and track his abductors to their disgrace; how they assist the passengers of a stranded steamer and foil a plot to harm and perhaps kill an aged sea-captain, one must read the book to learn. A swift-moving narrative of convincing interest and breathless incident.
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The Boy Scouts on the Range.
Connected with the dwellings of the vanished race of cliff-dwellers was a mystery. Who so fit to solve it as a band of adventurous Boy Scouts? The solving of the secret and the routing of a bold band of cattle thieves involved Rob Blake and his chums, including "Tubby" Hopkins, in grave difficulties.
There are few boys who have not read of the weird snake dance and other tribal rites of Moquis. In this volume, the habits of these fast vanishing Indians are explained in interesting detail. Few boys' books hold more thrilling chapters than those concerning Rob's captivity among the Moquis.
Through the fascinating pages of the narrative also stalks, like a grim figure of impending tragedy, the shaggy form of Silver Tip, the giant grizzly. In modern juvenile writing, there is little to be found as gripping as the scene in which Rob and Silver Tip meet face to face. The boy is weaponless and,—but it would not be fair to divulge the termination of the battle. A book which all Boy Scouts should secure and place upon their shelves to be read and re-read.
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THE BUNGALOW BOYS.
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For instance the lost lead vein which is one of the objects of the boys' quest is associated in a strange way with this Trulliber and his evil companions. The plots of these men are, however, frustrated in a clever manner by the boys; but not without their involving themselves in grave difficulties. Danger too threatens them, as notably when Tom is imprisoned in the mountain cave with every prospect of being speedily drowned if help does not soon come. The source from which aid finally proceeds is as mysterious as the character of the lonely hermit who for a time is mistaken by the boys for an enemy. Not until the end of the book do they learn how utterly they were mistaken, in his character.
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The Dreadnought Boys on Battle Practice.
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In the first volume of the series which bears the above title Ned Strong and Herc Taylor make their debut in Uncle Sam's navy. Of course they have to endure much rough joking. Ned, however, proves so handy with his fists in a notable set-to with the ship's bully that the boys soon set themselves on a footing. From that moment on adventures come thick and fast. At target practice Herc—by a mean trick of his enemy becomes a living target for a twelve inch gun. A flare-back in the forward turret of the Dreadnought on which they are serving gives the lads their longed-for opportunity to show the stuff they are made of. Real books for real boys.
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The Motor Rangers' Lost Mine.
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Naturally, as one would judge from the title, the lost mine, which proves to be Nat Trevor's rightful inheritance,—occupies much of the interest of the book. But the mine was in the possession of enemies so powerful and wealthy that it taxed the boys' resources to the uttermost to overcome them. How they did so makes absorbing reading.
In this book also, the young motor rangers solve the mystery of the haunted Mexican cabin, and exterminate for all time a strange terror of the mountains which has almost devastated a part of the peninsula.
The Motor Rangers too, have an exciting encounter with Mexican cowboys, which beginning comically, comes very near having a serious termination for all hands. Emphatically "third speed" books.
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Ben Stone at Oakdale
BY MORGAN SCOTT
12mo., CLOTH. — ILLUSTRATED. — PRICE 60¢
Never in the history of juvenile fiction have copyrighted books of this class been sold at a price so sensational, for beyond dispute the Oakdale Stories are of the highest grade, such as other publishers market to retail at $1.25 or $1.50 a volume. In no respect, save in price, can these be designated as cheap books; in manufacture, in literary finish, and in the clean, healthy, yet fascinating, nature of the stories they are destined to take rank with the works of the masters of fiction for the modern youth. The first volume is a narrative of school life and football, which, while in no way sensational will cast a spell almost hypnotic upon every young reader, from which he will find it impossible to escape until he has read through to the last word of the last chapter. The tale of the struggles of Ben Stone, a boy misunderstood, an outcast, a pariah, will excite the sympathy of all; and his final triumph over adversity, the scheming of an enemy, and the seemingly malign rebuffs of fate, will be hailed with joy.
FOR SALE WHEREVER BOOKS ARE SOLD,OR SENT POSTPAID UPON RECEIPT OF 60¢ BYHURST & COMPANY, 395 Broadway, NEW YORK
By Morgan ScottHigh Class Copyrighted Stories for BoysCloth Bound — Illustrated — Price, 60 cents a Volume
Boys of Oakdale Academy
by Morgan Scott12mo., cloth. Illustrated. Price, 60¢
This is a brisk, vigorous, snappy, story in which winter sports—snowshoeing, skating, rabbit hunting, and such—are features. In the tale Rodney Grant, a young Texas cowboy, appears at Oakdale and attends the academy, being adjudged an imposter by the New England lads, who entertain a mistaken notion that all Texans swagger and bluster and talk in the vernacular. As Grant is quiet and gentlemanly in his bearing and will not, for some mysterious reason, take part in certain violent sports, they erroneously imagine him to be a coward; but eventually, through the demands of necessity and force of circumstances, the fellow from Texas is led to prove himself, which he does in a most effective manner, becoming, for the time being, at least, the hero of the village. This is a story of vigorous, healthy boys and their likes and dislikes; it is brimming over with human nature and, while true to real life, is as fascinating as the most imaginative yarn of adventure.
For sale wherever books are sold,or sent postpaid upon receipt of 60¢ byHurst & Co., 395 Broadway, New York