The Rambler Club on theTexas BorderCHAPTER ICRANNY
The Rambler Club on theTexas Border
“Honestly, fellows, I can hardly keep from shouting hip, hip, hurrah—rah, rah, rah, all the time. Just think, here we are, out for adventure. Yes, I’ve got to let it go. Rah, rah, rah for the Ramblers, and ditto for the Texas Rangers!”
It was a big, husky-looking chap who uttered this rapid flow of words, and the shout which ended his sentence rang through the spacious square room of the ranch-house so lustily that his hearers, a crowd of six boys and two men, broke into a storm of laughter.
The shining eyes of Cranny Beaumont, once of Kingswood, Wisconsin, and later of Tacoma, Washington, would have told of his delight and exuberant spirits without thiscorroborative evidence. And his companions, or at least the boys, looked just as happy as he.
The Rambler Club and Cranny Beaumont, the impetuous, the reckless, the daring but always rollicking, light-hearted lad, were once more in each other’s company and eager for the adventurous life which they hoped would be theirs for a few weeks to come.
It was rather an odd assortment of boys and men which lounged informally about the room. Beside the five Ramblers,—Bob Somers, Dave Brandon, Tom Clifton, Dick Travers, Sam Randall and their friend Don Stratton, the son of a New Orleans financier,—there were present Sergeant Robson Howell and Private Carl Alvin of the Ranger force at Texas.
Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton were easily the most conspicuous members of the club. The former, stout, round-faced, with twinkling eyes that betrayed a wealth of good humor, was an excellent foil to the tall, active Tom, whose shoulders, now broadening out, gave him quite the appearance of a formidable athlete.
All the lads with the exception of Don Stratton showed the beneficial effects of outdoor life. Clear skins, cheeks flushed with the ruddy hue of health, and keen steady eyes stamped each with an air of vigor and strength.
Cranny Beaumont hadn’t lived out in the open as much as his friends, but to none did that life hold a stronger appeal. As he ceased pacing the floor, to come to a halt before the window, his eyes rested upon two brown-patched mustangs tethered to hitching-posts near the broad flight of steps which led to the entrance. To him these restless, stamping animals, surcharged with life, dynamic with force and energy, seemed fairly to breathe the spirit of the plains. In his mind’s eye he could see those vast reaches, the great herds of cattle roaming over them and the cowboys on their lonely rounds. It was a pleasant picture to contemplate, even though it loomed only in the shadowy depths of his imagination, and a loud whoop almost involuntarily escaped his lips.
“I suppose that means a contented spirit,” remarked Sergeant Howell with a grin.
“I should say so,” gurgled Cranny. “Now, fellows——”
“Look here, let’s get down to business,” interrupted Tom Clifton, in a voice which almost possessed the depth and gruffness of the burly sergeant’s. “Fire away, Cranny. You know——”
“I know that I don’t know a whole lot of things about your last trip,” said the Tacoma lad, with a shake of his head. “Go ahead, somebody. I’m listening.”
When Cranny Beaumont spoke in a certain tone and squared his jaw there was generally nothing to do but to accede to his wishes, and Tom, knowing this, figuratively stepped into the spot-light. He told about the business which had brought the crowd to New Orleans, of their unexpected voyage on the Gulf of Mexico aboard Mr. Stratton’s power yacht, and of their still more unexpected and thrilling adventures in the troubled land of Mexico.
It was there the crowd had fallen in with Carl Alvin, the Texas Ranger, at that time on a furlough, and the idea had come to them to spend a few weeks among those famous policemen of the Lone Star State. Alvin was delightedat the idea, and this, in connection with the lure of the open-air life, proved irresistible.
So, in the Ranger’s company, the Ramblers and Don, who succeeded in gaining his father’s permission, had journeyed from the oil district of Tampico, Mexico, to Brownsville, Texas, and thence to a small town on the Rio Grande.
“My, what a great time you’ve had!” exclaimed Cranny. “By George, I only hope I’ll run into something just as full of ginger.”
“Not for me,” said Don Stratton, decidedly. “Gingery affairs of that kind are all well enough to read about, but when it comes to the real thing I’d rather be excused.”
“Well, boys,” broke in the sergeant, “we must be getting along now. Just stepped in to say howdy-do.” A grin crossed his weather-beaten face which was burned to a coppery hue by the sun’s hot rays. “Ride over to headquarters whenever you feel like it,” his glance fell on Cranny—“and don’t try too hard to run into adventures, my lad, or——”
His sentence, concluded by a significant gesture of a big brown hand, plainly conveyedhis meaning, and caused the Ramblers to chuckle with mirth.
“The sergeant has you sized up all right, Cranny,” exclaimed Tom. He intended to speak in a low, confidential tone, but every one in the room plainly heard his words. “I say, old chap, it wouldn’t be possible to have a nice, quiet time with you along, eh?”
“Not if I could help it,” grinned Cranny. He faced the burly Howell. “You’ll see us come over, Sergeant. Honestly, I’m just pinin’ to get a glimpse o’ that bunch o’ Rangers.”
“An’ I guess all of ’em will be just as glad to see you,” remarked Carl Alvin. “If there’s anything a Ranger likes, it’s a chap brimful of grit.” He eyed the big Tacoma lad critically. “And if I’m not mistaken you’ve got the goods.”
“Thanks!” laughed Cranny.
The two Rangers picked up their rifles, which rested in a near-by corner, and with the crowd following at their heels walked out on the wide veranda which extended entirely around the old rambling building.
Good-byes were said. Then the crowdwatched the policemen untie their fiery mustangs and swing themselves into the saddle. The animals kicked up their heels, shot forward, then settling into a loping trot carried them swiftly away.
On all sides of the house stretched a broad undulating prairie covered with long waving grass which sparkled in the light of a cloudless day. To the southwest, seen as flat, gray masses against a sky of dazzling brilliancy, rose the low, irregular hills of Mexico, just across the Rio Grande. Northward, a line of cottonwoods and oaks fringed the border of an unseen watercourse, and dotted over the great expanse were groups of trees or other vegetation.
Amid this immensity of space the figures of the rapidly retreating horsemen seemed to be dwarfed to mere pigmy proportions; but even from afar the rays of the sun, striking on pistol butts or trappings, continued to send back spots of flashing light.
Cranny Beaumont drew a long breath. With all the eagerness of a bird which sees the door of its cage open and freedom before it he observed these vast reaches extending offto a hazy distance. How different it was from being cooped up in a city office, a din of clicking typewriters continually sounding in his ears!
“Well, fellows!” he said.
And then such a curiously sober look chased away his expression of whole-hearted enjoyment that Tom spoke up:
“What’s the matter, Cranny?”
“Tell us the secret sorrow,” chirped Dick.
The big Tacoma lad seated himself on the veranda railing, where with one foot swinging forth and back like a pendulum, he began to grin almost sheepishly.
“Say, fellows, the fact is I’m a—a—oh, hang it all, you might as well know—a—a—failure.”
“For goodness’ sake!” cried Tom—“a failure?”
“Terrible indeed to hear such a confession from one so old!” mused Dave.
“Yes, sir—or sirs—a flat failure; even a steam roller couldn’t make it flatter.”
“Hist—hist! Another case of life’s young dream forever shattered!” gurgled Don Stratton.
“Oh, it may sound very funny to you chaps,” said Cranny, “but honest to goodness, I feel pretty serious—or at least I do sometimes.”
“Go ahead, Cranny,” laughed Bob. “We’re listening now.”
“I’ve been intending to tell you ever since the train dropped me, about an hour ago, at that station back yonder and your nag, Bob, carried us over here—a hefty weight for one little horse-power, eh?”
“Stick to the point at issue,” said the Rambler, in judicial tones.
“I’ve been working in dad’s real estate office off an’ on for a long time, you know; but I couldn’t get down to the clockwork thing. It was late in the morning—late gettin’ back at lunch time, an’—an’——”
“Early leaving at night, I s’pose?” suggested Dick.
“Rather. Well, at last dad simply wouldn’t stand for it any longer, an’—an’ I don’t blame him.”
“Neither do we,” grinned Sam.
“When I received a letter from Bob Somers telling me the crowd was going to spend ashort time with the Texas Rangers I got an idea.”
“Fine! Let’s share it,” cried Dick.
“Dad could have found me a job in a big wholesale house. But after thinkin’ things over a bit I put it up to him like this: ‘Father’ I said, ‘the Ramblers are in Texas.’ An’—— Say, boys, maybe he didn’t laugh!”
“Why?” demanded Tom, suspiciously.
Cranny regarded the tall lad with a quizzical air. Then, like a flash, the thoughtful expression flitted from his face. He laughed in his old, boisterous fashion.
“Because he knew what I was going to say, Tom,” he chuckled. “Both he and I think you’re the greatest bunch ever.”
“Off the subject again, Cranny,” Bob reminded him, severely.
“Ob, pardon me, your Honor. I told dad I simply must see the crowd. Say, but didn’t he look—er—er——”
“Flabbergasted?” said Dick, helpfully.
“You’ve struck it. Anyway, to boil three days’ conversation down into three minutes’ talk,—what do you think he did?” Beforethe others had had a chance to put in even a single word Cranny resumed speaking. “Why, good old dad actually consented to lend me three hundred plunks.
“Yes, sir. An’ he said”—the big lad fairly bubbled over with glee—“‘I consent. Join Bob Somers an’ his club in Texas; but remember, Cranny, henceforth’”—a suggestion of the sober look returned,—“‘you must carve out your own future.’”
“Help!” grinned Dick.
“And when is the carving to begin?” asked Don.
“That’s just it,” confessed Cranny. “I—I—don’t know.”
“One thing’s sure,” pronounced Don: “your pater must be very kind and indulgent.”
“You’re right,” agreed Cranny. “An’ you can just believe he did a whole lot o’ thinkin’. Oh, I know.” He jumped from his perch, to begin striding up and down. “Dad thinks I need a jolly good lesson. I reckon he figures it out this way: In about a month or two the money’ll be all gone—and then! But, by Jove, I won’t, no sir—I’ll—I’ll—— Say,fellows—honest, I don’t know what I’m good for. Speak up, philosopher.”
Stout Dave Brandon smiled genially as his eyes met Cranny’s.
“A few days’ riding about the plains with the Texas Rangers is my prescription,” he said. “The pure fresh air, the illimitable distances, the communing with nature in all its varied aspects, the——”
“Hold on—hold on!” chortled Cranny. “You’re the same old Dave. Fellows”—his tone changed to one of seriousness—“I want to make good at something. But for a few weeks I’ll just chuck all the worry stuff to the Texas winds. Dave’s right. Hooray for the Rambler Club and life with the Rangers!”