CHAPTER IIMACHINE GUNS
Thecrowd had arrived in the Lone Star State only a few days before. Traveling by rail, they reached a little town on the Rio Grande, visited the company headquarters of the Texas Rangers, for the time being stationed there, then put up at the rather pretentious Ledaro Hotel.
The first thing the boys did was to hire horses and provide themselves with firearms; the second, to ride off on a tour of the surrounding country. A few miles out of town, crowning the summit of a gentle rise, an abandoned ranch-house claimed their attention. Old and dilapidated, a suggestion of romance seemed to hover about its cracked and yellowed adobe walls. To those poetically inclined it conjured up thoughts of the long ago, when the sun shone on a fresh, clean structure situated amid a grassy field. But now rank weeds and scraggly bushesflourished unchecked, while vines climbed about the wooden steps or trailed over the veranda railing, as if to flaunt their disdain of the ruin which time and neglect had wrought.
Dave suggested renting the place. His idea received enthusiastic support. With Carl Alvin’s aid, they succeeded in finding the owner; and he, possessing that hospitality for which the Southern people are noted, promptly gave his consent, though the crowd had a difficult task to persuade him to accept remuneration.
Don Stratton had always been accustomed to ease and luxury, and though he couldn’t understand why the crowd should deliberately cast aside the comforts of hotel life, he proved his gameness by offering no objection to the plan.
So the ancient interior, in which perhaps for years the dreary silence had only been occasionally broken by intruding rodents scurrying across the floors or bats flapping in circular flights about the rooms, now became the temporary home of lusty, enthusiastic youths.
According to Tom, the task of putting thelower floor into habitable shape was jolly good fun. Many willing hands made the cleaning and dusting occupy but a surprisingly short time. From a clump of timber close by the boys gathered great quantities of fragrant cedar boughs; and these, skilfully fashioned, became their beds. Then, from the old, tumble-down stable in the rear, they obtained a supply of boards which enabled them to construct a table and several benches, rough and uncouth in appearance, yet strong and serviceable.
It was just about this time that the crowd had received a letter from Cranny telling them to be on the lookout for him. And now the Tacoma boy was actually there.
“Hooray for the Rambler Club!” repeated Cranny. “What a perfectly rippin’ time we’re goin’ to have, fellows! Just let me get a horse, a few shootin’ irons—then I’ll be so jolly happy I’ll——” He paused. “Just happened to think o’ that makin’-a-livin’ business,” he explained.
“Oh, cheer up!” laughed Don. “Come along. We’ll conduct you through the palace.”
“I’d be more cheerful than a song-bird in spring,” declared Cranny, “if I only knew what to do.”
The tread of many feet and the sound of voices echoed uncannily through the rooms as the lads passed from one to another. Everywhere their eyes lighted on broken plaster, decaying boards, and many a thick festoon of cobwebs dimly revealed itself in shadowy corners. Up a twisting stairway they climbed to the second floor. Here Cranny, to his surprise, always found himself coming upon unexpected rooms and passageways,—these last, dark, somber-looking places, where the accumulated dust of ages rose up in choking clouds.
“Been up on the roof yet, fellows?” he asked, suddenly noting in one of the rooms a ladder resting against a trap-door.
“Of course. It was about the second thing we did,” answered Tom. “There’s a dandy view, too.”
“Me for the roof, then,” declared Cranny.
He briskly crossed the floor; sprang up the rungs of the ladder; then the door, in response to a vigorous shove, banged on theroof, while a flood of whitish light poured through the opening.
Cranny immediately scrambled upward. For an instant his figure was sharply outlined against the blue sky, then he disappeared from view.
One by one the others followed until all stood on the gently-sloping roof, the target for a fresh, strong breeze which swept directly toward them from the land of Mexico.
Tom’s description was not exaggerated. Here and there bright spots of a yellowish color traced the course of the Rio Grande, and the low hills on the opposite side were now touched with delicate purple shadows and glowing lights.
In the vast sweep of country which their lofty perch embraced, not a living thing was in sight. The undulating surfaces stretched far off with the grasses billowing like waves of the sea, and finally melted softly into a hazy sky.
“Superb!” murmured Dave.
“Gettin’ an inspiration for a poem?” asked Cranny with a chuckle.
“Almost,” laughed the stout lad, seatinghimself with a sigh of satisfaction. His example was quickly followed.
Cranny still had a number of questions to ask. He wanted to know all about their experiences since they had been in Wyoming together; and the Ramblers, too, felt a keen interest to hear some further particulars in regard to his own affairs at Tacoma. Naturally all this took some time. The sun rose to the zenith and continued on its slow journey toward the west while lively tongues rattled on. Cranny was in the midst of a graphic description of his “failure” when a sound—a very faint sound coming from the distance—abruptly caused him to break off in the middle of a sentence. He glanced inquiringly toward his companions.
“What in thunder was that?” he demanded, raising his hand. “Listen!”
“Great Scott!” cried Tom, springing to his feet, and gazing intently toward the Mexican hills. “That must mean trouble not so very far away.”
Once more the sound, borne on the sweeping wind, came to their ears. It was unmistakably the rattle of a machine gun, andpresently a continuous series of ominous reports convinced every one that somewhere across the Rio Grande an engagement was taking place between Federal and Revolutionary forces.
“By George! Fellows, I reckon if we ever got over there, we’d see some excitement!” Cranny Beaumont’s eyes, as he spoke, were shining with excitement. “Sounds like a hot scrap, eh?”
The Ramblers all knew the Tacoma lad’s reckless, daring nature. Wherever any excitement was going on, there Cranny wanted to be. And the eagerness of his expression plainly revealed the thoughts running through his mind.
“I’d rather stay on this side of the river,” drawled Dave. He grinned faintly. “It’s no fun, Cranny, to be anywhere in the vicinity of bursting shells, or to hear bullets singing past one’s head.”
“We know by experience, too,” said Tom loftily.
“You bet,” chimed in Don Stratton.
“A chap wouldn’t have to run into any danger,” declared Cranny, rising to join Tom, who stood near the edge of the roof. “Someday——” The lad paused, but the sparkle hadn’t faded from his eyes, nor the notes of suppressed excitement from his voice.
“He’s always out for adventure,” said Bob to Dave.
“Yes, and always bound to find it,” returned the other.
As the faint notes of warfare continued, sometimes barely perceptible above the sighing of the breeze, then again booming forth clearly, the nerves of all were tingling.
“How glad I am we’re neutral,” remarked Dave.
“How I’d like to be in an aeroplane lookin’ down upon it,” declared Cranny.
Finally the distant guns spoke at longer intervals, and at length ceased altogether.
“Yes,” said the Tacoma lad reflectively, “a jaunt into old Mexico would—— Oh, don’t shake your head, Dave—I reckon I’ll have to go—so near, you know. What! Lunch time already? By Jove! I’d almost forgotten about it. Let’s hurry—I want to hire that nag this afternoon.”
Recklessly he sprang for the trap-door, and several times the ladder threatened to collapsebeneath the weight of the boys as they piled back into the room.
When they reached the lower floor, Tom explained to Cranny that he was “chef” for the afternoon.
“To-night Don takes a crack at it,” he added.
“And I reckon you’ll all want to take a crack at me after the frost is over,” grinned Don.
The Ramblers immediately got things under way. Dick kindled a fire in the old-fashioned open-grate; Bob brought forth the provisions and tin dishes, while stout Dave and Sam attended to various odds and ends.
Tom went about his duties with a stern and determined air, and Cranny, watching him with twinkling eyes, was before very long sniffing some delicious odors. A monster coffee-pot generously let the nature of its contents be known, and beans baked the day before in true lumberman’s style, now having the finishing touches supplied, helped to indicate that this meal at least would be no “frost.”
When the chef finally cried, “Fall in, fellows,”the others obeyed his summons with wonderful alacrity, and in a few moments the good things began to vanish like a flurry of snowflakes in the early spring.
About an hour later the boys were in the stable.
“Ho, for that little Mexican town, and the Texas Rangers!” exclaimed Cranny. Then his eyes traveling over the mustangs he added, “A corkin’ fine pony o’ yours, Bob.” He critically examined the brown-patched animal when the Rambler a moment later led it forth into the light.
No friendly look greeted Cranny from a pair of dark, intelligent eyes. And at almost every sound the mustang’s shaggy sides quivered; its ears were thrown back, while four active hoofs suggested the advisability of keeping a considerable distance away.
“H’m—a jolly bad-tempered little beast,” commented the lad.
“Here’s the horse-dealer’s description of him,” laughed Bob. “‘He’s hardy as a cactus, vicious as a rattler, and as ungrateful as a coyote, but he certainly can go.’”
“Well, I only hope that I can find one justlike him,” declared Cranny. “They can’t be too gingery for me.”
It was a pretty difficult job to saddle “Whirly-gig,” but Bob accomplished the task with an ease that brought an admiring comment from the big Tacoma lad.
“You’re as clever as a cow-puncher in a wild-west show, Bob,” he chuckled.
“Thanks,” laughed the other. “Whoa! old boy,” he patted the pony’s neck. “Ready, fellows? Whoa—come along then!”
A clatter of hoofs echoed noisily throughout the dingy old building as the horses one by one were led outside.
“Into the saddle, boys,” cried Bob, springing into his own. “Jump up, Cranny—look out.”
Cranny, active, alert, his eyes shining with pleasure, had need to heed this caution. The mustang, “Whirly-gig,” apparently having no desire for a repetition of his early morning experience, was exhibiting a tendency to buck and dance.
Seizing a favorable moment, he matched his speed with the pony’s and won. Then almost simultaneously six mustangs leapedforward, soon to settle down into a steady, loping trot.
And a few minutes later, bathed in the bright clear sunlight, horses and riders became but tiny, far-off specks amid the ever-billowing grasses of the plain.