CHAPTER XIIRIFLE SHOTS
Withall the skill and celerity which long experience had given them, the Rangers began their preparations for the long hours before them. The boys, too, got busy. Immediately after attending to the wants of their mustangs, the three, using the leather buckets they always carried, brought water from the river. Then fuel was gathered and a fire started.
It was Dave Brandon’s turn to cook for his companions. Though very often slow in his movements, the stout, round-faced historian always managed to cast aside this tendency when anything called for action. Now at work among the pots and pans he stepped about with a lightness and agility which scarcely seemed compatible with his avoirdupois.
“You’re a wonder, Dave,” declared Don.
“Thanks,” laughed the Rambler. “I hope you’ll think my flapjacks are.”
“What! did I hear aright?” cried Don. “Flapjacks!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, joy!” gurgled Sam.
“And do make at least two or three pailfuls,” pleaded Don.
The fire crackling noisily sent columns of bluish smoke rising high above the hills. As the shadows deepened and stars began to twinkle in the sky, the dancing light crept farther and farther out until objects in a vast circle were lifted from the surrounding gloom.
Dave with his frying-pan was the object of universal attention. The lad had learned the art of making flapjacks from the Wyoming cowboys. With a skill almost equal to theirs he cooked panful after panful, while enthusiastic comments were continually heard. Carl Alvin, acting for the Rangers, joined in.
“I’ll give you fair warning, boys,” he grinned. “We’re going to be flapjack rustlers to-night; eh, Chaney?”
“Believe me, that’s true,” responded the Ranger.
Men and boys certainly had a great meal that night; at least, every one said so; andfurthermore all agreed, too, that the finest dinner in the finest restaurant on earth could never have tasted any better.
When all the dishes were cleared away, they lolled about on blankets or marched to and fro, the flickering firelight casting fantastic lights and shadows over figures and surroundings. An incessant chant and hum of insects accompanied the never ending rustlings and sighings of leaves and grasses, while occasionally louder sounds told them that some wild creature was scurrying through the underbrush.
When the moon rose above the eastern hills, paling by its majesty the stars and constellations, Dave Brandon rose to his feet.
“Boys,” he announced, “I’m going to take a stroll.”
“Goodness, what a surprise,” said Don. “Why, you’re generally the first to turn in.”
“I know, but the effects to-night are symphonies in color, too beautiful to miss. Who’s coming along?”
Both lads promptly accepted his invitation.
“I’ll wait up for you,” chuckled Carl Alvin. “I’m standing the first watch.”
The three presently skirted the base of a hill, soon coming out on a broad flat stretch bordering the famous river.
Five minutes later it seemed as though they were absolutely alone in a vast solitude, for neither firelight nor sound betrayed the presence of the Texas Rangers.
“Grand, indeed, is nature,” commented Dave. “Just look at the poetic lights and shadows playing over yonder hills. Doesn’t it look wonderfully peaceful? How can there be any trouble in such a world?”
“Ask the Mexicans,” grinned Dick.
“They are authorities on the subject of trouble,” said Sam. “Large chunks of it come their way every day.”
In order to obtain better views of the surroundings the lads at times climbed the steep, rugged hills, on the heights of which they nearly always paused to rest, and the historian continually discovering some new beauty in the landscape let the others share his pleasure.
Finally the walking became more difficult, the hills much higher. Panting with exertion they struggled to the top of one, immediately to seat themselves by the side of a mass of cactus.
“I guess this is far enough, boys,” panted Dave. His eyes wandered over the forms on the slopes, which in the moonlight suggested miniature gorges or beetling cliffs. Then, lastly, he looked with sleepy eyes at the earth’s satellite, showing with wonderful brilliancy from a field of greenish blue. Directly beneath, its shimmering reflection appeared in the water of the Rio. And then—everything faded from the stout historian’s sight; reality no longer confronted him, the vague fancies of the dreamer taking its place.
Aroused by a touch on his arm, he sat bolt upright.
“Gracious!” he exclaimed. He had expected to see the moon in a certain position in the heavens, and instead of that discovered it to be in altogether another. “How long——?”
“Is it possible you didn’t hear, Dave?” queried Sam in earnest tones.
“Hear what?”
No reply was necessary.
Ominous and startling, a fusillade of rifle shots, coming from the Mexican border, rang out on the still night air.