The Boy Scouts On The Range
He was a tall, bearded man in regulation plainsman's costume, and his sun-burned face was shielded by a broad sombrero. On his face was a look of determination and self-reliance. As the boys looked at him they felt that here was a man of action and character.
"Hullo, strangers," he said, checking the splendid horse he rode, as the mules came to a stop. "Have you seen anything of any Moquis hereabout?"
"Why, yes," responded Rob; "they – "
"Saw us to the extent of all our small change," put in Tubby.
"Mine, too!" wailed the Mexican. "Mucho malo Indiano."
"What! you have been robbed by them?"
"Feels that way," said Tubby, patting his empty pockets.
"That's too bad," said the man. "I am Jeffries Mayberry, the Indian agent from the reservation. I am trying to round those fellows up without making a lot of trouble over it, and having the papers get hold of the story and print exaggerated accounts of an uprising. They are really harmless if they don't get hold of liquor."
"Or money," put in Tubby.
"Well, as far as we know, they swept off to the southeast," said Rob.
"Yes. They are going to have their snake dance in the Santa Catapinas. Every once in a while they break out and head for there. All the renegade Indian rascals for miles round join them, and besides the dance, which is a religious ceremony, they drink and gamble. Well, I must be getting on, and thank you for your information."
With a wave of his hat, he dug his big blunt-rowelled spurs into his horse's sides and was off in a cloud of dust.
"I'd like to help that fellow get his Indians rounded up," said Rob; "he seems the right sort of a chap."
"Yes, his name is well known around here," rejoined Harry, as the wagon moved onward once more. "He is the best Indian agent that the Moquis have ever had, my father says. He knows them, and can handle them at all ordinary times. He dislikes fuss, however, and hates to see his name in the papers. Otherwise, I guess, he'd have had the soldiers after those fellows."
"I wish we had the Eagle Patrol out here," said Merritt. "We'd soon get after that bunch of redskins."
"Well, why not?" said Harry enigmatically.
"Why not what?"
"Why not form a patrol out here? You know we talked about it in the East in the brief time we had together."
"Say, that's a great idea," assented Rob.
"Who could we get to join, coyotes, rattlers, and jack-rabbits?" asked Tubby solemnly.
"Say, Tubby, this is no joking matter," protested Merritt.
"I'm not joking. Never more serious in my life. A coyote would make a fine scout."
"Yes, to run away," laughed Rob. "But seriously, Harry, could we get enough fellows out here to form a patrol?"
"Sure; I know of a dozen who would join. We could make it a mounted division, and maybe we could help Mr. Mayberry round up his Moquis."
"Say, fellows!" exclaimed Rob, with shining face, "that would be splendid!"
"Maybe we'd get our money back then," grunted Tubby.
"Tell you what we'll do," said Harry. "To-morrow I'll take you with me, Rob, and we'll ride round all the ranches where I know some boys, and get them to sign up. We ought to have a patrol organized in a week at that rate."
"Put me in as a commissariat officer, will you?" asked Tubby.
"That goes without saying," laughed Rob.
As the wagon jolted on over the road, which grew rapidly rougher and rougher, the boys eagerly discussed their great plan.
The foothills were now passed, and they were forging ahead through a deep cañon, or gorge, well wooded on its rugged sides with dark trees and shrubs. Here and there great patches of slablike rock cropped through the soil and showed nakedly among the vegetation. All at once Rob gave a shout and pointed up the hillside at one of these "islands" of rock.
"Look, look!" he shouted. "Something moved up there."
"Something moved," echoed the rest, Indians being the "something" uppermost in every mind.
"Indians?" gasped Tubby.
"No; at least, I don't think so. It was some animal – a huge beast, it seemed to be."
As he spoke there came a crashing of brush far up on the hillside, and every one in the party, even the sleepy Jose, gave vent to a perfect yell of amazement. On one of the rock shelves far above them was poised the massive form of an immense bear. His huge body showed blackly against the sunset-reddened shelf on which he stood. With the exception of one spot of white on his great chest, he was almost black.
"Silver Tip!" shouted Harry Harkness, too excited even to remember his rifle, which lay in the bottom of the wagon.
As he uttered the exclamation, the great ragged brute gave a snort of apparent disdain and clumsily lumbered off into the darker shadows. The next instant he was gone.
CHAPTER V.
AT THE HARKNESS RANCH
"Silver Tip!" echoed Rob, as the immense monarch of the Arizona forest crashed his way off through the undergrowth. "Well, when you told us about him on the steamer, you didn't exaggerate his size. He's as big as a pony."
"Plenty of bear steaks on him," remarked Tubby judiciously.
"I guess you'd find them well seasoned with lead," laughed Harry. "Every hunter in this part of the country has shot at Silver Tip, and plenty of them have hit him, but he always managed to get away. The Indians and the Mexicans are scared of him. They think he is not a bear at all, but some sort of demon in animal form. Eh, Jose?"
"Silvree Teep mucho malo bear," grunted the Mexican. "Only can kill with silver bullet."
"What do you think of that," laughed Harry. "But our hunters have wasted too many lead bullets on old Silver Tip to try him with silver ones. But in spite of his wonderful good fortune hitherto, that bear's day will come."
"Like a dog's," commented Tubby. "You know they say every dog has his day – I guess it's the same way with that old sockdolliger."
"That's so, I guess," rejoined Harry.
Soon afterward they clattered and rumbled down a steep grade leading from the cañon into a wooded, green dip in the foothills. Before them suddenly spread out the vista of apparently illimitable pasture grounds, dotted with feeding cattle. In the foreground, half hidden by big cotton-wood trees, and overtopped by a windmill and water tank, stood a long, low ranch house, with numerous outbuildings and corrals about it.
"That's the range," said Harry, pointing. And as the boys broke into an admiring chorus, the mules plunged forward into a brisk trot. In a short time the outer gate was reached, and opened by dint of pulling a hanging contrivance which worked on a system of levers, that opened and closed the gate at the will of whoever was entering or leaving, without obliging them to dismount.
Around the bunkhouse stood a group of cowboys in leather chapareros and rough blue shirts, awaiting the call to supper in the low, red-painted cook-house. Some of them were gathered about a tin basin, removing the grime of the day. In a large corral were their ponies, browsing on a railed-off stack of grain hay, and occasionally kicking and biting and squealing, as some fractious soul among them instigated a fight.
Suddenly a door in the ranch house opened, and a figure, which the boys recognized as that of Mr. Harkness, emerged. His hands were extended in a hearty welcome, and a smile wreathed his bronzed features.
"Hulloa, boys!" he hailed. "Welcome to the Harkness ranch."
The boys broke into a cheer, and leaping from the wagon, ran forward to greet their kind-hearted host, whom they had last met on the deck of a stranded steamer on the Long Island shoals.
After the first chorus of greetings and questions had passed, Mr. Harkness inquired what had delayed them.
"Indians," rejoined Harry. "They tried to steal mules going down, and they robbed the boys here of their small change on their way up."
The face of the rancher grew graver.
In response to his questions, Rob had soon placed him in possession of the facts surrounding the appearance of the Moquis at the water hole and the subsequent events.
"We shall have to keep a sharp eye on the cattle, then," he said soberly. "I've got a bunch over on the far range, right up in the foothills. If these gentry get hungry they are likely to make a raid on them, or they may even do it out of pure wantonness."
"Yes, it wouldn't be the first time," said Harry. "By the way, pop, we met Mr. Mayberry, the Indian agent, on the way up. He's after them."
"That's bad," gravely commented the rancher.
"Bad!" repeated Harry. "Why, dad, I've heard you yourself say that he was the best Indian agent you ever knew."
"So he is, in a sense. But he is too kind-hearted. What those renegade rascals need is a file of soldiers with fixed bayonets and a burning desire to use them. However, come in, boys. Jose, wake up and put those trunks off. Get two men to help you bring them into the house. Come in, boys, and make yourselves at home in a rancher's shanty."
Mr. Harkness may have called it a shanty, but to the boys' eyes there had seldom been presented a more attractive interior than that of the Harkness ranch house. The furniture was dark and heavy, and the walls were hung with trophies of the hunt. Bright-colored Navajo rugs were all about, lending a brilliant dash of brightness to the dark woods and walls. At one end of the room was a huge open fireplace, which was now filled with fresh green boughs.
"Why – why, it's great!" exclaimed Rob, glancing about him admiringly.
"Glad you like it," said the rancher, evidently well pleased at the boy's pleasure. "Those heads there are all the tale of my rifle."
"The collection is only lacking in one thing – a single item," commented Rob.
"Which is – "
"The head of Silver Tip, the giant grizzly."
"You know about him, then?" Mr. Harkness seemed much surprised. At the time of his leaving the stranded ship he had not overheard the conversation between his son and the Boy Scouts.
"We've seen him," put in Tubby, nodding his head very sagely.
Then of course the story of their glimpse of the monster had to come out.
"It is unusual for Silver Tip to be about here at this time of year," commented Mr. Harkness. "He usually does not visit us till later. That's an additional peril to the cattle."
"How is that?" inquired Rob.
"In two ways. In the first place, Silver Tip is what we call a rogue grizzly. He lives all alone, hunts by himself, and has nothing to do with any others of his kind. He is as cruel, wantonly so, as he is formidable. For instance, last winter he killed fifty or more head of steers just for the sheer love of killing. Then, too, he is dangerous in another way. It takes very little to stampede a band of cattle. I have seen them started by a jack-rabbit leaping up suddenly from the brush. The sight of such an appalling monster as Silver Tip would be sure to start them off. No, I certainly don't like to hear that he is about."
Not long after this remark the announcement of supper put an end to further discussion of Silver Tip and his ways. Then and there Rob determined in his own mind that, if it were possible, the skin of that inaccessible monster would journey East with him when he returned. Absurd as the idea seemed, of him, an Eastern boy, green in the ways of the West, winning such a trophy, still Rob could not help dwelling on it. After the meal Mr. Harkness left the house for the bunkhouse, to give some orders to the night-riding cow-punchers. The news of the near neighborhood of the Moquis had made him nervous and unsettled.
The evening passed away in further discussion among the boys of the proposed mounted patrol of Boy Scouts, and before they knew it, ten o'clock had arrived. Pretty well fatigued by the events of the day, they were not unwilling to seek their beds, which were situated in three small upper rooms, directly above the big main living room.
Rob was just dropping off into unconsciousness when he heard a clattering of hoofs outside. Somebody had ridden up to the ranch house at full speed.
"Who is it?" he heard asked in Mr. Harkness's voice.
"It's me – Pete Bell," an excited voice rejoined, evidently that of the horseman who had just arrived.
"Well, Pete, what is it?" inquired the voice of Mr. Harkness once more.
"Why, sir, you know I was one of the bunch you sent to the far pasture to-night."
"Yes, yes! Go on, man! What is it – the Indians?"
"No, sir, no Indians. But, sir, we've seen it again."
"What, that foolish ghost-story thing! Haven't you fellows got over harping on that yet?"
"It ain't imagination, Mr. Harkness, as you seem to think," Rob heard the cow-puncher protest. "I seen it with these eyes as plain as I see you now. It come out on the cliff where the old cave dwellings are, and we saw it wring its hands a few times and then vanish just like it's always done before."
"Nonsense, Pete," replied the hard-headed rancher. "I thought you knew better than to take stock in ghost stories."
"So I do, sir; but when you see the ghost itself, that's getting close to home."
"Well, get back to the pasture now, Pete, and I'll guarantee the ghost won't bother you any more. Come on, get some color in your face. You are chattering like a child."
"Won't you send somebody back with me, sir? That thing ought to be looked into."
"Nonsense! I wouldn't waste time, men or thought on such rubbish. If you get track of any Indians, let me know, but don't bother me with any ghost stories. Now be off!"
"Y-y-yes, sir," said the cow-puncher obediently, but Rob noted that his pony didn't travel back toward the far pasture as fast as it had come away from it.
"So," thought Rob to himself, "there are haunted cliff dwellings near here, as well as a rogue grizzly and a bunch of bad Indians. Well, it looks as if we had fallen into an ideal spot for Boy Scouts."
CHAPTER VI.
A BOY SCOUT "BRONCHO BUSTER."
The next morning before breakfast Rob recounted to his chums the conversation he had overheard the night before. The story of the ghost of the ancient cliff dwellings was, it appeared, no new thing on the Harkness ranch, which accounted for its owner's apathy in regard to it. Successive batches of cow-punchers doing duty in the far pasture at night professed to have seen the grisly object on its nightly rounds, but nobody had ever had the courage to investigate it.
After the morning meal had been dispatched, Mr. Harkness announced that he expected to be busied about the ranch for the morning.
"But, Harry, you take the boys down to the corral," he said, "and have one of the men catch up some horses for them. You boys know best the kind of stock you want, so I'll let you choose them."
The boys thanked him, and a few moments afterward he left the room. A short time later he galloped off to make a round of the different sections of the range and to prosecute inquiries about the renegade Moquis.
The corral was, as was usually the case, full of ponies of all colors and grades of disposition, from mild beasts to fiery, half-broken bronchos. As the boys neared the enclosure, a stout little cowboy in a huge hairy pair of "chaps" approached them, airily swinging a lariat. His eyes opened and shut as rapidly as a loose shutter slat in a breeze. Cowboys have nick-names for everybody. His was of course "Blinky."
"Good mornin', Master Harry. Want some cattle this a. m.?" he inquired.
"Yes, Blinky. Have you got some good ones caught up?"
"Why, yes, you can have White Eye, and what kind of stock does your friends fancy?"
There was a twinkle in Blinky's fidgety optics as he asked this, for the boys, although they had donned regular ranch clothes, still bore about them that mysterious air which marks a "tenderfoot," as if they bore a brand.
"How about you, Rob?" asked Harry, also smiling slightly. "Want a bronc, or something more on the rocking-horse style?"
Now, although Rob could ride fairly well, and both Tubby and Merritt had had some practice on horseback, none of the boys were what might be called rough riders. But something in Blinky's tone and Harry's covert smile aroused all Rob's fighting blood.
"Oh, I want something with some life in it," he said boldly.
"Um-hum! The same will do for me, but not too much life, if you please," chimed in Tubby, somewhat dubiously.
"Anything I don't need to use spurs on," ordered Merritt, following up the general spirit.
"All right, young fellers," said the cow-puncher, opening the corral gate. "Come on in while I catch 'em up for you."
The instant the rawhide began whirling about Blinky's head the ponies evidently realized that something was up, for they began a wild race round and round the corral, heads up and heels lashing out right and left. The three tenderfeet regarded this exhibition with some apprehension, but they were too game to say anything.
"I'll rope my own," said Harry, picking up a lariat which hung coiled over a snubbing post near the gate. The ranch boy stood by the post, leisurely whirling his rawhide and just keeping the loop open till a small bay pony, with a big patch of white round each eye, came plunging by with the rest of the stampede. The lariat suddenly became imbued with life. Faster it whirled and faster, the loop finally sailing through the air gracefully and landing in a rawhide necklace round White Eye's neck.
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