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“Yes; and if I were in your place I’d raise another. There’s nobody in
sight, and how is the owner of the cattle going to know who did the
shooting? Knock one of ‘em over! I dare you to do it!”
Ned hesitated. He had talked bravely enough, when in the presence
of his cousin, about doing this very thing, but since that time he had
seen a fight, had heard the reports of firearms and the yells of
excited and angry men, and thought he had some faint conception
of the scenes that had been enacted during that neighborhood row,
and which would, no doubt, be repeated if another should arise. But
here was his fine field of wheat so nearly destroyed that it would not
pay for the harvesting; within easy rifle shot of him were some of
the cattle which had done the mischief and which probably belonged
to one of the neighbors who wouldn’t visit with him or his father
because they wore good clothes and claimed to be gentlemen; and
there was no one in sight.
“Knock one of them over,” repeated Gus, “and perhaps it will teach
their owner to keep his stock out of the way of your field, the next
time you plant wheat in it. Hand me your gun, and I’ll show you that
I am Gus Robbins yet, and not afraid to do anything.”
The boy leaned forward in his saddle as he said this, and taking the
rifle out of his friend’s grasp, rode toward the cattle (there were
probably a dozen of them in all) which were dashing along the fence
and trampling down the wheat that had escaped destruction during
their former raids. As Gus approached them, they charged in a body
in the direction of the gap; but instead of going through it they ran
on by, kicking up their heels and shaking their heads as if they
enjoyed the sport. While Ned galloped through the field to head
them off, Gus dismounted, and taking his stand near the gap, cocked
the rifle in readiness to shoot one of the herd the next time they
went by.
Ned succeeded in turning the cattle after a short race, and, as
before, they took no notice of the gap, but dashed by it and started
for another gallop around the field. At that moment the rifle cracked,
and one of the finest steers in the herd threw his head and tail
higher in the air, galloped faster for a short distance, then sank to
his knees and rolled over on his side. By the merest chance, Gus had
sent a bullet smaller than a buckshot into some vital part, and there
was one less steer in somebody’s herd to break down fences and
destroy wheat crops.
“What do you think of that?” cried Gus, in great glee.
“It was a splendid shot,” replied Ned, who just then rode up and
extended his hand for the rifle. “You did it, didn’t you? Since we
have begun the work, we’ll do it up in shape. If they won’t go out
they can stay in; but they’ll stay dead!”
The horse that Gus rode, having been broken to stand fire, was not
at all alarmed by the report of the rifle. He allowed the boy to catch
and mount him again, and by the time he was fairly in the saddle,
Ned had placed a fresh cartridge in his rifle. “You head them off and
drive them back,” said he, “and I’ll wait here at the gap to salute
them as they go by.”
In accordance with this request Gus rode off, and in a few minutes
the herd came dashing along the fence again. They must have been
growing tired of the sport by this time, for they headed straight for
the gap, and all got through; but one of them carried a bullet
somewhere in his body, the effects of which very soon became
apparent. The rest of the herd began to leave him behind, and when
he followed them over a ridge, which lay about a quarter of a mile
from the field, he was staggering about as if he could scarcely keep
his feet.
While the work of driving the cattle out of the field was in progress,
a horseman appeared on the ridge of which we have spoken, riding
slowly along, with his eyes fastened on the ground, as if he were
following a trail. Just as he reached the top, he heard the report of a
rifle, and looked up to discover that the cattle of which he was in
search, were running about a wheat field, and that two persons
were engaged in shooting them down. One of the cattle fell just as
he raised his eyes. When he saw this, he placed his hand on one of
the revolvers he carried in his belt, and seemed on the point of
dashing forward to take satisfaction for the loss he had sustained;
but he evidently thought better of it a moment later, for he backed
his horse down the swell until nothing but his own head could be
seen over it, and there he sat and saw all that Ned and Gus did.
When the wounded steer came over the swell, staggering from the
effects of the bullet Ned had shot into him, the man shook his
clenched hand in the direction of the wheat field, muttered
something to himself, and galloped off in pursuit of the uninjured
cattle, leaving the wounded one to take care of himself.
“There!” exclaimed Ned, when the laggard of the drove had
disappeared over the swell, “it’s done, and I am glad of it. If the
owner of those cattle finds out that we did it and has anything to
say about it, I shall tell him that this is my land—it may be mine
some day, you know, and before long, too—and that no cattle except
my own have any right on it.”
“I wish that steer had got over the fence before he died,” said Gus.
The boys seemed to be highly elated over what they had done. They
had performed the same feat which, not so very many months ago,
had set the whole settlement together by the ears, and no one was
the wiser for it. Of course some rancheman would some day find out
that one of his fattest steers had been killed and another badly
wounded, but how was he going to find out who did the shooting?
Ned fully expected that there would be trouble about it; that there
would be threats and inquiries made, and that he and Gus, being
safe from discovery, would have many a hearty laugh in secret over
the storm they had raised.
“Remember one thing,” said he. “No matter what is said or done, we
don’t know anything about it. They can’t crowd us into a corner tight
enough to make us own up. That would only make matters worse.”
Gus readily agreed to this, and the boys shook hands on it. In order
to make assurance doubly sure they rode around the rancho and
approached it, just at dark, from a direction opposite to that they
had taken when they rode away from it in the morning. When the
events of the afternoon became known nobody could fasten the guilt
upon them by saying that they had been seen coming from the
direction of the wheat field. They found supper waiting for them,
and when they had eaten it they went into the office to spend the
evening in reading and conversation.
While they were thus engaged inside the house, a proceeding which
looks strange at the first glance, but which will be plain enough
when all the circumstances connected with it are known, was going
on outside of it. A horseman, who was riding rapidly along the road
toward the rancho, turned off just before he reached it, and made
his way to the corral that was located a short distance to the right of
the shed in which Ned had taken refuge on the night of the fight. He
stopped in front of the gate and uttered an exclamation of
disappointment when he found that it was secured by a heavy
padlock. After looking about him for a moment, as if he were turning
some problem over in his mind, he dismounted, pulled the bridle
over his horse’s head and hung it upon the horn of the saddle;
whereupon the animal turned and galloped toward a watering-
trough a short distance away, where he was joined by a small, dark-
colored mule which had followed the horseman down the trail. The
horseman himself moved toward the house, pausing every now and
then to listen and reconnoiter the ground before him, and presently
reached the steps leading to the porch. These he mounted with
cautious tread, and was about to place his hand upon the door when
it was suddenly opened from the inside, a flood of light streamed out
into the darkness, and the horseman was confronted by a stalwart
herdsman who started back in surprise at the sight of him.
Arresting by a hasty gesture the cry of amazement that arose to the
herdsman’s lips, the visitor stepped into the hall, and, closing the
door behind him, uttered a few short, quick sentences in a low tone
of voice which the other received with subdued ejaculations of
wonder. When he ceased speaking the herdsman hastened away,
and the visitor, who seemed to be perfectly familiar with the internal
arrangements of the house, moved quickly along the hall, turning
several corners, and finally opening a door which gave entrance into
Mr. Ackerman’s office.
There was a happy party gathered in that office, if one might judge
by the ringing peal of laughter which echoed through the hall, when
the door was opened; but it was quickly checked at the sight of the
boy who entered as though he had a perfect right to be there, and
whose appearance was so sudden and unexpected that it brought
two of the three persons in the room to their feet in an instant.
“Why, George!” they both cried in a breath—and a quick ear would
have discovered that there was more surprise than cordiality in their
tones—“Is this you? Where in the world have you been so long? We
have been worried to death about you!”
“Yes it is I,” answered George Ackerman, for he it was. “I have come
back safe and sound, and that is all I can say to you now about
myself. I want to talk to you about yourselves, and especially to you
Ned. By the way, I suppose this is the friend from Foxboro’ whom
you have so long been expecting.”
Ned replied that it was, but he forgot to introduce the two boys to
each other, and so did Uncle John. There was something about
George that made them forget it. When they came to look at him
they saw that he was very much excited, and that his face wore an
expression they had never seen there before. They could not tell
whether he was frightened or troubled.
“Why, George!” exclaimed Uncle John, in some alarm. “What is the
matter? Any bad news? Are the Indians or Mexicans——”
“Yes, I have bad news,” interrupted George, almost impatiently, “and
but little time to tell it in. Ned, you and your friend must pack up and
leave this rancho, and this county, too, without the loss of an hour’s
time. You are in danger, and I have placed myself in danger by
coming here to tell you of it!”
The boy’s words produced the utmost surprise and consternation
among those who listened to them.
 CHAPTER XII.
A NARROW ESCAPE.

G eorge found his herdsman eager for news from the settlement,
as he always was, but he had nothing to tell him that was very
interesting. He could have given him some information that would
have made him open his eyes and put him in fighting humor at
once; but he thought it best to avoid that subject altogether. If he
told Zeke that Uncle John had threatened to take his herd of cattle
away from him, under the plea of reducing expenses, but really as
George believed, for the purpose of turning it over to Ned, the old
man would have been as angry as George was when he first learned
of the fact. But the boy didn’t want to let Zeke know how mean his
uncle was, and so he said nothing about his plans. They never could
be carried out while Zeke was there to protect his stock, and George
could afford to be magnanimous.
George and his herdsman made an early start on the following
morning, and the third night found them at Catfish Falls. They now
felt perfectly safe, for the raiders had never been known to
penetrate so far into the country. Their depredations were principally
confined to the counties bordering on the river, it being their object
to stampede all the stock they could find in one night’s raid, and
drive it across the river into Mexico, before the settlers could gather
in sufficient numbers to pursue them. They tried as hard to avoid a
fight as the ranchemen did to overtake them.
George made the camp and cooked the supper, and when they had
satisfied their appetites, the former laid down on his blanket in front
of the fire with his saddle for a pillow, and listened to Zeke, who
talked and smoked incessantly. Their work for the day was over now.
The cattle were always brought close in to camp at dark, the horses
and mule were staked out, and the campers went to bed at an early
hour. If they awoke during the night, they replenished the fire with
some of the fuel that was always kept close at hand, and walked
around the herd to see if there were any restless ones in it who felt
inclined to stray away. George performed this necessary duty twice
on this particular night making the first round about twelve o’clock.
To his surprise, he found the most of the cattle on their feet, and
saw that some of them were exhibiting unmistakable signs of
uneasiness and alarm. They stood snuffing the air eagerly, carrying
their heads high and their ears thrown forward, and now and then
they would walk a few steps out of the herd, lower their horns and
paw the ground as if challenging the object that had excited them,
whatever it was, to come out and give them battle. The rest of the
cattle were lying down, chewing their cuds contentedly, and
apparently not at all disturbed by the antics of their nervous
companions.
George threw himself flat upon the ground and swept his eyes
around the horizon. In this position, he could distinctly see any
object that might be approaching the camp (provided, of course,
that it was taller than the grass) for it would be clearly outlined
against the sky. But he could see nothing. He arose to his feet again
and listened intently, but could hear nothing calculated to excite his
alarm. The wolves which serenaded them every night were holding a
concert a short distance away, and that made George believe that if
there was any danger approaching, it was yet a long distance off; for
he knew that the wolves would be the first to discover it, and that
they would then bring their concert to a close and take to their
heels.
“There’s something up,” thought George, once more turning his eyes
toward the cattle. Some of the uneasy ones, reassured by his
presence, were walking about among their companions, as if they
were looking for a good place to lie down, while the others remained
in a defiant attitude and snuffed the air as before. “There’s
something up,” repeated George, “and I have been expecting it. I
have felt very nervous and timid for two or three days, and I don’t
know how to account for it. If there is anybody within hearing or
smelling distance who has no business here, I can find it out.”
George walked back to the camp, picked up his rifle, and after
unfastening the lasso with which his horse was confined, he jumped
on the animal’s back without saddle or bridle and rode away in the
darkness, paying no heed to a bray of remonstrance from Bony who
followed as far as the length of his lariat would allow him to go. He
rode out on the prairie for a hundred yards or more, and then
stopped his horse and listened again. The animal stood perfectly
quiet for a few seconds, looking first one way and then another, and
turning his ears toward all points of the compass, and apparently
satisfied with the result of his reconnoissance, he put down his head
and began cropping the grass.
“Hold up, here!” exclaimed George, seizing the horse by the mane
and tapping him gently on the side of his head with the muzzle of
his rifle to make him turn around. “We have nothing to be frightened
at yet—that’s evident. Now, old fellow, I shall leave you loose. Keep
your ears open and wake us up if you hear anything!”
George rode back to camp and sought his blanket feeling a little
more at his ease. He had as much faith in his horse as he had in
Zeke (the latter used to say that he could smell an Indian or a
Greaser at night as far as he could see him in the daytime), and
since the animal could not discover anything suspicious, it was as
good evidence as he wanted that there was nothing to fear. No
doubt some of the wild members of the herd felt as nervous and
uneasy as he did, and took their own way to show it.
Although George brought back to his blanket a most refreshing
feeling of security, he did not sleep as soundly as he usually did. He
went through all sorts of terrible things in his dreams, and started
every time the fire snapped. He was wide awake again at one
o’clock, and set out on his second tour of inspection. The moon, now
nearly half an hour high, had brought up with it a cooling breeze
which gently rustled the long grass of the prairie, and sent the
sparks from the camp-fire circling high in the air. The wolves had
closed their concert and gone off to find a more appreciative
audience, and there was an air of peaceful quiet brooding over the
scene. George forgot all his fears and continued his round with a
light heart. He found the cattle quiet, but some of them had begun
feeding and were straying away from the rest of the herd. While
George was engaged in driving them back, and forcing the
remainder of the herd into a more compact body, a yell, so sudden
and startling that it made the cold chills creep all over him, arose on
the air, and out from a little thicket of willows that grew a short
distance from the belt in which the camp was located, dashed a
party of horsemen who charged toward the herd at the top of their
speed. They were Mexicans; George could see that at a glance. They
had doubtless been hovering about the camp all night, and it was
while they were working their way around to the leeward of the herd
that their presence had been detected by the wakeful cattle.
George stood for an instant as if he were rooted to the ground; and
then with a wild cry of alarm he dashed forward, running diagonally
across the front of the herd, hoping almost against hope that he
might succeed in passing them, and thus avoiding the rush which he
knew would come in a moment more. It was the only way in which
he could escape being trampled to death. He ran as he had never
run before, but he had made scarcely half a dozen steps when a
rumble like that of an avalanche sounded close at his side, telling
him that the cattle were coming. The strongest fence that was ever
built would not have stopped them now, and George, had he
attempted to drive them back or turn them aside, would have been
trampled under their feet like a blade of grass. He saw and fully
realized his danger, but could not escape it. Even Zeke, who was as
light of foot as an antelope, could not have saved himself by his
speed; and George, giving himself up for lost, fell flat upon the
ground, clasped his hands over his head and awaited his fate. By the
merest chance he threw himself into a little excavation in the prairie,
which, in the years gone by, had doubtless served as a wallow for
some old patriarch of a buffalo; but now it was covered with grass,
and there were two or three little willows growing out of the bottom
of it.
This protection, slight as it was, saved the boy’s life. He had barely
time to crowd himself close against the frail stems of the willows
before the frantic cattle were upon him. The roar of their hoofs on
the hard ground was almost deafening. It was louder than the roar
of all the northers he had ever heard crowded into one; but even
while he was wondering why some of the cattle did not jump upon
him the roar subsided, and George, looking up through the willows
which had been bent over his head, saw the moon shining down
upon him. Every steer had jumped the wallow, and George had
escaped with nothing more than a terrible fright. While he was
congratulating himself upon his good fortune, a clatter of hoofs
sounded near, and he ducked his head just as two horsemen, riding
side by side, dashed over the wallow in pursuit of the flying herd.
The boy’s first thought, after he had satisfied himself that he had
escaped without injury, was of Zeke. What had become of him?
There was one thing certain—George knew it now as well as he did
a few minutes later—and that was that the herdsman had made a
fight, and a good one, too. Although the old fellow appeared to be a
sound sleeper, he would jump to his feet the instant he heard any
unusual noise, and he was wide awake the moment he opened his
eyes. More than that, he kept his Winchester close at hand, and
could discharge it with a rapidity and accuracy that George had tried
in vain to imitate. Zeke was probably on his feet before the yell that
frightened the cattle was half uttered, and as soon as he got there
he was ready to begin shooting. Of course George had not heard the
report of his rifle, for the rumble of that multitude of hoofs about his
ears would have drowned the roar of a cannon.
“But I know, all the same, that he did shoot, and that some of those
raiders didn’t get away,” thought George, as he once more raised his
head and looked over the grass in the direction of the camp. “I think
I had better stay here. Zeke will know when the danger is over, and
then he will call to me. I wonder if he is there now? Somebody is
punching up the fire, sure!”
The old buffalo wallow into which George had thrown himself, was
about a hundred yards distant from the willows, and the grass was
so high that he could not see the camp; but he could see the smoke
of the fire as it arose through the tops of the trees that hung over it.
Just now the fire was blazing brightly, and the sparks were rising
from it in volumes. This was what led George to believe that there
was somebody in the camp. It couldn’t be one of the raiders, he told
himself, for they never stopped. They stampeded the cattle and
dashed on after them to get out of reach of the bullets in the
herder’s rifles.
“Of course Zeke is there,” thought George as he arose from his place
of concealment; but he had scarcely placed himself fairly upon his
feet before he dropped back among the willows again. There were
several figures moving about the fire, and there were riderless
horses and mounted men near by. The men were all dressed in
Mexican costume—the wide brims of their sombreros were plainly
visible in the moonlight—and there were at least a dozen of them in
sight. One of them seemed to be poking up the fire for the purpose
of making as bright a light as possible, while the others were going
into the willows with blazing fire-brands in their hands. Some of their
companions had already gone in there armed in the same manner,
for George could see the lights dancing about among the trees.
The boy saw all this during the instant of time he was on his feet,
and when he dropped back into his concealment again, his fear had
given place to a feeling of exultation. The raiders were searching the
woods in the vicinity of the camp, and of course they could be
looking for nobody but Zeke. Probably the old fellow had given them
a very warm reception. No doubt he had tumbled three or four of
them out of their saddles, and the survivors were hunting him up
with the intention of taking vengeance on him if they caught him.
“But they’ll never catch him,” chuckled George, “because he’s too old
a ‘coon. He has fought Indians too long to be beaten by a lot of
lubberly Greasers.”
George drew the tops of the willows closer together, confining them
in that position by twisting their branches, and having thus formed a
screen that was large enough to cover his head, he raised himself
upon his knees, so that he could look over the grass and watch the
motions of the raiders. They were certainly looking for somebody,
and they seemed resolved to find him, too, for they did not grow
discouraged and go away, as George hoped they would. Their failure
only seemed to make them the more determined. First one and then
another seized fire-brands and joined their companions in the
woods, and finally those who were mounted, swung themselves out
of their saddles and went in too, leaving the camp to take care of
itself.
“I wonder what Zeke has done to make them so persistent!” said
George to himself. “Perhaps they’ve got an old grudge against him.
They might as well go away, for they’ll not find him. He’s safe long
before this time, and if I could only make my horse hear me, I’d
soon be safe too.”
George could always find something to feel happy over, no matter
how unpleasant the situation in which he might be placed, and he
found something now. He had lost his fine herd of cattle, but Zeke
was left to him, and so were his horse and pack-mule. The former
had been stampeded with the cattle, but George knew he would not
run far before he would leave them and strike a straight course for
home. The two Mexicans who had followed the herd to head it off
and turn it away from the settlements toward the river, would not
bother their heads about him, for while they had three hundred fat
cattle to look out for, they could not afford to waste time in pursuing
a single horse. Bony was still staked out near the camp, and so was
Zeke’s nag. They both made the most desperate efforts to escape
with the herd, but the lariats with which they were confined were
too strong to be broken, and the picket-pins were driven so firmly
into the ground that they could not be easily pulled up. The
Mexicans, when they were ready to leave the camp, would probably
turn these animals loose, expecting them to follow their own horses,
just as Silk Stocking had followed off the raiders who made the
attack on the rancho; but that was something Bony would not do.
He was very much afraid of strangers, and when left to himself he
would make the best of his way home.
The search for Zeke was continued? until broad daylight, and all this
while George lay in his concealment watching the motions of the
raiders and wondering what his herdsman had done to make the
thieves so anxious to find him. When day began to dawn he
discovered something that seemed to explain it all: there were five
wounded men sitting and lying beside the fire. George knew that
they were wounded, for he could see that they wore bandages, and
that one who limped considerably and used a stick to walk with,
would now and then get up to bring a cup of water from the bayou
to two of his companions who kept their blankets. Probably one of
these men was the leader of the band, and that was the reason why
the others were so determined to find Zeke. But they had to give up
the search and go away without him, as George knew they would.
Shortly after daylight they began to come into camp by twos and
threes, and when they were all assembled George counted eighteen
of them. They talked earnestly together for a few minutes and then
set about preparing a hasty breakfast, helping themselves bountifully
to the contents of the pack-saddle, and using the cooking utensils
which George had provided for his own use and Zeke’s.
George waited with no little impatience to find out what they were
going to do when they made an end of the bacon and coffee, and
was very glad to see that they were preparing for an immediate
departure. When all was ready the wounded members of the band
were assisted into their saddles, Zeke’s horse and George’s pack-
mule were set at liberty, and the raiders moved slowly along the
willows in the direction the cattle had taken when they were
stampeded. It was a wonder that their suspicions were not aroused
by the actions of the mule which, foolish as mules generally are, ran
at once to the buffalo wallow in which George was concealed, and
not content with shying at the sight of it and giving it a wide berth,
as Zeke’s horse did, Bony circled around it two or three times, and
finally stopping, thrust out his neck, threw his long ears forward and
looked suspiciously at the crouching form of his master.
George, who had been in a fever of suspense for long hours, and
who began to breathe more freely when he saw the raiders moving
away, was frightened again; but, as it happened, the thieves paid no
attention to the mule’s actions. Better than that, Zeke’s horse kept
on his way without stopping, and Bony, seeing that he was going to
be left behind, started in pursuit. The danger was over now, but
George was much too wary to run any risks. He saw the raiders
disappear over the nearest swell, but he allowed another hour to
pass before he left his hiding-place. Then he moved very cautiously,
crawling along on his hands and knees, stopping every few feet to
look over the grass and listen, and examining the ground about the
camp very thoroughly before he ventured into the woods.
He found the camp in the greatest confusion. His rifle and revolvers
were gone, so were his blankets and poncho, and also a good
portion of the contents of the pack-saddle; but there was still a little
of the bacon and hard-tack left, and the raiders had forgotten to
take his haversack and frying-pan. He replenished the fire at once,
and while waiting for it to get fairly started, employed himself in
cutting up the bacon with an old rusty hunting-knife which one of
the thieves had probably left in exchange for his own new one.
While he was thus engaged he did not neglect to keep an eye open
for any straggling raiders who might have fallen behind the main
body; but there were none in sight. He placed the bacon in the
frying-pan, and when it was done to his satisfaction he put it into his
haversack, together with the small supply of hard-tack that was left,
extinguished the fire and set out for home.
“I am glad the thieves left me provisions enough to last me until I
can get more,” said George, to himself. “If I have to travel all the
way on foot, it will take me four or five days to reach the nearest
rancho, and I have no fears of getting hungry during that time. What
brought those raiders so far from the river? That’s what I can’t
understand.”
During the two days that followed, while the young cattle-herder
was trudging painfully over the lonely prairie, he had ample leisure
to turn this question over in his mind. He travelled early and late,
but his progress was necessarily slow, for one who spends the most
of his time in the saddle, finds it hard work to go on foot, and soon
grows weary. He kept a bright lookout for Zeke, and stopped on the
top of every swell to scan the prairie before and on both sides of
him, in the hope of discovering his horse or pack-mule; but Zeke was
miles ahead of him, hastening toward the settlement, intent on
alarming the ranchemen in time to cut the raiders off from the river,
while Bony and Ranger were making the best of their way toward
home.
“They are all safe, I know, for they are able to take care of
themselves. So am I; but there’s no fun in looking forward to three
days more of such walking as I have had. I shouldn’t mind it so
much if I hadn’t lost my cattle,” said George, with a long-drawn sigh.
“Those lazy Greasers have robbed me of years of hard work, and
now I must begin all over again, or else go to herding cattle for
Uncle John. Of course I can’t loaf about the house all the time and
do nothing, as Ned does. Hallo!”
While George was talking to himself in this way he came to the top
of a ridge, and found before him a long line of willows which fringed
the banks of a water-course. A solitary horse was feeding near the
willows, and this it was that attracted the boy’s attention and called
forth the exclamation with which he finished his soliloquy. The sight
of the animal alarmed him, for it was not at all likely that a horse,
wearing a saddle and bridle, would be feeding contentedly in that
wilderness, so far from all signs of civilization, unless there was
some one with him. George dropped to the ground, and ran his eyes
along the willows in search of a camp. If there was one in the
neighborhood he could not find it. There was no smoke to be seen,
nor were there any other indications of the presence of human
beings.
“But there’s somebody here all the same,” thought the boy, shifting
his position a little, so that he could obtain a better view of the
willows, “for that horse never came here without a rider. Somebody
has stopped in the willows to rest, and he’s a Mexican, too. I know it
by the silver ornaments on the saddle. I wish I could think up some
way to capture that horse. Shall I try it?”
Not knowing what else to do just then, George lay there in the grass
and considered the matter. Weary and footsore as he was, the
thought of finishing his journey on horseback was a most agreeable
one. The animal was loose—when he raised his head, George could
see that he was not confined by a lariat—but if he attempted to
creep up to him the horse would doubtless take fright and run off;
and that would excite the suspicions of his owner, who might be
tempted to send a bullet from his carbine in that direction. There
was too much danger in it George found when he came to think it
over. He sighed regretfully, thought almost with a shudder, of the
long, weary miles that lay between him and the nearest rancho, and
was about to crawl back down the swell again, when he was
astonished almost beyond measure, to hear his own name
pronounced in a weak and trembling, but still distinct voice.
“George! George Ackerman!” came the hail from the willows.
George jumped to his feet, and looking in the direction from which
the voice sounded, saw a sombrero waved in the air, and could dimly
discern the figure of a man, dressed in Mexican costume, who was
sitting on the ground, with his back against one of the willows.
“George!” repeated the man.
“Hallo!” was the reply.
“Come here, will you? I am badly hurt and in need of help!”
George grew more and more astonished. The man was a Mexican
beyond a doubt, but the voice sounded strangely familiar.
“Don’t be afeared, George!” continued the man, in a pleading tone.
“I couldn’t hurt you if I wanted to! I’ve got something to tell you!”
“Who are you?” asked the boy.
“Why, don’t you know Springer, who used to herd cattle for your
father?”
Yes, George knew him, and he didn’t know anything good of him
either.
“If you are Springer,” he shouted “what are you doing there with
those clothes on?”
“Come here, an’ I’ll tell you all about it!” was the answer. “I’ll tell you
something else, too—something that’ll make you open your eyes. Do
come, George, and give me a drink of water! I’ve got a chunk of
lead through each leg!”
“Aha!” said George, who thought he understood the matter now.
“You were with the raiders, and Zeke got two pulls at you with his
Winchester!”
As he said this he ran down the swell, and in a few minutes more
was standing beside the wounded man. It was Springer, sure
enough, but he was so much changed that George could scarcely
recognise him. His face was very pale and his strong frame was
convulsed with agony. The sash he usually wore around his waist
had been cut in two, and the pieces were bound tightly about his
legs above the knee to stanch the flow of blood from the wounds
made by the herdsman’s rifle. He was a hard-looking fellow, and any
one would have taken him for just what George knew him to be—a
cattle-thief.
Without stopping to ask any more questions George seized the
man’s hat, and hastening to the bayou presently returned with the
crown filled with water. The wounded raider drank eagerly and sank
back against his tree with a sigh of great satisfaction.
 CHAPTER XIII.
GEORGE HAS COMPANY.

G eorge knew Springer well. The latter had once been in his
father’s employ; but being of no use as a herdsman or anything
else, he had been discharged, to make room for a more industrious
and pains-taking man. This enraged Springer, who threatened
vengeance, and followed up his threats by attempting to fire the
rancho. He had been detected in the act and almost captured; but
he succeeded in making his escape, and since then George had
never met him until this particular day. He had often heard of him,
however, as a member of a band of cattle-thieves, who now and
then made a raid through the country farther down the river. There
were a good many others just like Springer, on the opposite side of
the Rio Grande—renegade Americans—who, having left their country
for their country’s good, had taken refuge among the Mexicans, and
joined with them in raiding upon the well-stocked farms and ranches
of their Texan neighbors.
 George returns Good for Evil.

“You needn’t be afeared, George,” repeated Springer, seeing that the

boy cast uneasy glances about him, as if half expecting to see the
rest of the band start up from some ambush among the willows.
“Thar’s nobody here but me.”
“Where are your friends?” asked George.
“They’ve gone on, an’ I s’pose they’re acrosst the river by this time.”
“Did they leave you here to take care of yourself?” inquired George,
who found it difficult to believe that men could be so heartless.
“What else could they do?” asked Springer, wincing a little, as he
tried to move one of his wounded legs into a more comfortable
position. “A man who is fool enough to get hurt, must take his
chances. If he can keep up with the rest, well an’ good; if he can’t,
he must fall behind an’ look out fur himself. I’m glad I ain’t in the
settlement. I’d rather stay here an’ starve, fur want of grub an’
water, than have the ranchemen catch me. I ain’t had a bite to eat
fur two days.”
“You haven’t!” exclaimed George. “I’ll divide with you.”
He opened his haversack, as he spoke, and producing from its
capacious depths a goodly supply of bacon and cracker, placed it in
the hands of the wounded man, whose eyes brightened as he
received it. George stood by and saw him eat it, and was glad to see
that he enjoyed it, although he knew that by thus diminishing his
store he put himself in a fair way to go hungry for many a weary
mile of his journey. The man was a scoundrel—no one except
himself could tell what deeds of violence he had been guilty of
during his raids—but for all that George was glad that it was in his
power to relieve his distress.
“I am sorry to see you in this situation, Springer,” said he, when the
bacon and cracker had disappeared.
“Are you, though?” exclaimed the man, wiping his mouth with the
back of his hand, and looking up in surprise. “I didn’t s’pose you
would be.”
“Well, I am; and I hope that when you get well, you will behave
yourself and live among white men.”
“That’s unpossible; ‘kase why, white men won’t have nothing to do
with me,” replied Springer, almost fiercely. “Would you hire me to
herd cattle fur you?”
“Yes, I would. I know you threatened that you would be revenged
on my father for discharging you, but I don’t see why you should
follow me up. I haven’t done anything to you. How did you get shot?
And how came you here?”
“Wal, you see, we made the dash on your camp, kalkerlatin’ to take
you by surprise; but Zeke, he allers sleeps with his rifle in his hand
an’ one eye open, an’ I was the fust feller he got a crack at. He took
two pulls at me, an’ this yere is the consequence,” said Springer,
pointing with both forefingers toward his bandaged legs. “When we
left your camp, the fellers put me on my hoss, an’ I kept up with ‘em
fur a few hours; but the pace was too fast fur me—I couldn’t stand
the joltin’; so I had to pull up. When I reached this bayou, I thought
I’d get a drink of water; but when I got down I fell, lettin’ go my
bridle, an’ my hoss walked away. I was too weak an’ bad hurt to
crawl to the water; I couldn’t ketch my hoss, an’ I reckoned I’d got
to stay right here. I happened to see you when you come to the top
of the ridge, an’ called to you, thinkin’ mebbe you wouldn’t refuse to
give me the drink I was a’most ready to die fur. But you wouldn’t a
done it, if you knowed as much as I do!”
“Yes, I would. I don’t bear you any ill-will because you stole my
cattle.”
“But that aint all!” exclaimed Springer.
“I know it isn’t! You tried to burn my home over my head; but I
don’t bear you any ill-will for that, either; and I’ll prove it to you by
putting you on your horse and giving you a chance to save yourself!”
“But that aint all!” said Springer. “How do you reckon we knowed
whar to look for you?”
“I’m sure I can’t tell! I never knew raiders to venture so far from the
river before!”
“An’ they never did, nuther! Whar was you when we was in your
camp?”
“I was lying in a buffalo wallow about a hundred yards away!”
“Did you see the fellars while they was a pokin’ around in the
willows with their fire-brands? What do you reckon they was a
lookin’ for?”
“I supposed they were looking for Zeke!”
“Wal, they wasn’t lookin’ for Zeke, nuther! They didn’t care nothing
about Zeke! You was the fellow they wanted to find!”
“I was!” exclaimed George. “What did they want of me?”
“They wanted you ‘kase there’s a thousand head of fat steers
wrapped up in you, ‘sides them three hundred we stole from you the
other night!”
The boy was greatly astonished, and he was certain, too, that he
knew what Springer was trying to get at. He seated himself on the
ground with his back against a neighboring tree, and said as calmly
as he could:
“You must speak plainer than that if you want me to know just what
you mean!”
“I mean jist this yere,” said Springer; “an I’ll tell you ‘cause you was
good enough to come here an’ give me the drink of water I was
starvin’ fur, an’ feed me outen your grub when you haint got enough
to eat yourself. George, you are in danger every day you spend at
your rancho! Your uncle and cousin don’t want you there, an’ they
aint goin’ to let you stay nuther!”
George thought from what Springer said before that he had some
such revelation as this to make, but when it came it almost took his
breath away. He had long been of the opinion that his relatives
didn’t want him at the rancho, but how could this cattle-thief, who
lived miles away on the other side of the river, have found it out?
The man talked in a positive tone, as though he knew all about it,
and this was what surprised George. There was one thing certain,
however: He was not going to discuss family matters with any such
fellow as Springer.
“I’ll tell you what it is,” said he, as he arose to his feet and slung his
haversack over his shoulders. “I’ll not stay here if you are going to
insult my uncle and cousin!”
“Say, George, whar you goin’?” demanded Springer.
“I am going to start on again. Shall I put you on your horse before I
go?”
“You needn’t go off mad,” said the man, earnestly, “‘cause every
word I’m tellin’ you is the gospel truth. We got it all through Philip!”
“Got all what through Philip?” asked George.
“I mean we done all our business through him; an’ if I was in your
place, I’d go home an’ bundle him outen the house, neck an’ heels.
He’s makin’ mischief thar, I tell you. He told us we’d find you in that
grove on Brown’s Run; an’ when we didn’t find you thar, we follered
your trail to Catfish Falls.”
“But how did Philip know I was going to that grove?” demanded
George, growing more and more bewildered.
“What’s the use of me tellin’ you when you’ll get mad?” asked
Springer in reply. “The under-standin’ atween us, was, that arter we
had drove off your three hundred head of stock, we was to come
over agin, in a week or two, an’ we would find a thousand more
head whar we could get ‘em easy.”
“Who was going to put them where you could get them easy?”
“If I tell you, you’ll get mad at me. But mind you, we wasn’t to get
them thousand head unless we gobbled you. The fellers done their
level best, but couldn’t find you!”
“What were you going to do with me if you found me?”
“That’s something I can’t tell. Nobody but Fletcher knows that.”
“Who’s Fletcher?”
“He’s the boss—the cap’n.”
“Who told you to gobble me?”
“What’s the use of me tellin’ you when you’ll be sartin to go off
mad? You see, we kalkerlated to make twenty-six thousand dollars
clear by two night’s work, but that didn’t satisfy us. Philip, he told us
that thar was a whole bit of gold and silver in your uncle’s office, an’
we wanted that too; so we slipped down thar, an’ Philip, he opened
the door an’ let us in.”
“Into our house!” cried George, who now learned for the first time of
the attack that had been made upon the rancho.
“Yes, into your house; but we didn’t get nothing but bullets an’ one
hoss fur our pains.”
“It served you just right,” said George, indignantly. “They are not all
traitors in that house, I tell you.”
“Not by no means they ain’t,” said Springer, with a knowing shake of
the head. “One of the herders, who was awake, aroused the others
by firing his revolver, an’ it’s the biggest wonder in the world that
any of us got out. We tried to cut down the doors, but they drove us
off, and then we made a strike fur Brown’s Run, whar we allowed to
find you. On the way we run into about five hundred head of stock,
an’ thinkin’ that a bird in the hand was worth a dozen in the woods,
we drove ‘em off. We got ‘em across the river all right, an’ dodgin’
the rangers who follered us, we came back arter you. We found you
too, an’ some of us got more’n we wanted,” added Springer, looking
down at his bandages and groaning faintly.
George listened to all this in the greatest amazement. He
remembered now, that just before he left home with his supplies, his
uncle had questioned him closely about some things in which he had
previously shown no interest whatever, and that he seemed
particularly anxious to know where his nephew expected to find his
herd, and which way Zeke would probably drive it after George
joined him. The boy never would have thought of the circumstance
again, if it had not been for this interview with his father’s old
herdsman; but now it was recalled very vividly to his mind, and he
was obliged to confess to himself that the half-formed suspicions he
had long entertained were not without foundation. His Uncle John
was at the bottom of all his troubles, and Philip, the Mexican cook,
was his confidential assistant. The boy’s heart sank within him while
he thought about it. He didn’t know what to do, and there was only
one man in the settlement to whom he could go for advice.
“Well, Springer,” said George, suddenly, “we have wasted time
enough. I have a long journey to make, and so have you. I hope you
will succeed in getting safely over the river, and that the lesson you
have received will be the means of making you an honest man. I will
put you on your horse and divide my provisions with you, and that is
all I can do for you.”
“An’ it’s a heap more nor any body else would do for me,” said
Springer, gratefully. “You won’t tell none of the settlers that you seed
me, will you?”
“I’ll not put any of them on your trail,” replied the boy. “I may be
obliged to say something about you; but if you have good luck, you
ought to be safe across the river before I reach Mr. Gilbert’s house,
and that is where I am going.”
After bringing Springer another hatful of water from the bayou, and
dividing with him the small supply of bacon and crackers he had left,
George brought up his horse, and with infinite difficulty assisted the
man to mount. Springer groaned a little and swore a great deal
during the operation, and being a heavy man and almost unable to
help himself, it required the outlay of all George’s strength to put
him into the saddle. After thanking the boy over and over again for
what he had done, he rode slowly away, and George feeling as
though there was nothing in the world worth living for now, once
more turned his face toward the settlement. He looked back now
and then to see how Springer was getting on. The last time he saw
the man he was standing on the top of a high swell holding his hat
in his hand. When he saw George looking at him he waved it in the
air and rode down the swell out of sight.
“If he can keep in his saddle for forty-eight hours—and he would
have no trouble at all in doing it if it were not for his wounds—and
can dodge the rangers who are probably out looking for the raiders,
he will be all right,” thought George; “but if he is compelled to
dismount, I don’t know what will become of him. He can’t possibly
get on his horse again without help. Now, what shall I do? I am
going back to a home where I am not wanted.”
This was the burden of the boy’s thoughts all the rest of the day. He
could not make up his mind to any course of action, for he was so
stunned and bewildered by what he had heard that he could not
think clearly. The only thing he determined upon was, that he would
lay the case before Mr. Gilbert, and be governed by his advice. Mr.
Gilbert was a wealthy cattle-raiser and a prominent man in the
settlement, who had gained his start in life through the assistance of
George’s father. He was a firm friend of the family, and the boy knew
that he could trust him. Toward his rancho he directed his course,
making all the haste he could. He would have been glad to travel all
night, but his weary limbs demanded rest, and when it grew dark
George was obliged, much against his will, to go into camp. He built
a fire in the edge of a belt of post-oaks that ran across his path, and
after gathering fuel enough to last all night, he ate a very light
supper and sat down to think over the situation. When eight o’clock
came he scraped a few leaves together for a bed, and was about to
throw himself down upon it, when he was brought to his feet by the
clatter of hoofs, which sounded a short distance away.
George seized his haversack and waited with a beating heart for the
horsemen, who he knew were approaching his camp, to come in
sight. They came a moment later, and to the boy’s intense relief the
light from his fire shone not upon silver buttons, gaudy sashes and
wide trowsers, but upon a couple of red shirts and slouch hats. With
a long-drawn sigh, indicative of the greatest satisfaction, George
threw down his haversack and stepped forward to greet the new
comers.
“Good-evening, stranger,” said the foremost horseman. “Have you
any objections to good company to-night?”
“None whatever,” answered George, readily. “I shall be only too glad
to have it, for it is lonely work keeping house all by one’s self.”
“We saw the light of your fire,” said the other, “and as we have got a
little out of our reckoning, we made bold to come here, thinking that
perhaps you could set us right.”
“I am glad to see you,” answered George; “but I hope you have
brought your supper with you, for it is little I can offer you.”
“O, that’s nothing. It is no uncommon thing for ranchemen to go
supperless to bed, you know. Where did you stake out your horse,
my lad?”
“I haven’t any, sir. He was stampeded when the Greasers stole my
cattle, and I haven’t seen him since.”
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