The Border Boys on the Trail. Goldfrap John Henry
of all were fixed intently on him, he held up a red-stained spur.
"A Mexican tickler!" cried Jack.
"That's what, and some one placed it under Petticoats' saddle blanket before the boy mounted," rejoined Bud solemnly.
"Poor beast! No wonder she cut up didoes," said Ralph.
"I should say not. Look at this."
The cowboy lifted the hind flap of Petticoats' saddle, and raising the blankets, showed her back raw and bleeding from the cruel roweling she had received.
"But however did that spur get there?" gasped Ralph.
"Not hard to guess. Can't you imagine?" asked Jack Merrill.
"No, unless – "
"It was that greaser you knocked out," Jack finished for him.
"Consarn the heathenish rattlesnake!" exclaimed the livery stable keeper, who had been among those to follow the wild chase of the canal-carried boys. "I seen him monkeying around your ponies just before he rode out of the barn. If I ever get my hands on him – "
A low growl running through the crowd finished his threat for him. It would have fared badly with Black Ramon had he been there then. But he was far away, riding for the mountains, where he would be safe from the ranchmen's vengeance.
"Waal, we'll run acrost his tracks some day," growled Bud Wilson, "and when we do – Waal, let's talk about the weather."
The boys said nothing, but their faces spoke volumes. By this time, such was the heat of the sun, Ralph's clothes had almost dried out, and he was assured that he would suffer no ill effects from his immersion. As Jack was also almost dry, the rancher, who, it turned out, was a friend of Mr. Merrill's, invited the Agua Caliente party in to have something to eat while their houses were rubbed down and fed. After more congratulations and expressions of wonderment, the horsemen from Maguez rode back to town, and when they had spread the story, the atmosphere of that part of the country would have proved very unhealthful for Black Ramon. Indeed, there was talk of fitting up an expedition to go out and get him, but it was surmised that the Mexican had probably ridden over the border and taken sanctuary in one of his retreats.
"Speaking of irrigation, I'm afraid we are going to have serious trouble with the water some day," Mr. Hungerford, the rancher, remarked as they sat at their meal.
"You mean your orchards will be overflowed?" inquired Jack.
"Oh, no. I'm not afraid of that. That pool in which you landed from the tunnel is drained by a score of small ditches which ought to be capable of handling any overflow. No, the ranches I mean are the ones back under the hills – the cattle ranges. The dam back near Grizzly Pass is none too strong, I am told, and if at any time following a cloudburst the sluiceways should not be opened in time, the retaining wall might burst, and the whole country be swept by a disastrous flood. Damage to thousands of dollars' worth of property and the death of scores of men and cattle might also be a consequence."
"But surely the dam is well guarded?" asked Ralph.
"That's just the trouble," said Mr. Hungerford seriously. "At night, I understand, only one old man is on watch there, and if he should meet with an accident there would be no one to watch for the safety of the ranchers in the foothills."
"Yep, if she'd carry away, she sure would raise Cain!" agreed Bud Wilson.
"Engineers are figuring on some means of strengthening the retaining wall now, I understand," rejoined Mr. Hungerford. "I hope they will complete their work before any storm breaks."
Soon after, the subject was changed, and at the conclusion of their meal, after thanking their hospitable host, the little party set out for Agua Caliente.
"What does Agua Caliente mean, anyhow?" asked Ralph, as they rode out of Mr. Hungerford's place.
"Hot water," rejoined Bud; "and it looks to me as if we didn't have to go as far as the range to get in it."
"There are some hot springs on one part of the ranch," explained Jack.
As the sun grew low they were still in the saddle. The desert had now been passed and they were traversing foothills – rough, broken ground, covered with scrub oak and split and riven by dried water courses. Behind were the dark slopes of the Sierra de la Hacheta. They appeared black and menacing in the dying light.
"They look like regular robbers' roosts," said Ralph, regarding them as the horses picked their way over the rough road, which was scarcely better than a track.
"Robbers' roosts, I guess so," laughed Bud; "and there are some robber roosters among 'em, too," he went on. "Those mountains are on the border, and some place over beyond them is the most pestiferous band of cattle rustlers and horse thieves that ever bothered a nice, peaceable community. Why, before Sam Hickey shot Walter Dodge at – "
But the boys had broken into a roar of laughter at Bud Wilson's idea of a peaceable community.
Their merriment was brought to a sudden halt, however.
From the road ahead had come the sudden clatter of a horse's hoofs. The animal was evidently being urged ahead at full speed.
Bud's hand slipped swiftly back to his hip pocket. The boys realized by this almost automatic action that they were in a country where men are apt to shoot first and ask questions afterward.
Presently a little rise brought the galloper into view.
At the sight of the advancing party, he too slackened speed, and his hand made the same curiously suggestive movement as had Bud Wilson's.
"Howdy!" called Bud tentatively to the dark form outlined against the sombre background of brown, scrub-grown foothill and purple mountain.
"Howdy, Bud Wilson!" came back the hail. "I'll be switched if I didn't think it was Black Ramon and some of his gang, for a minute!"
"Why, hello, Walt Phelps!" hailed Bud cheerfully, as the other advanced. "I didn't know but you was some sort of varmint. How be yer?"
"First class, 'Frisco to Portland, Oregon. Hello, Jack Merrill! Well, you're looking natural. Welcome to our city!"
The stranger spurred his horse nearer, and Ralph saw that he was a boy about their own age, on a big, raw-boned gray horse that seemed capable of great efforts. Fast as the other had been advancing, the gray's flanks hardly heaved.
"Ralph, this is Walt Phelps. He and I used to play ball together when we weren't off on the range some place," said Jack, turning in his saddle to make the introduction. "He's a neighbor of ours. Lives on the next ranch. What are you hurrying so for, Walt?"
The other shoved back his broad sombrero, and the evening light shone on a freckled, good-natured face and the reddest hair Ralph had ever seen.
"Guess you ain't heard the news?" he asked curiously.
"No, what?"
"Why, those cattle rustlers have broken out again. Raided Perkin's last night and got away with fifty head."
"Phew!"
"And that's not all. They know who's at the head of the gang now."
"Who?"
"Why, that bullying greaser – what's his name? That Mexican who's been in trouble a dozen times – "
"Black Ramon De Barrios?"
"That's the rooster! We heard he had the nerve to show up in town, and I'm riding in to see if I can't pick up some fellows and head him off."
"I guess you're too late, Walt."
"How do you know? You only just got in to-day from the East. I met your father a while back, and he told me."
"I know, but we've had time to meet Black Ramon and put something on our side of the book against him."
"Say – tell me." The other's tone held amazement.
"Come on and ride back with us, and I'll tell you as we go along. Black Ramon's on Mexican soil by this time or soon will be."
Their adventures were soon related, and by the time Jack's narrative was concluded, the lights