The Boy Ranchers Among the Indians Page 3

  "Rosemary—that's for remembrance," quoted Rolling Stone with a smile. "I know her not, and yet Hank Fowler is a sheriff to my certain knowledge."

  "Do you mean the one from La Nogalique?" persisted Bud.

  "That same. I appealed to him when I was down on my luck, as I nearly always am, and he befriended me. I have known him for years."

  "Then there can't be much wrong with you," decided Bud. "If you want work, my father can fix you up. We'll need some extra hands if we pull out a lot to take the trail after the Yaquis. So—"

  "Excuse me, young man. But did you say—Yaquis?" asked Rolling

  Stone, and there was a new and eager note in his voice.

  "Yes," supplemented Nort. "The Yaquis—Indians you know—have gone wild again and they've raided a town and carried off some of our friends. We're going to—"

  "You can't tell me anything about the Yaquis that I don't know, young man!" exclaimed Rolling Stone, and he seemed imbued with new life. "I know they're Indians, of a sort, though a very rotten sort. They killed my best friend years ago. I haven't heard anything about a raid lately. Been too lazy to look for news, I reckon. But if it's true that they're on the rampage, and you're on the trail after them let me, I beg of you, have a hand in it. I asked for work just now. Change that to a fight and I'm with you at the fall of the hat and until I drop! Let me come! Let me help pay back the debt I have against these infernal Yaquis. Will you?" he asked eagerly.

  Bud looked at his cousins. Here was a new element. And with all his light manner, and ragged clothes, there was something very satisfying about Rolling Stone, as he asked to be called.

  "We'll need all the help we can get," said Bud, slowly. "If Hank Fowler says you're all right, that goes with us. Sure it isn't Hank Fisher who vouches for you?" he asked sharply.

  "Hank Fisher—I don't know the man," was the answer.

  "You're better off not to," spoke Bud grimly, for Fisher was a ranchman of unsavory reputation, who was believed to have figured in more than one affair with the half breed Del Pinzo, to the discomfort of Diamond X.

  "Hank Fowler, the sheriff, will tell you I'm straight," said Rolling

  Stone. "I don't say I haven't faults," he went on. "But when I say

  I'm my own worst enemy I've spilled an earful," and he laughed genially.

  "We'll let it go at that," Bud answered. "If Mr. Fowler says you're on the level that's sufficient. And you can come with us."

  "Thanks," was the laconic reply. "Will one of your ponies carry double?" and he looked over his shoulder at the corral.

  "We won't ask you to ride one of those mustangs," laughed Bud. "And

  it's too much to double up. I'll go back and get one of dad's ponies.

  It isn't far. You stay here," he added to his cousins and Rolling

  Stone. "I'll be back soon."

  Riding rapidly, Bud was quickly back at Diamond X. He told the story of the meeting with Rolling Stone. At first Mr. Merkel was a bit suspicious, but it happened that one of the cowboys had heard of Rolling Stone, and knew him to be what he laid claim to.

  "I reckon he's all right," assented the ranchman. "Take him with you, Bud. You'll need help, and if he knows anything about the Yaquis he'll be of value."

  "All right," remarked Bud. "He's on. What horse can I take for him?"

  One was selected. Together the boy ranchers and Rolling Stone rode out to Happy Valley, for certain matters must be adjusted there before the start could be made after the Indians who had carried off Rosemary and Floyd.

  Work went on at top speed, and a day later our young heroes, with Rolling Stone, better dressed, but the same unconventional spirit, started forth.

  "On the trail!" grimly remarked Bud as they started to join forces with those from Diamond X.

  "On the trail!" echoed Nort and Dick.

  "And we can't meet with those Yaquis any too soon for me!" added

  Rolling Stone.

  "You seem to have it in for them rather hard," observed Dick.

  "It can't be any too hard," answered the man with a grim tightening of the muscles around his mouth. "When I think of all they did—"

  He paused and gazed at the distant horizon. That there was a story connected with his hate of the Yaquis none of the boys doubted, and they were eager to hear it. But this was not the time and place. Too much remained to be done, and there was too little time in which to do it.

  "I wonder when we'll meet up with the imps?" spoke Nort, as they ambled easily along.

  "No telling," said Bud. "We've got things in shape back there so that we can remain away all summer if need be," and he glanced back toward their ranch which they had just left. "But I'd like to clean up this bunch of 'onery' Yaquis, and then get back on the job. Cattle raising is our business."

  "But just now we're following a side line of rescuing Rosemary and

  Floyd," observed Nort. "And I think we can do it!"

  Well it was that Fate veiled the Future.

  CHAPTER V

  ROSEMARY AND FLOYD

  "Floyd, I don't like this a bit!"

  "What's the matter, Rosemary?"

  The young man driving the sturdy little sport model of a car brought the machine to a stop and glanced at the girl sitting beside him. There was a quizzical smile on his face, a good-natured smile, however.

  "What don't you like, Rosemary?" he asked again, and there was not in his tone any air of bored fault-finding such as seems to come natural to some brothers in appealing from a decision of some sisters.

  "I don't like the way this trail is shaping up, if you'll excuse my

  English," answered Rosemary Boyd.

  "Your English is perfectly excusable, Rosemary," retorted Floyd. "In fact I rather like it. It is much better than this trail, to be frank."

  "Are you sure we have come the right road?"

  "As sure as I can be of anything in this doggoned country, where they haven't enough sign posts. I took the turns they told me to take in the last town we passed through, and all the land marks have run true to form so far."

  "But we're a good ways from Uncle Henry's ranch yet; aren't we, Floyd?" and there crept into the voice of Rosemary an anxious note.

  "Well, maybe we are, but what do we care for a few hundred miles?"

  He laughed merrily, showing a set of white, even teeth, and his jollity was so catching that his sister had to join in.

  "Well, I suppose it really doesn't make much difference," she said. "We're out for a lark and we've had it, so far. Only I don't seem to fancy sleeping out in the open again to-night. We were lost yesterday, you remember, and didn't make the town we expected to."

  Floyd seemed to be waiting for something.

  "Well?" he suggested. "Why don't you add that it was all my fault."

  "I was going to leave that out," Rosemary said.

  "But I'll admit it," acknowledged her brother. "I did pull a bloomer, as an Englishman would say, and I don't intend to do it again to-day. I admit I shouldn't have tried to do more than a day's trip yesterday. If I had taken your advice and stayed in the town where there was at least an apology for a hotel, you'd have had a better night's sleep."

  "Well, I didn't mind being out in the open so much, after I got used to the howling of those wolves," Rosemary remarked.

  "Coyotes—coyotes—not wolves, though they're off the same piece of goods," corrected Floyd.

  "Well, never mind the lesson in natural history," laughed Rosemary. "The point at issue is that I don't like the sort of country we're getting into. It doesn't look to me as though this could ever lead us to Uncle Henry's ranch, and I'm anxious to get there. Bud's mother wrote that he and his cousins, Nort and Dick, had such exciting times, that I'm anxious to join them."

  "So'm I," said Floyd. "And we'll get there."

  "Not on this trail!" declared his sister, as her brother was about to start the car. "You're getting into a worse and wilder country all the while. I think we should have taken the left turn a ways ba
ck."

  "The cow puncher we asked told us to take the right turn, and I did," retorted Floyd.

  "Cow puncher!" exclaimed his sister scornfully, "He looked more like a renegade Mexican than a real American cowboy. And his accent was Spanish, too."

  "Oh, well, lots of good American cowboys came from Mexican or Spanish people, and speak both languages," asserted Floyd. "Don't hold that against him."

  "I don't," said Rosemary. "But I will hold it against him if he has put us on the wrong trail, and I'm beginning to believe that's what he did. And maybe purposely, Floyd."

  "Purposely? What do you mean?"

  "Well, you know what we were told when we started out to make this trip—that we had better take the most civilized and best traveled trails, as the Yaquis were reported to be on the verge of making an outbreak."

  "Yes, and for that reason I kept well away from the border. But we aren't anywhere near the Yaquis country now."

  "Aren't we?" asked Rosemary, with a strange quietness in her voice.

  "No, of course not!" snapped Floyd. It was the first time, since brother and sister had started from California, to make a somewhat adventurous trip to their uncle's ranch that they had been near a "break" in their cordial relations. "The Yaquis are five hundred miles from here."

  "I hope so, I surely do hope so!" murmured Rosemary, in such fervent tones that her brother felt an uneasy sense of fear creeping into his heart. For the first time he began to realize that perhaps they had done a foolhardy thing in making this trip alone. He slipped his hand into his pocket, making sure that his gun was in readiness. And it did not relieve his anxiety to note that Rosemary did the same.

  Brother and sister were of the west. They were brave and bold and not afraid of danger when they had half a chance to meet it face to face. But they had heard much of the treacherous and mean nature of the Yaquis Indians. These were not like the early American tribes of redmen, who had something of a code of honor in their warfare, cruel and heartless as it seemed at times.

  "Well, do you want to go back?" asked Floyd, as he slowly started the car.

  Rosemary considered for a moment.

  "Let's look at the map and go over what we were told along the route," she suggested.

  Then followed a careful scanning of papers and drawings, with the result that Rosemary said:

  "I guess we may as well go on. It's a long way back to the nearest town, and this map does seem to indicate that we are heading for La Nogalique."

  "That's what I say!" chimed in Floyd. "I only hope La Nogalique is better than it sounds. If we can put up there for the night you'll get a little rest, and maybe I'll have this carburetor adjusted. I don't like the way it's acting."

  "Oh, good, sweet, kind carburetor, don't go back on us now!" implored

  Rosemary, kissing her hand toward the engine of the car. "Be nice and

  I'll sprinkle you with violet talcum powder when we get to Uncle

  Henry's!"

  "Don't be silly!" grunted Floyd.

  "Let's go!" called his sister. "It's getting late, and according to this map it's ten miles yet to La Nogalique—which means twenty if we are going by past performances."

  The car sped forward, the trail seeming to grow worse instead of better, as might be expected if they were approaching a town. Lurching from side to side, making sharp turns to avoid bowlders and holes, Floyd guided the machine. Now and then Rosemary would glance at her brother, after a particularly vicious jolt, but she said nothing.

  "A good sport!" Floyd mentally voted his sister.

  They topped a steep rise, and as they started down the other slope, making a turn, Rosemary pointed ahead and exclaimed:

  "There! Now we're all right! La Nogalique!"

  Nestling in a small valley was a smaller town, its few buildings showing plainly in the last rays of the sun which would soon set behind the mountains and hills.

  "Guess we're not so badly off after all!" exulted Floyd. "We'll sleep in real beds tonight!"

  "And I take back what I—er—thought about you!" laughed his sister.

  "Thanks for not saying it!" chuckled Floyd. "I admit I was guessing myself a while back, for that trail looked as though it was heading straight for no place in particular. But we're all right now."

  However, as they descended the slope, approaching the town, it became a question in both the mind of sister and brother as to whether they were all right. When they came near enough to see and hear plainly it became evident that something unusual was going on in La Nogalique, if such was the village in view.

  There was the popping of guns and intermittant shouts, while figures could be seen riding wildly to and fro amid the scattered buildings.

  "Guess there's some sort of a celebration," commented Floyd.

  "Probably some Mexicans have come over the border, and are celebrating a feast day," observed his sister. "This must be about the border line between the United States and Mexico."

  "I reckon," conceded Floyd. "But say, I don't just like this! Look, those men are shooting at each other!"

  He stopped the car and pointed to two groups of horsemen who, undoubtedly, were firing at each other with evil intent. For as Rosemary and Floyd looked, several men toppled from their saddles, and their steeds rushed wildly to and fro.

  Then, as the travelers sat in the machine, looking down the last slope that led to the town, a solitary horseman came clattering up the rocky trail.

  "Turn back! Turn back!" he shouted. "Don't go down there!"

  He was attired as a cowboy and spoke good United States.

  "What's the matter?" demanded Floyd, as he let the car roll to one side to give the horseman room to pass.

  "Yaquis!" was the answer. "Them onery Mexican Indians have broke loose and are raiding the country. They've started in here at La Nogalique! I'm riding for the troops. Better turn back!"

  "Oh, Floyd!" cried Rosemary, involuntarily.

  "Don't go down there!" warned the horseman, as he spurred on, for he saw the car slipping down the slope.

  "I don't intend to, if I can turn around and beat it up the hill,"

  Floyd said. "The question is—can I?"

  It was a question. The road was narrow, and the hill steep. If you have ever tried to turn a car around on a narrow, hilly road and crawl back up it, you will appreciate the position of Rosemary and her brother.

  "If you can't make it in your car get out and hide!" advised the horseman, flinging this back over his shoulder as he rode on. "Those Yaquis are human devils!"

  He was out of sight a moment later around a turn in the trail. Floyd speeded up the engine and began to guide the machine toward a place that looked wide enough to turn in. But that was the smallest part of the problem.

  Just as he was making the turn there was a lurch to one side, and the right forward wheel sank into a ditch at the side of the road. The car settled so far over that Rosemary had to cling to Floyd to avoid sliding out, and she could not repress a scream.

  "No going back now!" exclaimed Floyd grimly. "We're lucky if we can go ahead."

  "Do something!" desperately cried Rosemary.

  And then, with a suddenness that was nerve-racking, there swept around the bend in the road toward them a band of yelling Mexican Indians—the Yaquis!

  CHAPTER VI

  PRISONERS

  Rosemary and Floyd knew something of the west. They had lived in California a number of years, and had traveled across the continent more than once—by auto on one occasion. So they were not at all disappointed when they saw the Yaquis did not measure up to the picturesque standard of Buffalo Bill's Indians.

  In fact the first glimpse of the onrushing band of Yaquis would give one the impression that they were a lot of colored cowboys, in most ragged garments. But each one carried a gun or a revolver and the weapons were for use, and had been used, some with fatal effect.

  Shouting and yelling, some firing their guns off in the air, beating coiled lassos against the heaving s
ides of their steeds, spurring the frantic animals, shouting in Spanish, all of them dusty, sweaty and dirty—the band was at once ridiculous and fearsome.

  Up the trail they rushed, adding to their fierce yells as they caught sight of the auto in which sat Rosemary and Floyd. Probably the band of Yaquis had started off after the cowboy messenger who was riding to summon the United States troopers, and the finding of Rosemary and Floyd was but an accident.

  But it was an accident likely to bode ill for our friends. The Indians (I call them that though they were really Mexicans) having sighted what was to them fair game, were turned from their original purpose of capturing the messenger.

  Rosemary and Floyd caught a jumbled jargon of Spanish shouts, mingled with Mexican and American words, and then out of the ruck of riders a solitary horseman spurred toward them.

  "He's the leader, I guess!" exclaimed Floyd, and Rosemary caught the gleam of his revolver in her brother's hand.

  "Floyd! Don't!" she cried.

  "Don't what?"

  "Don't shoot? Oh, we haven't a chance! If we do kill—or wound a few—it will only make it worse for us. Don't shoot!"

  Rosemary spoke only just in time, for Floyd was already raising the weapon to aim at the leader who had spurred out of the ruck of other yelling Yaquis.

  And, as if this leader sensed what was about to happen, and had decided to administer a lesson, there was a sharp crack from his side. He had not raised his hand higher than his saddle pommel, but Floyd's hat spun from his head and went sailing to the ground. At the same time he heard a vicious "zing" which told of a bullet in flight.

  "Floyd!" screamed Rosemary.

  "I'm all right! He's bluffing!" her brother answered. But he did not shoot back.

  This Yaqui, better dressed and mounted, but more evil in face than any of his band, smiled grimly as he jammed his gun back into the holster. And Floyd had the sense to return his weapon. As Rosemary had said, there was grave danger in firing, for at best only a few of the Yaquis could have been disposed of, and the others would have taken a terrible revenge.