The Rambler Club on the Texas border

Of course, in that section of the country it was the most natural thing in the world to come across roaming cattle; though the thought instantly suggested itself to Tom that to see one so far separated from a herd had an element of mystery in it.

“It’s mighty queer,” he murmured.

Curious to know what could have happened to the animal, he galloped across the last stretch of ground at a rattling pace.

Reining up by the side of the fallen steer he sprang from the saddle to make a discovery which considerably surprised him. Instead of the motionless, inanimate form he had expected to find, the animal seemed to have plenty of life left in him.

The huge, bulky form began to move. He was making desperate efforts to struggle to his feet, but each time fell back with a ponderous thud to the earth.

“Poor beast!” exclaimed Tom compassionately. “I’m mighty glad I decided to come along.” He straightened up. “Cowboys never drive cattle so hard as to make ’em fall over in a heap—no, sir, not by a long shot.”

Tying his horse to a near-by sapling he returned to the steer to make a more careful examination.

He found there were no outward evidences of injuries, though everything showed that the animal was in a complete state of exhaustion—so complete that it had ceased all efforts to move, and but for its gently heaving sides and half-closed eyes would have appeared quite lifeless indeed.

Another idea came to Tom. There was scarcely any trace of the rain of the day before, but here and there he thought the earth might still be sufficiently soft to show tracks of passing cattle.

Not very long afterward he whistled softly; his eyes sparkling with a peculiar light were turned in the direction of the rolling hills in the west, over which the rising sun was casting a soft, mellow glow.

At his feet lay a little marshy tract; in various portions limpid pools reflected the sky above. Here was the evidence he had been so earnestly searching for. Imprints, and fresh imprints, too, of many hoofs.

“Yes, sir; it looks to me as though a whopping big bunch has passed this way,” he exclaimed. “By George—if it should be—I wonder——”

Frowning lines immediately appeared on Tom Clifton’s forehead; his detective instincts were once more fully aroused. The whole circumstance to his mind had a decidedly suspicious look—the steer fallen by the wayside from exhaustion, the direction in which the cattle had been driven. The more he considered the question, the stronger became his conviction that cattle rustlers were at work again.

“By George! This is a discovery, sure enough!” he cried to the empty air. “Now let’s see!”

The Rambler seated himself on the turf, where in a comfortable position he pondered deeply for a considerable time.

How fine it would be, he reflected, if through his efforts some clue to the whereabouts of the bandits’ stronghold could be obtained. There were many places in the rugged country along the Rio admirably adapted for their purposes. By making a little haste he might actually trail them to the very spot and then—well, the Texas Rangers put in possession of such valuable information ought to have no difficulty in getting hot on their track.

In his imagination Tom could see all this accomplished. His face was flushed.

“Yes, sir, I’ll try it,” he exclaimed. “Of course, Bob must realize that I’m all right. Anyway, a few hours more or less can’t make much difference now.”

All annoying reflections of this character fled from Tom Clifton’s mind as he sprang to his feet. The dangers to which he might be exposed, should his deductions prove correct, occurred to him, but were dismissed with an impatient shrug of his shoulders and a thought voiced aloud: “Well—it’s worth all the risk.”

He took another look at the prostrate steer, satisfying himself that after a sufficient rest he would be all right again.

“Only wish I could do something to help you, old bovine,” he chuckled. “Who knows? Maybe by keeling over you’ve done the Texas Rangers the biggest kind of service.”

Unfastening his pony he leaped into the saddle and was off. Almost every instant his eyes were keenly fixed on the ground, and often he halted to examine patches of turf which still retained the slightest signs of moisture. In the hollows, or where vegetation grew in abundance, he often managed to pick up the trail.

It was a glorious morning; the dew on the leaves and grasses glittered and sparkled like diamonds in the sunshine. Birds flitted from place to place or from leafy coverlets sent their blithesome songs over the air. Sometimes a jack-rabbit scampered across the rider’s path, and then in headlong flight quickly disappeared from view.

Tom’s thoughts, however, were so intent upon the work in hand that he paid but little attention either to the beauties of nature or the life about him.

The difficulties of his self-imposed task made the Rambler all the more determined to keep on, but half an hour’s ride was sufficient to bring even his sanguine, hopeful nature to a realization that only failure had repaid him for his hard, toilsome work.

For a long distance not a single evidence of the animals’ tracks was to be seen, and the country farther to the west was becoming wild and barren, where the difficulties of his task would be increased tenfold. The hills, rugged and steep, partly covered with a scraggly growth of mesquite and cactus, constantly increased in height. Between them lay narrow, rocky gorges of a gloomy and sullen aspect, overrun with treacherous roots or tangled thickets, the haunts of hordes of vicious mosquitoes and myriads of other insects both winged and crawling.

“Yes, sir! I’ve lost all trace of it,” murmured the lad disconsolately. “If a band of rustlers were really behind those cattle, they must have known a much better route to the Rio than the one I’ve taken.”

From the sloping side of a ridge he could see on every hand a wild and desolate expanse of country; vast, impressive and silent. Now Tom could understand more fully the difficulties under which the Texas Rangers worked. Nature, here, had provided excellent hiding places for outlaws; and as an aid to them in case of discovery there were natural barricades from behind which they could almost defy their enemies.

“It’s a peach of a place for ’em, sure enough,” declared Tom. He slid off his pony’s back, in another moment examining the animal’s injured leg. It had withstood the traveling well, and appeared to be nearly healed.

“Fine!” he commented. Then seating himself on a bit of rock he reflectively gazed up at the pink clouds floating lazily in a field of palish blue. Tom had, of course, been greatly disappointed; his bright visions of lending valuable aid to the Rangers were almost dashed—almost, because, even now, a vague hope seemed to be urging him on. But for thoughts of Bob Somers and the others he would not have hesitated an instant—the Rio Grande, he reflected, couldn’t be so very far away, and once there, possibly something of interest might be discovered.

There was naturally only one result to be expected from the mental arguments which he indulged in with himself. The affirmative side now—a few hours more and his companions would see him again; so why bother further?

“Of course,” cried Tom briskly, “I won’t! I’m all ready now, old chap—let’s be on the move!”

Then began another hard fatiguing journey, with the traveling becoming increasingly difficult.

At length the lad, mopping his perspiring face, was murmuring his intention of making a long halt in the first shade he could find, when the sound of horses’ hoofs, coming from the top of the ridge just above him, instantly drove away all feelings of discomfort.

With a sharp exclamation he pulled up, while thoughts of cattle rustlers and bandits rushed back to his mind in full force. Tom had so completely given up any idea of encountering other human beings in this wild section of the country, that now he felt his nerves beginning to tingle, his heart to beat faster.

“Ah!” he breathed an instant later.

The figure of a horse and rider abruptly appeared above the crest of the hill, slowly rising higher and higher until both in full view were silhouetted in bold relief against the sky. The two, almost giant specimens of their species, formed a magnificent picture as the glow of the early morning sun fell across their figures. Now having come to a halt, they suggested in their motionless state rather a great equestrian statue than living, breathing creatures.

One swift, comprehensive glance had shown Tom Clifton. An elderly, gray-bearded, patriarchal-looking man he was, every line in his bronzed face telling of his nationality.

“A Mexican!” muttered Tom. Then mastering himself he exclaimed in even tones:

“Good-morning, sir!”

He was vaguely conscious of the fact that the other appeared to be studying him with considerably more interest and attention than a chance meeting between two strangers would seem to warrant. Another thing, too, impressed itself upon his mind. This man had evidently seen him approaching from a considerable distance, for he exhibited no signs of surprise.

“Buenas dias, señor,” came the greeting.

The Mexican spoke in a kindly, friendly tone, and Tom’s disturbing thoughts immediately fled.

“Good-morning,” he said again. Then without further hesitation he flipped his reins, and the mustang’s sharp hoofs were once more digging into the hard, stony ground.

Riding up by the stranger’s side he addressed him in English only to see him shake his head uncomprehendingly. The situation, however, was saved from any embarrassing features by the Mexican’s sense of humor. He laughed heartily and extended his hand, which Tom smilingly shook.

Thus, the American and Mexican faced each other on the top of the ridge for several instants in silence, Tom heartily wishing all the while that he possessed a sufficient knowledge of the Spanish language to put a few questions to him.

An entirely different air distinguished this man from the majority of Mexicans he had seen in the little town across the Rio.

His age, of course, precluded the idea of his being a vaquero. Besides, everything about him seemed to indicate that he occupied a much higher station in life. He wondered why the Mexican was roaming about the country alone—or was he alone? A startling thought flashed through his mind. Had this man any connection with the cattle rustlers—might he not be one of the band acting as a sentinel? Desperados did not always look the part!

Tom Clifton, with his love of mysteries, began to think that he had now stumbled upon another, which might prove to be fully as interesting as the one his imagination had woven about the young pianist of the Mexican theater.

“I do wonder——” he thought; then with a little start he realized that the other was speaking. The words themselves were meaningless, but the man’s actions perfectly clear. The Mexican wished the lad to follow him. Highly puzzled, Tom nodded his head. Then side by side they rode until, skirting around the side of a jagged ridge that rose high above their heads, his eyes took in a view which brought the cry: “The Rio Grande!” from his lips.

Yes—the great river appeared right before him. Its muddy water, faintly tinged in places with reflections from the brilliant sky, was flowing near the base of a line of rugged, almost perpendicular bluffs.

“Well, well, I certainly never expected to run across it so soon as this!” he exclaimed.

He felt a touch on his arm. The gray-bearded Mexican’s gaze was fixed intently upon the opposite shore where the hills loomed up bright in the sunshine.

“My country!” he exclaimed in English.

What a wealth of meaning those two words, quietly spoken, seemed to express. The man, sitting almost motionless in his saddle, a troubled look in his piercing black eyes, seemed just then to typify the sorrows of that great land, brought to misery and suffering by so much internal dissension.

For several moments the two let their eyes wander over the vast stretch of country before them. Tom was the first to speak.

“Don’t you know any other words of English?” he inquired.

The answer was a shake of the head. By means of expressive gestures, however, the Mexican very easily conveyed to Tom’s mind a desire to know in which direction he was bound. This information being supplied, a look of much surprise came over his sunburned face, as though he could not understand why the lad should travel as far as the river only to turn right back.

Tom, realizing the hopelessness of attempting oral explanations, wisely concluded to confine his efforts to communicate to the clumsy, though useful medium of gestures, and in this way signified his intention of starting off at once. The Mexican with a benevolent smile made it known that he should like to accompany him, to which request Tom at once assented.

He reflected that there was nothing at all unusual about this. The man might be on his way to visit some of the ranches that lay to the east. At any rate he found his company a most agreeable change after the long hours of solitude and silence.

He soon discovered, too, that the horseman possessed an intimate knowledge of the surrounding country, for, acting as guide, he conducted him over a route much easier than the one by which he had come. And this resulted in their reaching the undulating prairie far sooner, and with much less fatigue than would otherwise have been the case.

“This is something else to talk about,” mused Tom. “I guess Cranny will wish to thunder he had come along with Bob and me. Honest, I’d give a lot to know who this chap is, and where he’s bound.”

As the two for mile after mile jogged along side by side across the prairie, all sorts of ideas concerning the Mexican ran through Tom Clifton’s head. He hadn’t yet managed to dismiss the thought that there was something decidedly mysterious about him.

“Perhaps he’s a Mexican general, who has come over to the United States on some mission,” he reflected, “or he may be seeking safety from his enemies.”

The depths of patriotism expressed both in the man’s face and actions, when he had looked upon the land of his fathers, made Tom feel that somehow the rustler theory was rather untenable, though he was still not yet prepared to dismiss it altogether from his mind.

The lad was always expecting the Mexican to bid him adieu, but as time passed on he showed no inclination to do so.

“It’s mighty odd,” muttered Tom, “that my direction should be exactly the same as his direction. It’s another thing I don’t quite understand!”

At last, growing tired of speculations and deductions, which he reflected would certainly never solve the matter, he thrust them all from his mind, becoming more conscious from that moment of the heat and the glare of light which enveloped the landscape.

Reaching the heights of a ridge the two looked down upon a valley, to see far-off herds of grazing cattle. At the right a faint bluish smudge rising above the low chain of hills attracted Tom’s attention.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, “I’ll bet that’s a cowboys’ camp.” He turned quickly and discovered the Mexican eying him with a most peculiar smile. It instantly faded, however, when the latter observed his action. Once more Tom became impressed with the idea that for some reason he was an object of special interest to this man whom he had so unexpectedly encountered.

“By George! It’s about the queerest thing I ever ran up against!” he muttered. “I’ll steer straight for that camp, and, if there are any cow-punchers among the bunch who speak a few words of the Spanish lingo, maybe they can put me wise.”

A sweep of his hand told the Mexican of his resolve, at which an expression of undisguised astonishment, so plain as to admit of no mistake, flashed for a second over the other’s face.

Tom saw his keen searching eyes fixed full upon him; they seemed to travel slowly from the soles of his shoes to the high peaked crown of his sombrero. Then with a slight shrug of his shoulders, the man’s benevolent smile returned and cracking his whip he galloped down the slope.

Not long after the two horsemen were riding among Colonel Brookes Sylvester’s great herds of cattle. Hundreds of them were contentedly browsing over the hillsides or along the rich pasture lands of the valley.

It was not always an easy matter to keep that thin column of smoke in view, for many times ridges or thick clumps of vegetation came between.

Therefore, Tom was highly pleased when they finally rode over a ridge and saw the cowboys’ camp at the base of a gently-sloping surface which extended before them.

A big chuck-wagon stood in the shadow of a grove of cottonwoods. Around a smouldering fire a number of shirt-sleeved men had gathered and every one was staring hard toward them.

“That’s the finest sight I’ve seen for some time!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “Hooray!”

The mustang, responding to his commands, broke into a swift gallop which carried him in a moment to the cottonwoods where, with a hearty salutation to the cowboys, he slipped from his horse.

Their actions filled him with the greatest astonishment. They were looking at him as though in open-mouthed wonder. He heard them speaking, in low excited tones; he saw the biggest, a man well over six feet in height, step forward, extending a huge brown hand toward him. Then his amazement was made complete when he listened to these words, spoken in a loud chuckling tone:

“Shake, Jimmy Raymond. We’re sartinly more’n glad to see you.”