At the Harkness ranch

“Silver Tip!” echoed Rob, as the immense monarch of the Arizona forest crashed his way off through the undergrowth. “Well, when you told us about him on the steamer, you didn’t exaggerate his size. He’s as big as a pony.”

“Plenty of bear steaks on him,” remarked Tubby judiciously.

“I guess you’d find them well seasoned with lead,” laughed Harry. “Every hunter in this part of the country has shot at Silver Tip, and plenty of them have hit him, but he always managed to get away. The Indians and the Mexicans are scared of him. They think he is not a bear at all, but some sort of demon in animal form. Eh, Jose?”

“Silvree Teep mucho malo bear,” grunted the Mexican. “Only can kill with silver bullet.”

“What do you think of that,” laughed Harry. “But our hunters have wasted too many lead bullets on old Silver Tip to try him with silver ones. But in spite of his wonderful good fortune hitherto, that bear’s day will come.”

“Like a dog’s,” commented Tubby. “You know they say every dog has his day I guess it’s the same way with that old sockdolliger.”

“That’s so, I guess,” rejoined Harry.

Soon afterward they clattered and rumbled down a steep grade leading from the canyon into a wooded, green dip in the foothills. Before them suddenly spread out the vista of apparently illimitable pasture grounds, dotted with feeding cattle. In the foreground, half hidden by big cotton-wood trees, and overtopped by a windmill and water tank, stood a long, low ranch house, with numerous outbuildings and corrals about it.

“That’s the range,” said Harry, pointing. And as the boys broke into an admiring chorus, the mules plunged forward into a brisk trot. In a short time the outer gate was reached, and opened by dint of pulling a hanging contrivance which worked on a system of levers, that opened and closed the gate at the will of whoever was entering or leaving, without obliging them to dismount.

Around the bunkhouse stood a group of cowboys in leather chapareros and rough blue shirts, awaiting the call to supper in the low, red-painted cook-house. Some of them were gathered about a tin basin, removing the grime of the day. In a large corral were their ponies, browsing on a railed-off stack of grain hay, and occasionally kicking and biting and squealing, as some fractious soul among them instigated a fight.

Suddenly a door in the ranch house opened, and a figure, which the boys recognized as that of Mr. Harkness, emerged. His hands were extended in a hearty welcome, and a smile wreathed his bronzed features.

“Hulloa, boys!” he hailed. “Welcome to the Harkness ranch.”

The boys broke into a cheer, and leaping from the wagon, ran forward to greet their kind-hearted host, whom they had last met on the deck of a stranded steamer on the Long Island shoals.

After the first chorus of greetings and questions had passed, Mr. Harkness inquired what had delayed them.

“Indians,” rejoined Harry. “They tried to steal mules going down, and they robbed the boys here of their small change on their way up.”

The face of the rancher grew graver.

In response to his questions, Rob had soon placed him in possession of the facts surrounding the appearance of the Moquis at the water hole and the subsequent events.

“We shall have to keep a sharp eye on the cattle, then,” he said soberly. “I’ve got a bunch over on the far range, right up in the foothills. If these gentry get hungry they are likely to make a raid on them, or they may even do it out of pure wantonness.”

“Yes, it wouldn’t be the first time,” said Harry. “By the way, pop, we met Mr. Mayberry, the Indian agent, on the way up. He’s after them.”

“That’s bad,” gravely commented the rancher.

“Bad!” repeated Harry. “Why, dad, I’ve heard you yourself say that he was the best Indian agent you ever knew.”

“So he is, in a sense. But he is too kind-hearted. What those renegade rascals need is a file of soldiers with fixed bayonets and a burning desire to use them. However, come in, boys. Jose, wake up and put those trunks off. Get two men to help you bring them into the house. Come in, boys, and make yourselves at home in a rancher’s shanty.”

Mr. Harkness may have called it a shanty, but to the boys’ eyes there had seldom been presented a more attractive interior than that of the Harkness ranch house. The furniture was dark and heavy, and the walls were hung with trophies of the hunt. Bright-colored Navajo rugs were all about, lending a brilliant dash of brightness to the dark woods and walls. At one end of the room was a huge open fireplace, which was now filled with fresh green boughs.

“Why why, it’s great!” exclaimed Rob, glancing about him admiringly.

“Glad you like it,” said the rancher, evidently well pleased at the boy’s pleasure. “Those heads there are all the tale of my rifle.”

“The collection is only lacking in one thing a single item,” commented Rob.

“Which is ”

“The head of Silver Tip, the giant grizzly.”

“You know about him, then?” Mr. Harkness seemed much surprised. At the time of his leaving the stranded ship he had not overheard the conversation between his son and the Boy Scouts.

“We’ve seen him,” put in Tubby, nodding his head very sagely.

Then of course the story of their glimpse of the monster had to come out.

“It is unusual for Silver Tip to be about here at this time of year,” commented Mr. Harkness. “He usually does not visit us till later. That’s an additional peril to the cattle.”

“How is that?” inquired Rob.

“In two ways. In the first place, Silver Tip is what we call a rogue grizzly. He lives all alone, hunts by himself, and has nothing to do with any others of his kind. He is as cruel, wantonly so, as he is formidable. For instance, last winter he killed fifty or more head of steers just for the sheer love of killing. Then, too, he is dangerous in another way. It takes very little to stampede a band of cattle. I have seen them started by a jack-rabbit leaping up suddenly from the brush. The sight of such an appalling monster as Silver Tip would be sure to start them off. No, I certainly don’t like to hear that he is about.”

Not long after this remark the announcement of supper put an end to further discussion of Silver Tip and his ways. Then and there Rob determined in his own mind that, if it were possible, the skin of that inaccessible monster would journey East with him when he returned. Absurd as the idea seemed, of him, an Eastern boy, green in the ways of the West, winning such a trophy, still Rob could not help dwelling on it. After the meal Mr. Harkness left the house for the bunkhouse, to give some orders to the night-riding cow-punchers. The news of the near neighborhood of the Moquis had made him nervous and unsettled.

The evening passed away in further discussion among the boys of the proposed mounted patrol of Boy Scouts, and before they knew it, ten o’clock had arrived. Pretty well fatigued by the events of the day, they were not unwilling to seek their beds, which were situated in three small upper rooms, directly above the big main living room.

Rob was just dropping off into unconsciousness when he heard a clattering of hoofs outside. Somebody had ridden up to the ranch house at full speed.

“Who is it?” he heard asked in Mr. Harkness’s voice.

“It’s me Pete Bell,” an excited voice rejoined, evidently that of the horseman who had just arrived.

“Well, Pete, what is it?” inquired the voice of Mr. Harkness once more.

“Why, sir, you know I was one of the bunch you sent to the far pasture to-night.”

“Yes, yes! Go on, man! What is it the Indians?”

“No, sir, no Indians. But, sir, we’ve seen it again.”

“What, that foolish ghost-story thing! Haven’t you fellows got over harping on that yet?”

“It ain’t imagination, Mr. Harkness, as you seem to think,” Rob heard the cow-puncher protest. “I seen it with these eyes as plain as I see you now. It come out on the cliff where the old cave dwellings are, and we saw it wring its hands a few times and then vanish just like it’s always done before.”

“Nonsense, Pete,” replied the hard-headed rancher. “I thought you knew better than to take stock in ghost stories.”

“So I do, sir; but when you see the ghost itself, that’s getting close to home.”

“Well, get back to the pasture now, Pete, and I’ll guarantee the ghost won’t bother you any more. Come on, get some color in your face. You are chattering like a child.”

“Won’t you send somebody back with me, sir? That thing ought to be looked into.”

“Nonsense! I wouldn’t waste time, men or thought on such rubbish. If you get track of any Indians, let me know, but don’t bother me with any ghost stories. Now be off!”

“Y-y-yes, sir,” said the cow-puncher obediently, but Rob noted that his pony didn’t travel back toward the far pasture as fast as it had come away from it.

“So,” thought Rob to himself, “there are haunted cliff dwellings near here, as well as a rogue grizzly and a bunch of bad Indians. Well, it looks as if we had fallen into an ideal spot for Boy Scouts.”