Hemmed in by the herd

There was little time to think, and hardly more for action. A more perfect trap of its kind than that in which Rob was caught could not have been devised by the utmost ingenuity.

Shouts of alarm went up from the cow-punchers, and from the little group of Boy Scouts as they saw his danger. But not one of those horrified onlookers could do more than sit powerless. All about them, like waves shattered against a mighty rock, surged the broken stampede, with wild cattle rushing hither and thither. They themselves were, in fact, by no means out of danger.

With an angry bellow, the leader of the advancing left flank of cattle lowered his head. His mighty horns glistened like sharpened sabres. Straight at the boy he rushed, while his companions followed his example.

An involuntary groan burst from the watchers. It seemed as if Rob’s doom was sealed. But suddenly something happened that they still talk about in that part of the country.

Quick as thought the boy decided that there was only one course open to him. Advance he could not. Retreat, on the other hand, seemed barred by the gulch. Yet on the gulch side of the beleaguered boy lay the only path.

Foolhardy as the attempt appeared, Rob decided that the risk must be taken.

A shout burst from the lips of the powerless onlookers as they realized what the boy meant to do.

Leap the gulch on his pony!

A run, or take-off, of some fifty feet lay between Rob and the dark crack in the earth that was the gulch. Short as was the distance, from what Rob knew of the active little beast he bestrode, he believed he could do it. He raised his heavy quirt above the pony’s trembling flanks.

Crack!

The lash descended, cutting a broad wale on the buckskin’s back. He gave a squeal of rage and bounded forward.

“Yip-yip!” yelled Rob.

Out of the peril of the situation a spirit of recklessness seemed to have descended upon him. He could have shouted aloud as he felt the active bounds of the cayuse. One hurried glance at the awful gap before him gave the boy a rough estimate of its width ten feet or more. A tremendous leap for a pony. But it must be done.

“Yip-yip,” yelled Rob once more, as he dug his spurs in deep, and the maddened pony gave one tremendous bound that brought it right to the edge of the pit.

For one sickening instant it paused, and Rob felt the chill fear of death sweep over him. Then the brave buckskin gathered its limbs for the leap. Like steel springs its tough muscles rebounded, and the yelling, shrieking cow-punchers saw a buckskin body, surmounted by a cheering boy, give a great leap upward and alight safe on the farther side of the chasm.

Cheer after cheer went up, while Rob waved his hat exultantly and yelled back at his friends.

Nothing like that leap for life had ever been witnessed before.

The amazed cattle, cheated of their prey, wavered, and the leaders tried in vain to check themselves. Desperately they dug their forefeet into the edge of the gulch, but the treacherous lip of the chasm gave under their weight, and with a roar and rattle, a cloud of dust and a despairing bellow, four of them shot over the edge and vanished.

Rob could not repress a shudder as he patted his buckskin, and realized that but for the little steed’s noble effort he might have shared the fate of the dumb brutes.

Before long the cow-punchers had the rest of the steers rounded up, and ready to be driven back to the Far Pasture. Many were the threats breathed against the Moquis as they did so. The cattle, as is the nature of these half-wild brutes, having had their run out, seemed inclined to collapse from fatigue. As long as unreasoning terror held sway among them they had galloped tirelessly, but now their legs shook under them and they quivered and drooped pitifully. But the cattlemen showed them no mercy. With loud yells and popping of revolvers and cracking of quirts, they rode round them, getting them together into a compact mass.

While all this was going on, Rob had ridden his buckskin along the edge of the gulch. Some two miles below the place where his leap had been made, he found a spot which seemed favorable for crossing. The pony slid down one bank on its haunches and clambered up the other like a cat. As the boy traversed the bottom of the Graveyard, he noticed a peculiarly offensive odor. The smell which offended his nostrils, he found, sprang from the carcasses of the cattle which had at various times fallen into the gulch, above where he was crossing.

“Wonder why they don’t put up a fence here,” thought the boy.

He did not learn till afterward that that very thing had been done, but every time a freshet occurred in the mountains a part of the gulch caved away, carrying with it the fence and all. It had thus grown to be less of an expense to the ranchmen to lose a few cattle every season than to erect new fences constantly.

By the time Rob rejoined his friends, the cattle were standing ready for the drive back to their pastures. A more forlorn looking lot of beasts could not have been imagined.

“They know they done wrong,” volunteered Blinky, gazing at the dejected herd.

“Well done, my boy,” exclaimed Mr. Harkness, as Rob rode up. “I never saw a finer bit of horsemanship. But let us hope that such a resource will never again be necessary.”

“I hope so, too, Mr. Harkness,” said Rob. “I tell you I was scared blue for a minute or two. If it hadn’t been for this gritty little cayuse here, I’d never have done it.”

“So I did you a good turn, after all, when I roped up that four-legged bit of dynamite, thinking to play you a fine joke,” said Blinky.

“You did,” laughed Rob, “and I thank you for it.”

“Say, Rob,” put in Tubby plaintively, after the other boys had got through congratulating Rob, and wringing his hand till, as he said, it felt like a broken pump handle. “Say, Rob, don’t ever do anything like that again, will you?”

“Not likely to, Tubby but why so earnest?”

“Well, you know I’ve got a weak heart, and ”

“A good digestion,” laughed Mr. Harkness; “and speaking of digestions, reminds me that we haven’t had any dinner.”

“As I was just about to observe,” put in Tubby, in so comical a tone that they all had to burst out laughing, at which the stout youth put on an air of innocence and rode apart.

“But,” went on Mr. Harkness, “the ‘chuck-wagon’ I sent out to the Far Pasture last night should still be there. It isn’t more than five miles. If you boys think you can hold out we can ride over there, and we can have a real chuck-wagon luncheon. How will that suit you?”

“Down to the ground,” said Rob.

“From the ground up,” chimed in Tubby, who had recovered from his assumed fit of the sulks, at the mention of the immediate prospect of a meal.

“It’ll be great,” was Merritt’s contribution to the general chorus of approval.

“Very well, then. Blinky, you ride on ahead and tell Soapy Sam to cook us up a fine feed.”

“With beans, sir?” asked Blinky in an interested tone.

“Of course. And if he has any T bone steaks, tell him we want those, too.”

“Say, did you hear the name of that cook?” asked Tubby, edging his pony up to Merritt’s, as the cow-puncher spurred off on his errand.

“Yes Soapy Sam; what of it?”

“Oh, I thought it was Soupy Sam, that’s all,” muttered Tubby.

“Say, is that meant for a joke? If so, where is the chart that goes with it?”

But Tubby had loped off to join the cow-punchers, who with yells and loud outcries were getting the steers in motion.

Presently the cloud of dust moved forward. After traversing some rough country a yell announced that the cabins and the chuck-wagon of the Far Pasture were in sight. The cow-punchers immediately abandoned the tired cattle, leaving them to feed on the range, and swept down on the camp like a swarm of locusts.

Soapy Sam, his sleeves rolled up and a big apron about his waist, flourished a spoon at them as they began chanting in a kind of monotonous chorus:

“Chick-chock-we-want Chuck!
Chuck-chuck we want chuck!
Cook-ee! Cook-ee! Cook-ee!”

What’s the luck?

As they chanted they rode round and round the cook, whose fires and pots were all on the ground. In a huge iron kettle behind him, simmered that staple of the cow-puncher, beans. The atmosphere was redolent with those sweetest of aromas to the hungry man or boy, sizzling hot steaks and strong coffee. Soapy Sam had fairly outdone himself since Blinky had ridden in with news that the boss and some guests were on the way.

“Now you go way back and sit down, you ill-mannered steer-steering bunch of cattle-teasers,” bellowed Soapy Sam indignantly, at the singing punchers. “If you don’t, you won’t get a thing to eat.”

“Oh, cook-ee!” howled the cowboys.

“Oh, I mean it, not a mother’s son of you,” yelled Soapy Sam. “All you fellows think about is eating and drinking, and then smoking and swopping lies.”

“How about work, cook-ee?” yelled some one.

“Work!” sputtered the cook with biting sarcasm. “Why, if work ’ud come up to you and say ‘Hello, Bill!’ you’d say, ‘Sir, I don’t know you.’”

Further exchange of ranch pleasantries was put a stop to at this moment by the arrival of Mr. Harkness and the boys, for the Simmons boys and the other Boy Scouts had been included in his invitation. The cowboys dispersed at once, riding over toward the huts, where they unsaddled their ponies and turned them into a rough corral. Water from a spring was dipped into tin basins, and a hasty toilet was made. By the time this was finished, Soapy Sam announced dinner by beating loudly on the bottom of a tin pan with a spoon.

“Grub!” yelled the cowboys.

“Come and get it,” rejoined Sam in the time-honored formula.

Within ten minutes everybody was seated, and in the lap of each member of the party was a tin plate, piled high with juicy steak, fried potatoes, and a generous portion of beans of Soapy Sam’s own peculiar devising. Handy at each man’s or boy’s right was a steaming cup of coffee. But milk there was none, as Tubby soon found out when he plaintively asked for some of that fluid.

“Maybe there’s a tin cow in the wagon,” said Soapy Sam; “I’ll see.”

“A ’tin cow’,” repeated Tubby wonderingly; “whatever is that?”

A perfect howl of merriment greeted the fat boy’s query.

“I guess its first cousin to a can of condensed milk,” smiled Mr. Harkness. “But if you’ll take my advice, you’ll drink your coffee straight, in the regular range way.”

And so the meal went merrily forward, in the shadow of the frowning, rugged peaks of the Santa Catapinas. In after days, the Boy Scouts were destined to eat in many strange places and by many “strange camp fires,” but they never forgot that chuck-wagon luncheon, eaten under the cloudless Arizona sky on the open range.