The maverick raid

“Hark!”

Through the dark, low-lying mass that marked the feeding maverick herd, a sort of convulsive shudder suddenly ran. The movement, somewhat like the undulation of a long wave, had not been lost on the keen eyes of the Boy Scouts lying crouched under the night sky behind a chaparral-covered rise.

It was Rob who voiced the warning. Since we last heard of him at Red Flat, the boy had arrived at the ranch, and been welcomed with well, let each one of my readers imagine for himself how he would greet his chum if he had been separated from him under such trying circumstances, and if, for a time, he had even feared that his friend might be dead. Suffice it to say that it was fully half an hour before Rob could be released from his chums and tell his story to Mr. Harkness, including confirmation of the Indian’s story, that Clark Jennings and his evil companions meant to steal the mavericks while the rancher’s attention was diverted by the hunt for the missing boy.

A hasty supper had been dispatched soon after, and then the Boy Scouts, Mr. Harkness and the cow-punchers had set out for the Far Pasture. They reached there at nightfall, and found everything apparently in orderly shape. Owing to the uncertainty from which quarter the cattle thieves were likely to make their attack, Mr. Harkness had decided to distribute his little force in two wings, so to speak. To the south of the feeding bunch of mavericks he had deployed his cow-punchers under his own leadership. The northern flank of the feeding band was placed under the guardianship of the Boy Scouts.

“Now, boys,” had been Mr. Harkness’s parting words, as he rode off, “the signal that they have arrived will be two shots in quick succession. Remember, don’t fire at the raiders unless you have to. Concentrate your efforts on saving the cattle. If Jennings and his outfit once succeed in getting them headed up toward the mountains, they are as good as lost. Jennings has some sort of secret pasture where he can keep them till he finds time to clap his brand on and dispose of them in the open market.”

“But in the meantime you can have him arrested,” objected Rob.

“That is true, but a bunch like that always has secret agents. If all the men whom I know to be implicated in the Jennings’ escapades were in jail, there would still be men on the outside of the prison walls to carry on their nefarious work.”

For an hour or more no sound had come to disturb the great silence which brooded above the grazing grounds. The herd moved easily and steadily over their feeding places, displaying no symptoms of alarm as they cropped the half-dry grass.

Rob had enjoined perfect silence among the Boy Scouts of the Ranger Patrol, and the boys, composed, lay like veterans to their arms behind their shelter.

Suddenly a maverick that had been lying down on the outskirts of the herd lumbered heavily to its feet, and raising its head, sniffed the air for a moment. Then it emitted a shrill bellow. A thrill ran through the boys as the young steer gave its alarm.

Simultaneously, almost, with the maverick’s cry had come marked restlessness among its mates. They stopped feeding and moved uneasily to and fro. They huddled together as cattle do before one of the electric storms of the Southwest breaks over them.

“They hear something coming,” whispered Merritt, who lay next to Rob.

“Must be scared, to stop eating,” put in Tubby, from his position alongside Harry Harkness, on Rob’s other side.

“Hush!” breathed the young leader. “Listen!”

“I don’t hear anything,” said Merritt.

“Yes, you do. Listen again. Off there to the north.”

“You mean that sort of trampling sound?”

“Yes.”

“I thought that was the cattle,” put in Merritt.

“No. I hear what Rob means,” whispered Harry. “It’s riders, and they’re coming this way.”

The slight sound that had first attracted Rob’s keen ears now grew in volume till it resolved itself into the rattle of ponies’ hoofs approaching at a smart gallop.

“Here they come!” exclaimed Rob, half unconsciously clasping his rifle.

“Well, they don’t seem to be anxious to disguise their approach,” commented Harry.

“No, why should they? They figure that only three or four punchers at most are guarding the herd. With the force they have with them they suppose, I guess, that they can scare the punchers off.”

“I reckon that’s it,” agreed Merritt.

Closer and closer drew the galloping, and Merritt began to shift uneasily. The others, too, began to stir about, eager for the word to advance and mount their ponies, which were concealed behind a high rampart of chaparral a few paces off. At last Rob gave the word.

“Crawl over to your ponies, boys. Don’t show a head.”

Silently as so many snakes, the Boy Scouts retreated, and managed to gain their little mounts without making any suspicious sounds.

“Ready for the signal yet, Rob?” asked Merritt, noticing that the young leader had slipped his revolver from its holster.

“Not yet. Give them a little more rope. We want to see what their plans are before giving the alarm.”

“All right. But don’t let them give us the slip.”

“Not likely. Remember, I’ve got a few scores to even up with Master Clark Jennings and Company myself.”

Suddenly out of the darkness before them came an ear-splitting “whoop.”

“Yip-yip-y-ee-e-e-e!”

Bang! Bang!

Rob’s pistol cracked out the signal that the attack had begun at the same instant.

But quick as he was, the boy had delayed a little too long. In his anxiety to make sure from which quarter the drive was to begin, he had allowed the raiders to get between his line of scouts and the cattle, thus permitting them a free and open path to the mountains. In a flash Rob realized this, as he swung on his pony’s back.

Silence was of little moment now, and the Boy Scouts uttered a loud cheer as they swept forward behind their leader.

Bang! Bang!

It was the answer to Rob’s signal, from Mr. Harkness’s party. But it sounded faint and far off. The rancher, in his anxiety to allow ample room to head off the cattle, in case they started for the Graveyard Cliffs, had stationed his men too far to the southward.

Already the drive had begun, and the mavericks were trotting off before the onrush of a dozen or more dark figures garbed like Indians.

“Whoop-whoop-whoop-ee-ee!” yelled the raiders, the better to keep up the illusion that they were Indians.

“I guess they don’t know that they are not throwing any dust in our eyes,” muttered Rob, as he dug his spurs in deep, and his pony answered with every pound of speed in its active little body. By his side was Harry Harkness and all about them surged the other Boy Scouts.

“Spread out! Spread out!” commanded Rob, as the charge swept forward. “Each Scout take a man and rope him if he can.”

With the exception of the Eastern boys, every lad in the Ranger Patrol was, as a matter of course, an efficient roper, and could handle a lariat as well as they could their ponies. Rob’s command to use the rawhides, therefore, met with shouts and yells of approval.

The consternation created in the ranks of Clark Jennings’s raiders by the chorus of shouts and yells behind them may be imagined.

“I thought you told us there wouldn’t be more than a few cow-punchers here,” said Bill Bender angrily, as they pressed on behind the cattle, which were now loping fast toward the mountains.

“Well, I thought so. How was I to know they’d have an army out?”

“That’s what they’ve got. Hark at that!”

A fresh yell from the Boy Scouts broke out behind the disguised raiders, and this time it sounded closer.

“Speed up those cattle,” shouted Clark Jennings desperately; “we’ve got to get to the mountains before they close on us.”

A volley of pistol shots was the answer, but the raiders fired above the cattle’s backs. A fresh burst of speed followed from the frightened animals, which were now fairly stampeding. The shouts and yells and the constant cracking of pistols drove them into a frenzy of fear. On and on swept the mad advance.

“If once they get to the hills, we may as well give them up!” shouted Harry, above the deafening hammer of the galloping Boy Scouts.

“Yes, we’d better pump some lead into them!” yelled Bill Simmons.

“On no account,” shouted back Rob. “Use your ropes, but no shooting.”

Fast as the mavericks were urged on, they could not make the same speed over the rough ground that the ponies of their tormentors achieved. This fact naturally held back the line of disguised white raiders and permitted the Boy Scouts to close up on them. Before long they were so close that they could see the headdresses and blankets of the supposed Indians, waving above the dark line of racing steers.

In the excitement of the chase, the boys had quite overlooked the fact that they were in close pursuit of some of the most desperate men in Arizona, and had carelessly come within pistol range.

Suddenly a bright flash spurted from one of the raiders’ revolvers, and a bullet whizzed past Rob’s ear.

“A miss is as good as a mile!” he yelled exultingly.

The boy, to tell the truth, did not feel any fear of being “pinked” by a raider’s bullet. Added to the darkness was the fact that the whole body was sweeping forward over rough ground at tremendous speed. A man, to aim true under such conditions, must have been a phenomenal marksman.

“Aim low! Fire at their ponies!” he heard Clark Jennings yell suddenly.

“Ah!” thought Rob. “Now you are talking. If a pony gets hit, it puts his rider out of the race.”

Hardly had the thought flashed through his mind before there came another spurt of fire from the raiders’ line, and Rob felt his mount collapse under him.

He leaped from the saddle just in time to avoid being crushed as the pony crashed down in a dying heap. The boy had been riding off to one side of the Scouts when his pony was shot, and in the darkness not one of them seemed to have noticed that Rob was dismounted, for yelling and cheering, the chase swept on.

“Well, I’m out of it,” thought Rob dismally. “I hope they get them, though. I’d like ”

“Up with your hands, and drop that rifle!”

The command came out of the darkness behind him like a bolt out of the blue.

Rob recognized that whoever had voiced the command meant business, and down fell his rifle with a crash, while his hands extended above his head.

“Now I’ve got you where I want you,” were the next words, coming in a vindictive voice from his captor. The next instant the speaker rode round the motionless Rob, and brought his pony to a halt directly in front of the boy.

Despite the shrouding blanket and the waving feathers on the rider’s head, Rob recognized his captor, with a thrill, as Clark Jennings. He was absolutely in the power of the vindictive ranch boy.