Clark Jennings gets A surprise

“Lucky thing for me my pony went lame and I had to drop out,” muttered Clark Jennings triumphantly. “I’ve got a few things I want to say to you, Rob Blake.”

“You’d better say them quick, then,” rejoined Rob. “I’m not overfond of your conversation.”

“Don’t try to be fresh, young fellow!” warned Clark, raising his rifle menacingly. “I’ve got a corrective for back-talk in here.”

“But you daren’t use it.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

“Well, what do you want to do with me?”

“All you have to do now is to obey, and obey pronto see? Now march.”

“Which way?”

“Toward the mountains.”

“Very well.” Rob wheeled obediently, and began to march off, but already he had conceived a daring plan, and unexpectedly an opportunity suddenly presented itself to carry it out. As Clark Jennings swung his pony, the animal spied, lying on the bare ground, a gleaming white skull the relic of some dead and gone steer. With a snort, he gave a wild sidewise leap that almost unseated Clark, practiced rider though he was.

Rob heard the snort and the jump and Clark’s sharp exclamation. In a flash his mind was made up. He wheeled like a streak, and bending down, grabbed his rifle. In far less time than it takes to tell it, the muzzle of the weapon was covering Clark Jennings’s breast.

“Drop that rifle, Clark!”

The tables were turned with a vengeance now. But Clark Jennings, to do him justice, was no coward. Disregarding Rob’s command, he instead raised his own rifle and aimed point blank at the lad. A stinging sensation cut through Rob’s right shoulder and his muscles involuntarily contracted. His rifle was an automatic, and the “safety” slide was open. As Clark’s bullet penetrated his shoulder, Rob’s finger twitched on the light trigger.

Bang!

The bullet ploughed into the flank of Clark’s pony. The animal gave a frightened, pained squeal and a terrific buck. Utterly unprepared as Clark was for such a contingency, he was shot through the air over the pony’s head, and landed with a crash on the hard ground. His rifle flew out of his hand in the opposite direction, while his pony, which was only slightly wounded, galloped, riderless, off.

“Well, I hope you’re satisfied now,” growled Clark, raising himself on one elbow and gazing vindictively at Rob, who this time took no chances and kept his enemy covered. Clark, for all he knew, might have a revolver concealed about him.

“I’m not the one to be satisfied,” rejoined Rob. “That is for Mr. Harkness to be. I should advise you to tell him the truth.”

At that instant the sound of trampling hoofs was heard off to the south. It was the belated band of cow-punchers, headed by Mr. Harkness, sweeping at top speed in the direction of the retreating chase.

“Co-ee-ee!” yelled Rob.

“Who is it?” came back the hail.

“Rob Blake. I want to see you.”

“Don’t stop us now, Rob,” came back Mr. Harkness’s voice, “unless it is something serious. We don’t want to lose that rascal Jennings.”

“If you’ll come this way, you can’t miss him,” called Rob cheerfully.

“Confound you, Rob Blake! I’ll get even with you some day for this!” growled Clark, utterly dumfounded by the unexpected arrival of Mr. Harkness. A few seconds later the perhaps equally astonished rancher and his men loped up. A shrill cheer broke from the punchers as they saw the leader of the cattle raiders ingloriously squatted on the ground, nursing a sprained wrist and scowling like a cornered wildcat.

“Well done, Rob,” cried Mr. Harkness, as he saw the crestfallen raider. “Here, Blinky, just take a few turns round this fellow with a rope. Joyce,” to another of the punchers, “you stay here and guard him. We’ll take no chance with so slippery a customer.”

The rancher drew out an electric flash torch and illumined the scene. Suddenly his eyes fell on a dark, wet patch on Rob’s shoulder.

“Why, boy, you are wounded!” he cried.

“Oh, just a touch. The bullet tore the flesh. It isn’t anything,” protested Rob.

“What, he fired at you?”

“Yes,” Clark answered brutally, “and I’m sorry I didn’t kill him!”

An examination of Rob’s injury showed that it was only a slight flesh wound, and after it had been wrapped up with a strip of his shirt to keep dirt out till proper remedies could be applied, he mounted Joyce’s pony, and the cavalcade swept on once more, leaving the appointed cow-puncher behind to guard Clark Jennings.

“Hullo,” exclaimed Mr. Harkness suddenly, as they rode on. “I believe something’s happening up ahead.”

Indeed, it seemed so. Shouts and yells and imprecations filled the air.

Suddenly a volley of shots sounded, and a sharp cry rang out.

“Good gracious! They’re shooting to kill!” cried Rob, dashing forward.

Mr. Harkness and the cow-punchers were close on his heels.

It was a strange scene into the midst of which they rode at top speed. Harry Harkness, Bill Simmons, Jeb Cotton and Frank Price each had their ponies “backed” on their lariats, and at the end of each taut, stretched rope lay a dark object, rolling about and muttering angry imprecations.

Round the group rode the Boy Scouts, yelling at the top of their voices and cheering vociferously. And no wonder. At the end of the different lariats lay four cattle raiders, their clumsy disguises dragged half off, giving a grotesque appearance to them.

The captives were examined one by one, and found to be Hank Handcraft, Bill Bender, Jess Randell and old man Jennings. None of them would say a word except profanity, and so they were each tied and left, while the cow-punchers and victorious Boy Scouts set out to round up the crazed mavericks. The steers had now scattered in every direction, and getting them into a bunch was no slight job. Of the rest of the cattle raiders no trace could be found. It was learned afterward that they had galloped off when the Boy Scouts roped their leaders, and they made good their escape later across the border. The Boy Scouts, however, had not escaped lightly. Several of them had minor wounds, none serious, where the bullets of the cowardly raiders had struck them. It took a good hour or more to round up the cattle and quiet them, and then a sort of general inspection was made of the ranch forces. This resulted in a startling discovery. No Tubby Hopkins was to be found.

“Who saw him last?” asked Rob.

“I did,” said Jeb Cotton. “He was riding off after a tall fake Indian.”

“Any one see him since?”

No, nobody had.

At this moment, while things looked grave, there came a sudden yell, off in the distance. A few minutes later Tubby’s rotund form appeared. To the boys’ amazement, the fat boy led behind him a mounted figure, bound up like a valuable parcel, with fold on fold of rawhide.

“Why, Tubby, wherever have you been?” demanded Rob.

“On special duty,” announced the fat boy importantly. “I have made a prisoner of war.”

“What! Why, how?” gasped Merritt.

“Who is it?” shouted Merritt, edging round to get a look at the muffled prisoner.

Mr. Harkness turned his searchlight in the captive’s face. In vain the fellow tried to bury his features in the folds of his blanket. His attempts at concealment were useless. A shout of amazement went up as Rob and Merritt recognized the face of Tubby’s captive.

It was Jack Curtiss!

Arriving unexpectedly at the Jennings ranch that evening, he had been persuaded to take part in the raid. Knowing little about riding, the former bully of Hampton Academy had boastfully declared he would outride any of the raiders. He had been accommodated with a pony and had taken part in the onslaught which had had such an unexpected conclusion. Tubby, carried away by excitement, had chased the huddled figure, little knowing whom the blanket shrouded. Suddenly Jack Curtiss’s pony stumbled, throwing the bully headlong. Tubby had immediately pressed his rifle to the fallen figure’s head with the curt command:

“Shut up!”

As soon as his astonished eyes had recognized Jack Curtiss, he saw a fine chance to redeem himself as a hero in the eyes of the Boy Scouts. Tricing Jack up with his lariat, he had led him back in triumph to the rest.

“Hooray, Tubby, I didn’t think you had it in you!” cried Merritt, clapping the fat boy on the back.

“Hum! I don’t show all my good qualities at once,” remarked Tubby, grandiloquently strutting about.

“I wonder what you’d have done if it had been a real Indian?” laughed Harry Harkness.

“Just the same just the same,” rejoined Tubby.

A roar of laughter greeted the stout youth’s complacent remark, but it was suddenly checked as a horseman came dashing up to the party.

“Hullo, what’s up now?” exclaimed Mr. Harkness amazedly, as the rider drew rein almost at his feet.

“It’s an Indian!” exclaimed Merritt.

“Another fake,” declared Tubby sagely.

But this time it was a real Indian, and he drew Mr. Harkness aside and spoke some rapid words. The rancher’s face showed traces of great excitement, although his voice was calm enough as he turned to the interested group, after some moments of conversation with the red man.

“Ray and Sumner, you join Joyce back there and take these prisoners to the ranch, and see that they are kept under strong guard,” he ordered.

“What! Aren’t we going back?” inquired Rob.

“No, my boy. I have grave news. The Moquis have rebelled against Black Cloud’s authority, and Mr. Mayberry is a prisoner in their camp.”

“Is he in danger?”

“He is in the gravest peril. Only prompt action can save his life. Such is the message Black Cloud gave this Indian to bring to me.”

A few moments later Rob, mounted on a pony previously ridden by old man Jennings, a tough, wiry little cayuse, was riding beside Mr. Harkness, listening eagerly to the details of his kind-hearted friend’s predicament. Behind them spurred the Boy Scouts and the few cow-punchers remaining after a guard had been detailed. Minutes counted, as they well knew, and no rider in the party spared his pony as they pressed rapidly forward, under the Indian’s guidance, for the valley of the snake dance.