Boy scouts to the rescue

Amid wild yells from the assemblage on the farther side of the pit, the young brave who had attained temporary ascendency over the tribe cast the snake down on the ground before the recumbent form of the Indian agent. The reptile at first appeared dazed, and made no move, hostile or otherwise. Presently, however, as a deep hush fell over the Indians gazing on the scene, the creature began to sound his rattle.

It was a dull, “horny” sound, like the rattling of dried peas in a bladder. The veins on Mayberry’s forehead swelled as he made a desperate effort to burst his bonds, but the green hide held like iron, and he realized that all resistance was useless. Breathing a prayer, he resigned himself for what was to follow. Suddenly the serpent seemed to become endowed with furious rage. It lashed its mottled tail, and then carefully gauging its distance from the captive, coiled itself for the death strike.

Not a sound was to be heard above the deep, expectant hush, as the red glow fell on the strange, cruel scene: the agonized man, helpless, and the flat, triangular head of the deadly reptile, drawn back as if to give greater force to its death blow.

The Indian agent, as he had abundantly shown, was no coward, nor was his a heart to be stirred by any ordinary ordeal. But the cruel suspense that now ensued broke down even his iron nerves. As he gazed like a fascinated bird into the leaden eyes of the menacing rattler, his courage faltered, and he uttered a despairing cry.

It was answered by a cruel jeer from the frenzied Indians. In the tense excitement none of them had, however, noticed the first moves in an act that was destined presently to change the whole complexion of the scene.

Old Black Cloud knew that the agent’s heart was wrapped up in his horse. So far as any one knew, Mayberry had neither relative nor close friend in the world. In the Indian’s eyes, then, the captive would surely wish his horse near him in the hour of his doom.

For one as skilled in silent movement as the old chief, it was an easy matter to slip from his place in the shadows at the rear of the fascinated horde, and with a couple of deft strokes of his knife set Ranger at liberty. Then he silently stole back, and was seated in his former place in a less space of time than it took Ranger to realize that he was free.

The captive’s despairing cry reached the horse’s ears, and he knew his master’s voice.

While the mocking laugh of the tribe was still echoing from the rocks, four iron-shod hoofs struck the earth in a mighty leap, and Ranger alighted heavily in the midst of the amazed throng. With yells and cries of terror, the Indians, who did not know what had occurred, were bowled over right and left. One young brave lay groaning with a pair of broken ribs. Another’s arm was snapped where Ranger’s hoofs had struck.

Without pausing one instant, the animal, whose only anxiety was to reach Jeffries Mayberry’s side, once more shook his head and, with a shrill whinny, sprang forward. This leap brought him over the heads of the red men, to the very brink of the fiery pit.

Overcoming his natural dread of fire a far greater terror to horses than almost any other Ranger gathered his clean-cut limbs for a mighty leap. In one clean jump he cleared the glowing coals. Diamond Snake and his attendant masters of ceremonies had not, in the brief space of time allotted to them for comprehension, made out what was occurring on the opposite side of the pit.

They had not the slightest warning, therefore, when, through the lurid glow, the form of Ranger, crimsoned by the reflection, came leaping like a thunderbolt.

Over went Diamond Snake, toppling backward to avoid the terrible hoofs. With a yell of superstitious terror, the other “priests” gave way. Right and left they ran, shouting that the Great Spirit had sent an infernal messenger among them.

But above all the shrieks, and confusion, and angry shouts rang out one terrible cry. It issued from the lips of Diamond Snake. The hind hoofs of the alighting horse had struck him, and, as has been said, he toppled backward.

Too late he saw behind him the glowing pit of fiery coals. Nerving every muscle in his sinewy frame, the young Moqui warrior strove to avert his doom, but try as he would he could not check his impetus.

He reached the edge of the pit, and with one dreadful cry pitched over backward. For a brief space the red glow grew blackened where he had fallen, but an instant later the intense heat had consumed him, and nothing remained to mark the end of the ambitious young Moqui.

At the moment that Ranger had alighted, the rattlesnake, terrified by the near proximity of the trampling hoofs, released its body as if a steel spring had been set free, and gave its death strike. But as the poison-laden fangs drove toward him, Jeffries Mayberry jerked his head to one side. The rattler had missed. Before it could gather itself for a second attack, it lay, a trampled mass, under Ranger’s hoofs. The horse whinnied with pleasure as it gazed at its master. Then it stamped with impatience as it received no response. For the first and last time in his life, Jeffries Mayberry had fainted.

With a howl of rage, like the angry voice of a storm, the Moquis, gathering up their weapons, rushed forward to avenge themselves for the tragic death of Diamond Snake. But they had not reached the edge of the fiery pit before a loud cry halted them. It was Black Cloud. The old Indian stood upright upon a bowlder, and pointed to the entrance of the rocky bowl.

“Now will my brothers listen to the voice of reason?” he shouted above the tumult.

A chorus of jeers and shouts greeted him. The mind of the tribe was a single one in that moment. The death of Jeffries Mayberry, in the same pit as that into which his steed had cast the popular young Diamond Snake, was their raging desire.

“Then look!” rang out the voice of Black Cloud, as he pointed to the rocky path at the westerly side of the bowl.

As the eyes of the redskins followed the patriarch’s pointing finger, a perfect howl went up once more. The moonlight illumined the figure of a solitary horseman.

A score of rifles were instantly leveled at him, but as the weapons came to the marksmen’s shoulders, the lone rider vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.

“Fools!” shouted Black Cloud, as the Moquis, with cries of rage, pressed on to Jeffries Mayberry’s side, “that horseman is the forerunner of the white man’s vengeance!”

As he spoke, a rifle cracked, and the noble old chief vanished from the rock. Apparently a bullet from the rifle of one of his own followers had felled him. But, as a matter of fact, Black Cloud, with native cunning, had perceived that in the mood his rebellious followers then were, his safest plan was to keep out of sight. As the bullet hummed past his ear, therefore, he toppled from the rock as if dead. From behind the big bowlder he watched the events that were to follow.

A young brave, anxious to earn the plaudits of his tribesmen by being the instrument of vengeance on Mayberry, rushed forward, and throwing himself on the unconscious man, seized him by the waist and was about to swing him into the flaming pit, when, with a shrill whinny of rage, Ranger’s forefeet struck him down. He lay breathing heavily, an ugly wound gaping in his head. As if maddened by this, the great horse plunged, striking and kicking, into the crowd of hated Indians, bowling over and injuring several. But the temporary panic thus created lasted but a minute.

A volley was fired at the noble figure of the raging horse, and he fell, still fighting, by his master’s side.

At the same instant a young redskin sprang forward with an uplifted “agency” axe. He raised it above his head, and was about to bury it in the horse’s skull, when something struck the axe and sent it whizzing out of his hand. Simultaneously a sharp crack sounded from the upper end of the rock bowl.

Shouts of alarm sounded on all sides. The Moquis realized they were attacked, and that it was a bullet that had sent the axe spinning out of the murderous young brave’s hand.

“Hooray!”

The cry rang out loudly above the Indian whoops and cries, as Rob Blake swept down the rocky trail, followed by the Boy Scouts, cheering as if their throats would split.

Right and left the Moquis went down under their ponies’ hoofs, too terrified by the very suddenness of the attack to offer any resistance. A few half-hearted shots were fired, and one or two sombreros were drilled, but, aside from that, no one was injured. The arrival of Mr. Harkness and his cow-punchers ended what little resistance there had been. It was soon over, and the Moquis herded in a sullen, defiant band at the lower end of the bowl.

Rob and his friends hastened forward to Jeffries Mayberry’s side, and cut his bonds; and the first thing that the rescued man gazed upon when he recovered consciousness was a circle of friendly faces.

“Well, Mayberry,” burst out Mr. Harkness, “I told you so. I hate to say it, but I told you so. If it hadn’t been for the Boy Scouts here, we’d never have saved you.”

“No, I guess not, Harkness,” breathed the agent, “and this is not the place to tell you all how I feel. But, but ”

His voice faltered as he gazed at Ranger, who still lay on the ground. Blinky and some of the cow-punchers had been examining his injuries.

“Is Ranger seriously hurt?”

The agent’s throat sounded dry. He could hardly bring himself to ask the question.

“No, he’ll be around in a while,” announced Blinky; “only a tendon on the off front leg is sprained. He’ll carry a few scars, though.”

And so it proved, for, though Ranger was soon as well as ever, he carried with him to his last days the marks of that night. But his owner, as you may imagine, treasured every one of them, for each blemish spoke to him of his horse’s affection and nobility.

“Hullo, here come the soldiers!” exclaimed Tubby suddenly, with that fleshy youth’s usual indifferent manner.

A bugle call and a loud cheer announced the news at the same moment.

“So they are!” exclaimed Mr. Mayberry, who by this time was standing upright, although he still had to lean weakly on the shoulder of Mr. Harkness.

“A good thing you didn’t wait for them,” remarked Blinky; “they’d have come too late.”

“That was not their fault,” put in Mr. Harkness. “The messenger I sent to Sentinel Peak could not have reached there more than an hour or two ago. They must have ridden like the wind.”

Indeed, as the bronzed troopers clattered, cheering, into the rocky basin, their steaming, dripping horses bore ample testimony to the pace they had kept up.

“Confounded luck, arriving just too late for the music!” exclaimed the young officer at their head, after first greetings had been exchanged. “I see, though, that you have handled the situation well.”

“Yes, thanks to the Boy Scouts,” said Mr. Harkness.

“Ah, that is an organization of which I have often heard,” observed the soldier. “They are destined to do great work for our country in the future.”

“We hope so,” said Rob simply.

Little more is left to be told of the Boy Scouts’ adventures on the range. The rebellious Moquis, thoroughly cowed by their lesson, went peaceably back to the reservation, and accepted Black Cloud once more as their chief. Their break from the place set aside for them, though, was paid for by the stoppage of more than one privilege. In course of time Mr. Mayberry recovered some of his faith in the Indian character, but even he admits that his optimism has been severely shaken.

Possibly, if you were to pay a visit to the tribe, you might be tempted to ask who a certain graceful young squaw is, whose buckskin garments are literally covered with wonderful bead work, and round whose slender neck hang so many chains of red, yellow, amber and blue globules that you might be inclined to think it would make her stoop-shouldered.

If you asked her her name you would be told that she is Susyjan. She is regarded as the most attractive young squaw in the tribe, and her fortunate husband will have to give her old father many ponies and blankets before he can hope to win her hand. The source of Susyjan’s beady splendor, however, has always, as you may imagine, remained a mystery to the tribe.

Clark Jennings and his unworthy accomplices were tried in due course for their offenses against the law, and received various heavy sentences. In a Western community few more serious crimes, for obvious reasons, can be committed than cattle stealing.

The days following the surrender of the renegade tribe were happy ones for the young Eastern scouts. In due course of time, the uniforms Rob had ordered for the Ranger Patrol arrived, and the organization is now one of the most flourishing in the B. S. of A.

Hunting trips were organized and many excursions made into the mountains. The boys, too, shared in the excitement of a round-up, and proved themselves of use in many ways. Altogether, the Boy Scouts has become a name to conjure with in that part of Arizona.

What became of Silver Tip?

Well, the story of how Rob had Silver Tip at his mercy, and let the huge brute go, has become a ranch classic. This is no place to relate it at length, but one day on a mountain hunt the monarch of the hills and the boy who had once rushed wildly upon the monster’s shaggy form, met face to face.

Did Silver Tip recognize the lad? Who can tell? Animals possess many faculties and instincts we do not credit them with. Be that as it may, it seemed to the imaginative Rob that the monster’s eyes bore a craven look, as if he realized that judgment was come upon him. Rob stood alone upon a rocky ledge. Below him the great brute gazed upward, in the position he had frozen into on his first discovery of the young hunter. Rob raised his heavy rifle to his shoulder. The great creature was at his mercy. He paused an instant and then slowly lowered the weapon again.

“Go on, old Silver Tip!” he said. “Let some one else wipe out your wicked old life.”

Tubby was highly indignant when he heard of this.

“Gee whiz!” he exclaimed, “you ought to have thought of me, Rob. I’ve been hearing about bear steak ever since I’ve been out here, and now I’ve lost about the only chance I’ve ever had to stick my teeth into one.”

One day a letter came to the ranch house which caused several long faces to be drawn. It announced the opening, within a week, of the Hampton Academy.

And so as all good things have to draw to a close the happy, eventful days of the Boy Scouts on the Range ended. But had they realized it, the exciting scenes through which they had passed were only a milestone in their adventurous lives.

We shall meet our young friends again, and follow them through many more stirring incidents and scenes in the next volume of this series. Some of these will be connected with the wonderful new science of aerial navigation.

This new installment of their adventures will be called: The boy scouts and the army airship