THE NEXT INSTANT JACK AND THE PONY WENT ROLLING AND PLUNGING OFF THE TRAIL DOWN TOWARD THE RIVER.—Page 36.
THE BORDER BOYS
WITH THE TEXAS RANGERS
By FREMONT B. DEERING
Author of
“The Border Boys on the Trail,” “The Border Boys with the Mexican Rangers,” “The Border Boys Across the Frontier,” “The Border Boys in the Canadian Rockies,” “The Border Boys Along the St. Lawrence.”
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers————New York
Printed in U. S. A.
Copyright, 1912, BY HURST & COMPANY
MADE IN U. S. A.
CONTENTS
The Border Boys With the Texas Rangers
CHAPTER I.
“IN TEXAS DOWN ON THE RIO GRANDE.”
“Yip! Yip! Y–e–e–e–e–ow!”
“Gracious! What’s coming, a band of circus Indians?”
“Not knowing, can’t say; but there is evidently something to the fore in the strenuous line.”
“Well, I should say so. Hark, what’s that?”
“Shooting; maybe some of those Mestizos from over the Rio Grande are attacking the town.”
“Hardly likely. The last heard of them they were fifty miles from the Border fighting hard with the Federals. But it’s something, all right.”
“Hullo! Look there. It’s—it’s the Rangers!”
The red–headed, sun–burned last speaker reined in his impetuous, plunging, gray broncho and, shielding his eyes with his hand, gazed down the dusty main street of San Mercedes. Above the trio of lads who had halted their cayuses at the sudden sound of distant uproar, the sun hung in the steely blue sky like a red hot copper ball. Jack Merrill, alert and good–looking, with his frank, bronzed face and easy seat in the saddle, followed the direction of red–headed Walt Phelps’ gaze. Ralph Stetson, equally excited, studied the situation with equivalent interest.
And now at the end of the street, which had suddenly become thronged as if by magic with slouching Mexicans, blue–bloused Chinese and swinging–gaited cow–punchers with jingling spurs on their high–heeled boots, a novel procession swept into view.
Out of a cloud of yellow dust, which hung like a saffron curtain against the burning cobalt of the sky, appeared the foremost of a group of riders.
“Here they come! Look out, fellows! Let’s sidetrack ourselves and let the Texas limited go by!”
As he shouted this advice Ralph Stetson, a lad of slightly more delicate build than his youthful companions, swung his wiry little pony in a pivotal sweep, and made as if to retreat.
“Hurry, boys!” he shouted.
But Jack Merrill stood his ground, and Walt Phelps, seeing that the leader of the three Border Boys did not swerve in the face of the onrush, did not budge an inch either. But on the street excitement was rife. Cayuses, hitched to the long, strong hitching racks, or simply left to stand with the reins dropped to the ground over their heads, plunged and squealed. Men ran about and shouted, and even the usually stolid Chinese restaurant keepers and laundry men seemed stirred out of their habitual state of supreme unconcern. As for the Mexican residents of San Mercedes, they merely drew their serapes closer about them and from beneath their broad brimmed, cone–crowned sombreros gazed with a haughty indifference at the group of galloping, shouting horsemen.
As Ralph Stetson cantered off, Jack Merrill backed his pony up to the very edge of the raised wooden sidewalk. The little animal was wildly excited and plunged and whinnied as if it felt the bit and saddle for the first time. But Jack maintained his easy, graceful seat as if he had formed part of the lively little creature he bestrode. Walt Phelps, also undisturbed, controlled his equally restive mount.
