Books: The Pony Rider Boys in Montana
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Frank Gee Patchin >> The Pony Rider Boys in Montana
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All felt the relief from the strain of the night's watching and
it was a more sociable company that gathered at the table than had
been the case on the previous evening.
"Well, how do you like being a sheepman?" asked Mr. Simms jovially.
"It's better than being lost in the mountains and being shot at by
cowmen," averred Tad.
"Perhaps you'll have a chance to enjoy the latter pleasure, still,"
said Mr. Simms. "I do not delude myself that we are out of danger
yet; it may be that they have taken warning and given it up."
"What are the plans for to-day?" asked Ned Rector.
"The herd will graze on, and later in the day we shall move the camp
five or six miles up the range. See any Indians last night?"
"No," answered the boys, sobering a little.
"Old Hicks is authority for the statement that they were hovering
somewhere near during the night."
"How does he know?" asked Tad.
"You'll have to make inquiry of Hicks himself if you want to find
out," laughed the rancher. "Probably the same way that he knows we
are talking about him now."
All eyes were directed toward the cook.
Hicks was limping around the mutton kettle, shaking his fist at it
and berating it, though in a voice too low for them to hear.
"That's one of your cattle men for you," chuckled Mr. Simms. "I
think he would take genuine pleasure in boiling a sheepman in his
pot. But he takes the money," added Mr. Simms significantly. "By the
way, where's your chum?"
"Whom do you mean?" asked Walter, glancing about the table.
"Chunky, I believe you call him."
"That's so, where is he?" demanded Tad, laying down his fork.
"Probably fallen in somewhere again," growled Ned.
"Did not Master Stacy come in with you, Ned?" asked the Professor
hurriedly.
"No, sir."
"He was with you last night?"
"No, not all the time. He went out with me, but I saw him only twice
during the early part of my watch."
Mr. Simms looked serious. "I hope nothing has happened to him. See
here, Luke. They tell me Master Stacy has not been seen this
morning. Know anything of it?"
"Why, no. Are you sure? Have you looked in his tent?"
"Excuse me, I'll go see if he isn't there," said Tad, rising from
the table and hurrying to the tent occupied by his companion.
"No," he said as he returned; "evidently he has not been there since
we went out at midnight."
"Ask Old Hicks if he has seen him come in," directed Mr. Simms.
The cook said he had not set eyes on the fat boy, adding that he
didn't care a rap if he never came back.
The boys looked at each other with mute, questioning eyes.
"We must go in search of him at once," decided the Professor.
"Yes, don't worry, Professor," calmed the rancher. "He has probably
strayed off by himself and is unable to find his way back. Luke will
round him up in short order. Finish your breakfast, everybody, then
we will see that the young man is brought back. Funny he should have
gotten away without any one's having noticed it."
"He's always getting himself into trouble," declared Ned.
"I thought I was the only one that did that," retorted Tad, with an
attempt at gayety.
"That's different. I know what I'm talking about. Something is sure
to happen to that boy before we are ready to go back home."
"Begins to look as if something had already happened," said Walter.
A wild yell startled the sheepmen at the table. It seemed to come
from some distance away.
Everybody started up, some reaching for their guns.
"We are attacked!" cried one.
"No, but we're going to be!" shouted another. "There comes one of
the boys on a pony giving the alarm."
"Get ready, everybody!"
The camp was in instant confusion. In their haste to prepare for
action, the table was upset and its contents piled in a confused
heap. Old Hicks was roaring out his displeasure, the foreman was
shouting out his orders, while Professor Zepplin was seeking to make
himself heard in an effort to give directions to his charges.
Suddenly the voice of the foreman was heard above the uproar.
"Hold on!" he shouted. "It's one of our own --it's------Oh, bah!"
"What is it? What is it!" cried Mr. Simms, unlimbering his weapon.
"It's Chunky," snorted Ned Rector disgustedly. "The fat boy has been
falling in again or I'll eat mutton all the rest of my natural
life."
"It sure enough is he," answered Tad, gazing off at the horseman who
was riding at top speed and trying to urge his pony on still
faster. "I wonder what he has been getting into this time. Hope it's
nothing serious."
"Not to him, anyway, judging by the way he is riding," replied
Walter.
"Something has given him a mighty good start, anyhow," shrewdly
decided the foreman.
"I know what it is--I know what he's in such a hurry about," said
Ned.
"What?" asked Walter.
"Breakfast. He's just found out it's breakfast time," jeered Ned.
"Can't have no breakfast," growled Old Hicks. "Breakfast is et."
"Excepting what's on the ground," added Mary Johnson. "What's he
yelling about?"
"Something's gone twisted," decided Champ Blake. "Think so, Noisy?"
"Uh-hu," agreed the silent one. All eyes were fixed on Chunky. He
was gesticulating wildly and pointing back to the hills from which
he had just come.
"I believe they are after us, and in broad daylight, too," snapped
Mr. Simms. "Get your ponies. Be quick! Ride fast. Don't let them get
near the sheep."
Thus admonished, the sheepmen sprang for their saddles. The boys
followed suit at once, leaving only the Professor and Old Hicks to
look after the camp.
A bunch of sheep had trotted to a water hole hard by the camp, a
faithful shepherd dog following along after them to see that they
returned to the main flock as soon as they should have satisfied
their thirst. The sheep were now between Chunky and the camp. So
intent was he on attracting the attention of the men that he failed
to observe the small flock in his path.
Neither did the sheepmen notice it. If Old Hicks did, he did not
care what happened either to the sheep or to the boy to whom he had
taken such a violent dislike.
"Wow! Wow! Wow!" screamed the boy in a shrill, high-pitched voice.
"What's the matter?"
"Where are they?"
"How many of 'em?"
These and other questions were hurled at Chunky as he dashed
straight toward the camp.
He pointed back to the foothills.
"They're there, he says," shouted the foreman. "Come on. Spread
out so as to cover the herd. Don't you let a man get through our
lines."
Their ponies were stretched out with noses reaching for some unseen
object, as it seemed. They swept past the lad within hailing
distance, riding hard, while he continued to reach for home.
Stacy had turned to look back at the racing sheepmen, when his pony
drove biting and striking right into the flock crowded about the
water hole, for the ponies liked the sheep no more than did the
cook.
The broncho went down like a flash, hopelessly entangled with the
bleating, frightened animals. But Stacy did not stop. That is, he
did not do so at once. The lad had shot neatly over the broncho's
head, describing a nice curve in the air as he soared.
Pock!
His head landed with a muffled sound.
"Ouch! Help!"
A loud, angry bleat followed his exclamation. The lad's head had
been driven with great violence against the soft, unresisting side
of a Merino ram.
The Merino went down under the blow. But his soft fleece had saved
the boy from serious injury, if not from a broken neck.
"I fell off," cried Stacy, struggling to his feet, running his
fingers over his body, as if to determine whether or not he had been
hurt. "I --I didn't see them. Th--they got in my way."
Whether he had or not was not now the question, at least so far as
the Merino was concerned.
The ram was angry. He resented being bunted over in any such manner.
The animal, scrambling to his feet, uttered a bleat, at the same
time viciously throwing up his head, landing lightly, for him, on
Chunky's leg.
"Stop kicking me! I say you stop that you----"
He did not finish what he had started to say. The Merino, finding
the mark a satisfactory one, had backed quickly off. With head well
down, eyes on the boy who had been the cause of his downfall, he
charged with a rush.
Just at the instant when he delivered the blow, the tough, horned
head was raised ever so little.
"Ye-o-ow!" shrieked the boy as he felt himself suddenly lifted from
his feet and once more propelled through the air head first. It
seemed in that brief interval of sailing through space as if every
particular bone in his body had been jarred loose from its
fastenings. Chunky felt as if he were all falling apart while making
his brief second flight.
He was headed straight for the muddy water hole, and the ram was
charging him a second time. The lad did not know this, however.
Just at the edge of the water hole the Merino caught him again,
neatly flipping him in the air and landing the boy on his back, with
a mighty splash, right in the middle of the pool.
Yet the force of the ram's charge had been so great that he was
unable to stop when he discovered the water at his feet. In
endeavoring to do so, his strong little feet ploughed into the soft
turf. The Merino did a pretty half somersault and he too landed in
the mud pool on his back.
Unfortunately, he struck in the identical spot that Chunky had, and
for a moment there was such a threshing about, such a commotion
there as two monsters of the deep might have made in a battle to
the death.
Old Hicks was hammering a dishpan on a wheel of the chuck wagon,
regardless of the damage he was inflicting on the pan, and screaming
with delight.
Professor Zepplin as soon as he could recover his wits, rushed to
the rescue and from the flying legs and horns managed to extract
Stacy Brown and drag him up to the dry ground.
The lad was a spectacle. Mud was plastered over him from head to
foot, while the muddy water was dripping from hair, mouth, ears,
eyes and nose.
"I--I fell in, didn't I?" he gasped. "Wh-- who kicked me?"
"Who kicked him?" jeered Old Hicks. "Oh, help, help!" he cried,
rolling with laughter.
Stacy began to sputter in an uncertain voice.
Professor Zepplin shook him roundly.
"Why didn't you get out of it? The water wasn't over my head, you
Chunk," roared Old Hicks.
Chunky eyed him sadly.
"It was the way I went in," he said, breathing hard as he wrung the
water from his trousers by twisting them in his hand.
At that the irrepressible Hicks went off into another paroxysm of
mirth.
CHAPTER XV
ROPED BY A COWBOY
The Professor had no sooner marched Stacy to his tent to wash the
mud from himself and get into a clean suit of clothes, than the
sheepmen came galloping back to camp. A few of them had been left
out near the foothills in case of a surprise.
"Where's that boy who sent us off on this fool chase?" demanded Luke
Larue, riding right into the camp.
Chunky poked his head from the tent, holding the flap about him to
cover himself.
"What did you tell us the cowmen were after us for?"
"Who, me?"
"Yes, come out here. I want to talk to you."
"I--I--I can't."
"You'd better or I'll have to fetch you out. Why can't you?"
demanded the foreman sternly.
"I--I haven't got any clothes on," stammered the boy.
The foreman slipped from his pony, leaning against a tree with a
helpless expression on his face.
Stacy's companions with Mr. Simms and several of the sheepmen rode
in at that moment.
"Where's that boy?" demanded the rancher of Larue.
The foreman pointed to the tent. But the lad not yet having finished
his toilet, all hands were obliged to stand about waiting for
him. They did so with much impatience. Stacy took all the time he
needed, apparently not believing that there was any necessity for
haste.
At last he sauntered out smiling broadly.
"I think you owe us an explanation, at least," announced Mr. Simms,
a peculiar smile playing about the corners of his lips. He had
intended to be stern, but the sight of Chunky's good-natured face
disarmed him at once, as it did most people.
"'Bout what?" asked the lad.
"Sending us out to the foothills, telling us the cowmen were
attacking us."
Stacy's eyes opened widely.
"Never said so."
"What did you say, then?"
"Nothing."
"I guess we are all dreaming," laughed the rancher. "Will you please
tell me what did happen then, when you started us away?"
"When I was riding in, you all started up and mounted your
ponies. Somebody yelled, 'where are they?' I pointed back to the
mountains, and then you rode on," the lad informed him.
It was an unusually long speech for Chunky to make without many
halts and pauses. But he did very well with it.
"That is exactly what you did do. When we got there we found not the
slightest trace of the cowmen. Where did you see them?"
"I didn't see them," persisted the lad.
"Then why did you tell us you did?"
"I didn't."
Mr. Simms thrust his hands in his pockets and strode back and forth
several times.
"Say, young man, did you see anything at all, except what your
imagination furnished?"
Chunky nodded emphatically.
"What did you see?"
"Indians."
"Oh, pshaw!" grunted Mr. Simms disgustedly.
"Indians?" interrupted Walter Perkins. "Tell me about it?"
"I was asleep," began Stacy.
"So that's the way you keep watch over our herd is it?" growled
Luke. "We were just about to organize a searching party to go after
you, when we saw you coming."
"I got tired. I sat down by a rook and-- y-a-li--hum----"
"Ho-ho-ho--hum," yawned the foreman.
Within half a minute the whole outfit was yawning lazily, all save
Old Hicks, the cook, who with hands thrust into his trousers pockets
stood peering at the fat boy out of the corners of his eyes.
"Stop that, d'ye hear!" snapped Ned Rector angrily. "I'll duck you
in that water hole, if you don't."
"Just been ducked," answered Stacy lazily. "Got kicked in by a
sheep."
"What about the Indians?" asked Tad impatiently. "I guess you
dreamed you saw them."
"No, I didn't. I went to sleep by the rock and when I woke up it was
daylight. I yawned."
"Of course you did," jeered Ned. "Wouldn't have been you if you
hadn't yawned."
"I was rubbing my eyes and trying to make up my mind where I was
when--when----"
"When what?" urged Tad.
"When somebody said, 'How?'"
The sheepmen laughed.
"I--I looked around, and there--there stood a lot of Indians----"
"On their heads!" asked Ned.
"No, sitting on their ponies. Then--then I --"
"Then you pitched into them and drove them away," laughed Walter.
"No, I didn't. I yelled and run away. So would you."
Every man and boy of the sheep outfit roared with laughter.
"My boy," said Mr. Simms, "you will have to get used to seeing
Indians if you remain with us long. This state is full of them, some
bad, some good. But you need not be afraid of them. They dare not
interfere with us, so if you see any, just pass the time of day and
go on along about your business."
"When I got back here I fell in----" Professor Zepplin here broke
into the conversation to explain what had happened to the fat boy,
whereupon the outfit once more shouted with merriment.
The camp finally having been restored to its normal state, plans
were made for moving on to the north.
"I wish you would ride over to Groveland Corners and get me fifty
feet of quarter inch rope, Tad," said Mr. Simms. "You will have no
trouble in finding the way. I'll show you exactly how to get there
and find your way back afterwards. And by the way, you might take
Philip with you, if you don't mind. I want him to get all the riding
he can stand."
"I'll answer yes to both, requests," smiled Tad. "How far is it to
the--the----"
"Corners? Five miles as the crow flies. It will be a slightly longer
distance, because you have to go around the Little Butte. The place
is situated just behind it on the west side."
"Then, I'm ready now, if Phil is."
The young man was not only ready, but anxious to be off, so without
delay, the two lads brought in their ponies and after receiving
final instructions as to how to find the new camp, they set off at
an easy gallop in the fresh morning air, their spirits rising as
they rode over the green mesa that lay sparkling in the morning
sunlight.
Groveland Corners was little more than its name implied, consisting
of one store that supplied the wants of the half dozen families who
inhabited the place, as well as furnishing certain supplies to
near-by ranchmen.
A group of cattle men had gathered at the store. They were sitting
on the front porch talking earnestly when the two boys rode up. Tad
dismounted, hitching his pony, while Phil, shifting to an easy
position on his saddle, waited until the purchase of the rope had
been made.
The conversation came to a sudden pause as the boys rode up, the
cowmen eyeing the newcomers almost suspiciously, Tad
thought. However, he paid no attention to them, further than to bid
them a pleasant good morning, to which one or two of them gave a
grunting reply.
He had noticed one raw-boned mountain boy among the lot who had
answered his greeting with a sneering smile and a reply under his
breath that Tad had not caught. The lad gave no heed to it, but went
about his business. Besides the rope, he made several small
purchases for himself. In reply to a question of the storekeeper,
Tad informed him that he was with the Simms outfit. One of the
cowmen who had entered the store, overhearing this, went outside and
informed his companions.
"Hello, kid," greeted one, as the boy left the store. "How's mutton
to-day?"
Busily coiling the rope, Tad paid no attention to the taunt; he hung
the rope on his saddle horn and then methodically unhitched Pinkeye.
"Going to hang yerself?" jeered another. "That's all a mutton
puncher's worth. I guess."
Tad felt his face flush. He paused long enough to turn and look
straight into the eyes of the speaker.
"My, but ain't our little boy spunky!" called the fellow in
derision.
"If he is, he knows, at least, enough to mind his own business,"
snapped Tad.
A jeering laugh followed the remark.
"Did ye mean that fer me?" demanded the mountain boy, rising
angrily.
"If the coat fits, put it on," answered the freckle-faced boy
indifferently, vaulting lightly into the saddle.
"I'll bet that's Boss Simms's kid--the pale-faced dude, eh?" sneered
one sharply.
An angry growl answered the suggestion. Tad thinking it was time to
be off, turned his pony about and Phil did the same. But no sooner
had they headed their mounts toward home, Tad being slightly in the
lead, than a rope squirmed through the air.
It dropped over the shoulders of Mr. Simms' delicate young son,
tightened about his arms with a jerk.
"Help!" cried the frightened boy.
Tad, glancing back apprehensively saw what had happened. He wheeled
his pony like a flash, but not quickly enough to save his companion
from falling.
Phil Simms was roped from his pony, landing heavily in the dust of
the street.
"Y-e-o-w!" chorused the cowboys.
CHAPTER XVI
TAD WHIPS A MOUNTAIN BOY
Shame! Shame on you!" cried Tad Butler indignantly.
The lad leaped from his pony which he quickly tethered to the
hitching bar in front of the store.
This done he ran to his fallen companion, who still lay where the
lariat had thrown him. He was half stunned and covered with
dust. After jerking him from his pony, however, the cowboys, though
continuing their shouts of glee, had made no further effort to
molest Philip.
Tad quickly released him.
"I 've had a lot to do with cowboys, but you're the first I ever
knew who would do a thing like that. The cowboys I know are
gentlemen."
"Then, d'ye mean to say that we ain't, ye miserable cayuse?"
demanded one of the number, rising menacingly.
"The fellow who roped that boy is a loafer!" answered Tad bravely,
taking a couple of paces forward and facing the crowd. "You wouldn't
dare do that to a man, especially if he had a gun as you have. Why
didn't you try it on Luke Lame when he was over here?"
"Oh, go back to yer mammy," jeered one.
"I want to know who threw that rope? If he isn't too big a coward,
he'll tell me. I guess Mr. Simms will settle with him."
"It's up to you, Bob, I guess," nodded one of them, addressing the
angry-faced mountain boy who was one of their number.
The latter rose with what was intended to appear as offended
dignity.
"Ye mean me?" he demanded, glaring.
"Yes, if you are the one who did it," answered Tad, looking him
squarely in the eyes.
"Then your going to git the alfiredest lickin' you ever had in your
life," announced the mountain boy.
Tad held the other with a gaze so steady and unflinching as to cause
the mountain boy to pause hesitatingly.
"Phil, jump on your pony and get out of here," directed the lad in a
low tone.
"He stays where he is," commanded one of the cowboys.
"Do as I tell you," retorted Tad sharply. "Be quick about it, too."
A cowboy aimed a gun at Phil Simms.
"Try it, if ye want ter git touched up," he warned. "Bob, sail into
the fresh kid," he added, nodding his head toward Tad Butler.
"I'm not looking for a fight--I don't want to fight, but if that
loafer comes near me I'll have to do the best I can," answered Tad
bravely. "I don't expect to get fair play. I'll----"
"You'll git fair play and you'll git more besides," called the
previous speaker. "Go to him, Bob."
Bob lowered his head, sticking out his chin and assuming a
belligerent attitude with eyes fixed on the slender figure of his
opponent.
Tad was observing the mountain boy keenly, measuring him mentally,
while young Simms, pale-faced and frightened, was leaning against
his pony, which he had caught and was preparing to mount when he was
stopped by the gun of the cowboy.
"See, you've got him rattled already, Bob," shouted a cowman
triumphantly. "He'll be running in a minute."
"Come away, Tad," begged Philip.
"Keep quiet. Don't speak to me," answered the lad, without turning
his head toward his companion. Tad Butler's whole being was centered
on the work that he knew was ahead of him.
He was angry. He felt that he had never been more so in his life,
but not a trace of his emotion showed in his face or actions. If he
ever had need of coolness, it was at this very moment. He did not
know whether he would be able to master the raw-boned mountaineer or
not.
The lad's training in athletics had been thorough, and his title of
champion wrestler of the high school in Chillicothe had been earned
by hard work and persistent effort to make himself physically fit.
"He's all of twenty-five pounds heavier than I am," decided the
boy. "I've got to try some tricks that he doesn't know about, if I
hope to make any kind of showing."
Bob was now approaching him with an ugly grin on his face. Tad's
arms hung easily by his side.
"Come on, what are you waiting for?" Tad smiled.
With a bellow of rage, Bob rushed him.
Tad laughed, and stepping quickly to one side, thrust a foot between
the bully's legs as he passed. Bob landed flat on his face in the
dust of the street.
The cowboys set up a roar of delight. It was sport, no matter who
got the worst of it.
"Give them room," shouted some one, as the men closed quickly about
the combatants. "Let the kids fight it out."
These tactics were so new to Bob, that be did not know just what had
happened to him. And when he had scrambled to his feet, he met the
laughing face of Tad Butler, which enraged him past all
control. This was exactly what Tad wanted.
Bob with a bellow again charged him. Tad made a pass and missed, but
covered his failure by neatly ducking under the upraised arm of the
cowboy, whose surprised look when he found that he had been punching
the empty air brought forth yells of delight from his companions.
Tad had cast away his hat, that it might not interfere with his
movements. No sooner had he done so than his opponent renewed his
attack. But Tad skillfully parried the heavy blows, delivered
awkwardly and without any great amount of skill. The great danger
was that his adversary with his superior strength might beat down
the lad's defense and land a blow that would put a sudden end to the
fray.
Tad was watching for an opening that would enable him to put in
practice a plan that had formed in his brain.
"Look out for the cayuse, Bob. He ain't so big a tenderfoot as he
looks," warned a cowboy. But Bob had already discovered this
fact. Though his fists were beating a tattoo in the air he seemed
unable to land a blow on the body of his elusive adversary, and this
only served to anger him the more.
"Ki-yi!" yelled the cowboys as a short arm blow, delivered through
the mountaineer's windmill movements, reached his jaw and sent him
sprawling.
Tad had not been able to put the force into it that he wanted to,
else the battle might have ended then and there.
Bob came back. This time he uttered no taunts. The blow hurt
him. His head felt dizzy and his fists did not work with the same
speed that they had done before.
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