Books: The Pony Rider Boys in New Mexico
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Frank Gee Patchin >> The Pony Rider Boys in New Mexico
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"Guess the Indians are not going to bother us," said Walter, riding up
to Tad just before daylight.
"Probably not. They will be in too much trouble with the Government,
after last night's performances, to give much thought to chasing us.
And besides, I don't see why they should wish to do so. Had they been
very anxious to be revenged on us, most likely they would not have
allowed us to get away as they did."
"Was it very terrible, Tad?" asked Walter Perkins.
"What, the dance, or what happened afterwards?" laughed the lad.
"Both?"
"Well, I'm free to confess that neither was exactly pleasant. When
they caught Chunky I thought it was all up with us. Hello. There's Mr.
Daylight."
Glancing to the left the boys saw the sky turning to gray. A buzzard
screamed overhead, laying its course for the mountains where it was
journeying in search of food.
"What's that?" demanded Stacy, awakening from a doze in his saddle.
"Friend of yours with an appetite," grinned Ned.
"I thought it sounded like breakfast call," muttered Stacy, relapsing
into sleep again, his head drooping forward until, a few minutes
later, he was lying over the saddle pommel with arms thrown loosely
about the pony's neck
Ned, observing the lad's position, suddenly conceived a mischievous
plan. Unnoticed by the others, he permitted his own pony to fall back
until he was a short distance behind Stacy. The others were a little
way ahead.
Ned rode slowly alongside his companion, as he passed, bringing the
rowel of his spur sharply against the withers of Chunky's mount.
The effect was instantaneous.
The fat boy's mount, itself half asleep, suddenly humped its back, and
with bunching feet leaped clear of the ground.
"Hello, what's the matter back there?" called Ned, who by this time
was a full rod in advance of his companion.
Stacy did not answer. He was at that moment turning an undignified
somersault in the air, his pony standing meekly, awaiting the next act
in the little drama.
The fat boy landed on the plain in a heap.
"Are you hurt, Chunky?" cried Tad anxiously, slipping from his saddle
and running to his companion.
"I-- I dunno, I-- I fell off, didn't I?"
"You're off, at least," grinned Ned. "What was the matter?"
"I-- I dunno; do you?"
"How should I know? If you will go to sleep an a bucking broncho, you
must expect things to happen."
Stacy, by this time, had scrambled to his feet; after which, he began
a careful inventory of himself to make sure that he was all there. He
grinned sheepishly.
Satisfying himself on this point, Stacy shrugged his shoulders and
walked over to his pony with a suggestion of a limp.
"Now that we have halted we might as well make camp for a few hours,
get breakfast and take a nap," suggested the Professor.
The boys welcomed this proposition gratefully, for they were beginning
to feel the effects of their long night ride, added to which, two of
them had had a series of trying experiences before starting out.
In the meantime, Stacy Brown had been examining his pony with more
than usual care.
Tad observed his action, and wondered at it. A moment later, the fat
boy having moved away; Tad thought he would take a look at the animal.
He was curious to know what Stacy had in mind.
"So that's it, is it?" muttered Tad.
He found the mark of a spur on the pony's withers. While it had not
punctured the skin, the spur had raked the coat, showing that the
rowel had been applied with considerable force.
Tad, with a covert glance about, saw Ned Rector watching him.
"You're the guilty one, eh?" he demanded, walking up to Ned.
"S-h-h-h," cautioned Ned. "He'll be redheaded if he knows I am to
blame for his coming a cropper."
"Chunky's not so slow as you might think. But that wasn't a nice thing
to do. It's all right to play tricks, but I hope you won't be so cruel
as to use a spur on a dumb animal, the way you did, even if he is an
ill-tempered broncho. You might have broken Chunky's neck, too."
Ned's face flushed.
"It was a mean trick, I'll admit. Didn't strike me so at the time.
Shall I ask Chunky's pardon?"
"Do as you think best. I should, were I in your place."
"Then, I will after breakfast."
Ned got busy at once, assisting to cook the morning meal, while Juan
led the ponies out to a patch of grass and staked them down. While the
Pony Rider cook was thus engaged, he felt a tug at his coat sleeve.
Turning sharply, Ned found Stacy at his side. Stacy's face was flushed
and his eyes were snapping.
"What is it, Chunky?"
"Come over here, I want to talk with you."
They stepped off a few paces out of hearing of the others, Tad smiling
to himself as he observed Stacy's act.
"Well, what's the matter, Chunky?"
"I can lick you, Ned Rector!"
"Wha-- what?"
"Said I could lick you. Didn't say I was going to, understand. Just
said I could--"
"Like to see you try it."
"All right; it's a go."
Ere Ned could recover from his surprise, Stacy Brown had launched
himself upon his companion. One of Stacy's arms went about Ned's neck,
one foot kicked a leg from under Ned, and the two lads went down in
the dust together.
It had happened in a twinkling.
"Here, here! What's going on over there?" shouted the Professor,
starting on a run, while the other lads were laughing.
Chunky was sitting on the chest of his fallen adversary, Ned
struggling desperately to throw the lad off.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" crowed Chunky, in imitation of a rooster,
flapping his hands on his thighs, in great good humor with himself.
Professor Zepplin grabbed him by the collar, jerking Stacy Brown from
the fallen Pony Rider Boy.
Ned scrambled to his feet, and, with a sheepish grin on his face,
proceeded to brush the dust from his clothes.
"Downed you, did he?" questioned Tad.
"It wasn't fair. I didn't know he was going to try."
"Neither did the Russians when the Japs sailed into them at Port
Arthur," laughed Walter. "And they got what was coming to them."
"So did I. Chunky, I deserve more than you gave me. If you want to,
beat me up some more."
"Now, isn't that sweet of him?" chortled Stacy. "I fell off my pony,
then I fell on you, and we'll call it quits, eh, Ned?"
Ned put out a hand, which Stacy grasped with mock enthusiasm.
"We sure will."
"I'd like to know what this is all about?" questioned Walter.
"Something's been going on."
"I made his pony throw him over," admitted Ned.
Stacy nodded with emphasis.
"He found it out and jumped on me."
"I'll turn you both over my knee if you try to repeat these
performances," warned the Professor.
Linking arms, Stacy and Ned started for the breakfast table, humming,
"For he's a jolly good fellow,"
and a moment later all four of the lads were standing about the
breakfast table, singing the chorus at the top of their voices.
CHAPTER VIII
ASLEEP ON THE SLEEPY GRASS
The slanting rays of the sun got into the eyes of the Pony Rider Boys.
Four arms were thrown over as many pairs of eyes to shut out the
blinding light.
"Ho-ho-hum!" yawned Chunky.
Cocking an impish eye at his companions, he observed that each had
fallen into a deep sleep again.
The fat boy cautiously gathered up a handful of dry sand and hurled it
into the air. A shower of it sprinkled over them, into their eyes and
half-opened mouths.
Three pairs of eyes were opened, then closed again.
Encouraged by his success, Stacy chuckled softly to himself, then
dumped another handful of sand over his companions.
But he was not prepared for what followed.
Three muscular boys hurled themselves upon him. Instantly the peaceful
scene was changed into a pandemonium of yells. Down came the tent
poles, the canvas rising and falling as if imbued with sudden life.
Professor Zepplin, startled by the racket, roused himself and sprang
from his own tent. Observing the erratic actions of the tent in which
the boys had been sleeping, he instantly concluded that something
serious had happened.
"Boys! boys!" he cried, running to the spot, frantically hauling away
the canvas. "What has happened? What has happened?"
They were too busy to answer him. When finally he had uncovered what
lay below, he found his charges literally tied up in a knot, rolling
and tumbling, with Stacy Brown lying flat on his back, each of his
three companions vigorously rubbing handfuls of sand over his face,
down his neck and in the hair of his head.
"I think I'll take a hand in this myself," smiled the Professor. He
ran to his tent, returning quickly. In his hands he carried two pails
of water.
Unluckily for the boys, they had failed to observe what he was doing.
Nor did they understand that they were in danger until the contents of
the two pails had been dashed over them.
There were yells in earnest this time. The water turned the dirt into
mud at once, and their faces were "sights." Stacy's face had been
protected, in a measure, by the other boys who were bending over him
rubbing in the sand.
The unexpected bath put a sudden end to their sport, and they
staggered out shouting for vengeance. They did not even know who had
been the cause of their undoing.
The Professor, as he walked away smiling, had handed the pails to the
grinning Juan with instructions to refill them.
The unfortunate Juan, bearing the pails away, was the first person to
catch the eyes of the lads, as they rubbed the sticky mud out of them.
With a howl they projected themselves upon him. Juan's grin changed
instantly to an expression of great concern. He went down under their
charge, with four boys, instead of three, on top of him.
"Duck him!" shouted some one.
"Yes! Douse him in the spring!" chorused the boys.
Juan cried out for the Professor, but his appeals were in vain.
Shouting in high glee the lads bore him to the spring from which they
got their water. They plumped him in, not any too gently, again and
again.
"Now roll him in the sand," suggested Ned.
They did so.
The wet clothing and body made the sand stick to him until the lazy
Mexican was scarcely recognizable.
At this point Professor Zepplin took a hand. He came bounding to the
scene and began throwing the boys roughly from their unhappy victim.
Perhaps be was not greatly disturbed over the shaking up the guide had
sustained, but of course he confided nothing of this to the boys.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourselves-- for four of you to pitch on
to one weak Mexican! I'm surprised, young gentlemen."
"But-- but-- he ducked us," protested Ned.
"He did nothing of the sort."
"What-- didn't duck us? Guess I know water when I feel it," objected
Walter.
"You were ducked, all right, but it is I, not Juan, who am responsible
for that."
"You?" questioned the lads all at once.
The Professor nodded, a broad grin on his face.
"But he had the pails."
"I gave them to him, after pouring the water over you. That's what is
known as circumstantial evidence, young gentlemen. Let it be a lesson
to you to be careful how you convict anyone on that kind of evidence."
"Fellows," glowed Chunky, "we've made a mistake. Let's make it right
by ducking the Professor."
The boys looked over Professor Zepplin critically.
"I guess we'd better defer that job till we grow some more," they
decided, with a laugh.
The next fifteen minutes were fully occupied in cleaning up and
putting on their clothes. They were all thoroughly awake now, with
cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling after their violent exercise. The
guide had rather sullenly washed off the wet dust that clung to his
face and hands.
"Never mind the clothes, Juan," advised Ned. "It'll brush off as soon
as it gets dry. We'll take up a contribution to buy you a clothes
brush. Ever see one?"
Juan grinned.
"You promise not to gamble the money away if we give it to you?"
"Si."
"Shell out, fellows. Ten cents apiece. That ought to salve his injured
feelings."
Ned passed the hat, all contributing.
"That makes forty cents. Here, Professor, you haven't put in your ten
yet. It'll take just fifty cents to paste up Juan's injuries."
"That reminds me of a fellow I heard about once," announced Stacy.
"Are you going to tell a story?" questioned Ned.
"If you will keep still long enough," replied Stacy.
"Then me for the bunch grass. It's like going to a funeral to hear
Chunky try to tell a story."
"Let him tell it," shouted the lads.
"Go on, Chunky. Never mind Ned. He'll laugh when he gets back to
Chillicothe," jibed Walter.
"I heard of a fellow once--"
"Yes; you told us that before," jeered Ned.
"Not the one we ducked in the spring, was it?" grinned Tad.
"Who's telling this story?" demanded Stacy belligerently.
"You are, I guess. I won't interrupt again."
"Well, did I say this fellow was a boy?"
"No."
"Well, he was-- he's grown up now. He rushed into a drug store--"
"Was anything chasing him?" asked Ned innocently.
Stacy gave no heed to the interruption.
"And he said to the man in the store, 'Please, sir, some liniment and
some cement?'"
"'What?' asked the clerk all in a muddle. You see, he'd never had a
prescription like that to fill before. It made him tired, 'cause he
thought the kid was making fun of him."
"'What-- what's the trouble? What do you want liniment and cement
for?'
"'Cause,' said the boy to the pill man, ''cause mom hit pop on the
head with a plate.'"
For a moment there was silence, then the boys roared. But Ned never
smiled.
"Laugh, laugh! Why don't you laugh?" urged Walter.
"Laugh? Huh! I laughed myself almost sick over that a long time ago.
Read it in an almanac when I was in short trousers."
"The ponies! The ponies!" cried Juan, rushing up to them, waving his
arms, then running his fingers through his long black hair until it
stood up like the quills of a porcupine.
"What!" queried the Pony Rider Boys in sudden alarm. "What's the
matter with the ponies?"
Juan pointed to the place where the stock had been tethered after they
arrived at the camp.
There was not an animal to be seen anywhere on the plain.
"Gone!" gasped the lads, with sinking hearts.
"No, no, no. There!" stammered the guide.
With one accord the boys ran at top speed to the spot indicated by
Juan.
There, stretched out in the long grass lay bronchos and burros.
"They're dead, the ponies are dead, every one of them!" cried the lads
aghast.
CHAPTER IX
THE MIDNIGHT ALARM
"What's this, what's this?" demanded the Professor, striding up.
"Look! Look! The ponies are dead!" exclaimed Ned excitedly.
"What do you suppose could have happened to them?" stammered Walter.
"Is it possible? What's the meaning of this, guide?"
Juan shrugged his shoulders and showed his white teeth.
In the meantime Tad had hurried to his own pony, and was down on his
knees examining it. Placing his hands on the animal's side, he
remained in that position for an instant, then sprang up.
"They're not dead, fellows! They're alive!"
"Asleep," grumbled Ned disgustedly.
"But there's something the matter with them. Something has happened to
the stock," added Tad.
"Only a false alarm," nodded Stacy.
"Think so? Try to wake your pony up," advised Tad.
Stacy had already hurried to his own broncho, and now began tugging at
the bridle rein, with sundry pokes in the animal's ribs.
"I can't. He's in a trance," wailed Stacy, considerably startled.
That expression came nearer to describing the condition of the stock
than any other words could have done.
"Guide, what do you know about this?" questioned the Professor. "Has
some one been tampering with our animals?"
Juan shrugged his shoulders with an air of indifference.
"No bother bronchs."
"Then will you please tell us what is the matter with them?"
"Sleepy grass!"
"Sleepy grass?" chorused the lads.
"Of course they're asleep all right," added Ned. "But whoever heard of
sleepy grass?"
"He means they're sleeping on the grass," Stacy informed them.
"Ah! I begin to understand," nodded the Professor. "I think I know
what the trouble is now. The guide is no doubt right."
The boys gathered around him, all curiosity.
"Tell us about it, Professor. We are very much mystified?" said the
Pony Riders.
"A long time ago I remember to have read, somewhere, of a certain
grass in this region that possessed peculiar narcotic properties--"
"What's narcotic?" interrupted Stacy.
"Something that makes you go to sleep when you can't," explained Tad
Butler, rather ambiguously.
"When eaten by horses or cattle it is said to put them into deep
sleep. The Rockefeller Institute, I believe, is already making an
analytical test of the grass."
"Please talk so I can understand it," begged Stacy.
"Yes; those words make my head ache," scowled Ned. "Even the guide is
making up faces in his effort to understand."
"He does understand. He understands only too well. For many years this
grass has been known. Cows turned out for the day would fail to return
at night--"
"To be milked," interjected Stacy.
"And an investigation would disclose them sleeping in some region,
where the sleepy grass grew
And the fat boy hummed:
"Down where the sleepy grass is growing."
"Travelers who have tied out their horses in patches of the grass for
the night have been unable to continue their journey until the animals
recovered from their strange sleep. Thus the properties of the grass
became known."
"Indians use 'em to tame bad bronchos," the guide informed them.
"Just so."
"But, when will they wake up?" questioned Tad.
"Mebby sun-up to-morrow," answered Juan, glancing up at the sky.
"What, sleep twenty-four hours?" demanded Ned.
"Si."
"Preposterous."
"Then, then, we've got to remain here all the rest of the afternoon
and night-- is that it?" demanded Tad.
"It looks that way."
"And you knew about this stuff, Juan?" questioned Tad.
"Si."
"Well, you're a nice sort of a guide, I must say."
"You ought to be put off the reservation," threatened Stacy, shaking a
menacing fist in front of the white teeth.
In the meantime, Tad had gone over to the animals again, and, taking
them in turn, sought to stir them up. He found he could not do so. The
ponies' heads would drop to the ground after he had lifted and let go
of them, just as if the animals were dead.
"Gives you a creepy feeling, doesn't it?" shivered Walter.
"I should say it does," answered Ned.
"Well, what is it, Chunky?" asked Tad, who observed that Stacy had
something on his mind that he was trying to formulate into words.
"I've got an idea, fellows," he exploded.
"Hold on to it, then. You may never get another," jeered Ned.
"What is it, Master Stacy?" asked the Professor.
"Then-- then-- then-- that's what Juan and his burro have been eating
all the time. I knew there was something the matter with them."
A loud laugh greeted the fat boy's suggestion.
"Guess he's about right, at that," grinned Tad.
"A brilliant thought," agreed the Professor. "Boys, I must have some
of that grass. I shall make some experiments with it."
"Experiment on Chunky," they shouted.
"No; he sleeps quite well enough as it is," smiled the Professor.
"I want some of it too-- no, not to eat," corrected the fat boy. "I'll
feed it to my aunt's cat when I get back; then he won't be running
away from home every night."
"Better unload the rest of the equipment, boys," advised the
Professor. "If we must remain here all night we might as well make the
best of it."
Without their ponies, the lads spent rather a restless afternoon. They
had not fully realized before how much a part of them their horses had
become until they were suddenly deprived of them.
In the meantime, the bronchos slept on undisturbed.
"I've got another idea," shouted Stacy.
"Keep it to yourself," growled Ned. "Your ideas, like your jokes,
graduated a long time ago."
"Is there sleepy grass in the Catskill Mountains!" persisted Stacy.
"We don't know, and we don't--"
"I know there is, and that's what put Rip Van Winkle to sleep for
twenty years," shouted the fat boy in high glee. "See, I know more
than--"
"Yes; you're the original boy wonder. We'll take that for granted,"
nodded Ned Rector.
Tad, however, was not inclined to look upon their enforced delay with
anything like amusement. To him it had its serious side. He had not
forgotten that they had been fleeing from the Indians. When he got an
opportunity to do so, without his companions overhearing, he
approached the Professor.
"I think it would be a good plan for us to have a guard over our camp
to-night."
"On account of?"
"Yes."
"Very well; I think myself that it would be a prudent move. Have Juan
sit up, then."
"No, he's a sleepy bead. Suppose we boys take turns?"
"Very well; arrange it to suit yourselves. I presume we ought to do
something of the sort every night. It might have saved us some trouble
on our Ozark journey had we been that prudent. Arrange it to suit you.
I'll take my turn
"No; we can do it, Professor. You go to bed as usual. We'll draw lots
to see who takes the different watches. With the four of us we'll have
to take only two hours apiece. That won't be bad at all."
The other boys, after the plan had been explained to them, entered
into it enthusiastically. Walter was to take the first trick, Ned the
next, Chunky the third and Tad the fourth.
And they were to take their guns out with them. The Professor agreed
to this, now that they had become more familiar with firearms. As a
matter of fact, all the boys had developed into excellent marksmen,
though Tad was recognized as the best shot of the party.
Professor Zepplin, during the afternoon, gave each of them a lesson in
revolver shooting, using for the purpose, his heavy army revolver.
They did pretty well with this weapon, but, of course, were not nearly
as expert with it as with the rifle.
Evening came and the stock was still sleeping soundly. There was
nothing the boys could do but let them sleep, though the fact of all
the ponies and burros lying about as if dead began to make the Pony
Riders nervous. Night came, and with it semi-darkness, the moon being
overcast with a veil of fleecy white clouds, which cast a grayish film
over the landscape. The lads joked each other about having the
"creeps," but none would admit the charge.
Walter, with rifle slung over his right shoulder, went out on the
first watch with instructions to go at least two hundred yards from
camp and keep walking around the camp in a circle. This would protect
them from surprises on all sides. Ned decided not to retire until he
had taken his guard trick, in view of the fact that he was to go on at
eleven o'clock. But Stacy, proposing to get all the sleep he was
entitled to, turned in early. The rest did not disturb him. The boys
were unusually quiet that evening, perhaps feeling that the
responsibility of the safety of the camp rested wholly upon their
youthful shoulders.
Ned came in at one o'clock, after having taken his turn, unslung his
rifle, drew the cartridges then put them back in the magazine again.
"I might need them before morning," he told himself.
Chunky being sound asleep, Ned grabbed him by a foot giving him a
violent pull.
"Wat'cher want? Get out!" growled the fat boy sleepily.
"Get up and take your watch!" commanded Ned.
"Who's afraid of Indians?" mumbled Stacy.
This time Ned took the lad by the collar, jerked him to his feet and
shook him until Stacy yelled "Ouch!" so loudly as to awaken the entire
camp.
It took some time, however, to get Stacy himself awake sufficiently to
make him understand that he had a duty to perform. Finally, however,
he shouldered his rifle, after surreptitiously helping himself to a
sandwich from the cook tent. Then be marched off, munching the bread
and meat.
"See here," snapped Ned, running after him. "You're not measuring off
your distance. Come back and pace it off."
"How many?"
"Two hundred yards. Stretch your fat legs as far as they'll go, then
you'll have a yard, more or less."
Stacy started all over again, forgot the count, came back, then tried
it again. Even at that he was not sure whether he had gone one hundred
yards or five.
He was awake enough, now, to observe his surroundings. The cool
breezes of the night were tossing the leaves of the cottonwoods near
the water course to the west of them, while here and there in the
foliage might be heard the exultant notes of a mocking bird.
Stacy shivered.
"Guess it's going to freeze to-night," he decided, beginning his
steady tramp about the camp of the Pony Rider Boys.
Muttering to himself, as was his habit when alone, Stacy kept on until
finding himself opposite the ponies, he decided to go over and look at
them. All were asleep. Not one had awakened since going down under the
powerful influence of the "sleepy grass."
"I'd like to eat some of that stuff myself, right now," Chunky decided
out loud. "I'd have a good excuse for going to sleep then. Now I can't
without getting jumped on by the fellows. Wonder what time it is--
only half-past one. Must be something the matter with my watch. I know
I've been out more'n two hours."
This trip he circled out further from the camp, growing a little more
confident because nothing had happened to disturb him.
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