John Goldfrap - The Border Boys with the Mexican Rangers

Professor Wintergreen sat bolt upright amidst his blankets and listened intently. Had it been daylight, the angular figure of the scientist would have made a laughable spectacle. But the canyon in the State of Sonora, in Western Mexico, in which the Border Boys and their preceptor were camped, was pitchy dark with a velvety blackness, relieved only by a few steely-looking stars shining from the open spaces of a fast overclouding sky.

The night wind soughed in melancholy fashion through the trees that clothed the sides of the rugged abyss in which the camp had been pitched that evening, and the tinkle of the tiny stream that threaded its depths was audible. But although these were the only sounds to be heard at the moment, it was neither of them that had startled the professor. No, what he had heard had been something far different.

Waking some hours after he had first fallen asleep, the man of science had indulged his sleepless moments by plunging into mental calculations of an abstruse character. He was deeply engrossed in these, when the sudden sound had broken in on the quietness of the night.

“Bless me, I could have sworn that I heard a footstep, and a stealthy one, too,” muttered the professor to himself, “I must be getting nervous. Possibly that is what made me wake up, and – wow!”

The ruminations of Professor Wintergreen broke off abruptly as he suddenly felt something warm and hairy brush his face.

“It’s a bear!” he yelled, springing to his feet with a shout that instantly aroused the others, – Jack Merrill, the rancher’s son; Ralph Stetson, his schoolmate from old Stonefell; Coyote Pete, and Walt Phelps.

“A b’ar!” yelled Coyote Pete, awake in a flash, “wha’r is ther varmint?” As he spoke, the plainsman drew forth his well-worn old forty-four and began flourishing it about.

Before the others could say a word a dark form bolted suddenly through the camp, scattering, as it went, the embers of the dying campfire.

“It’s a bear, sure enough!” exclaimed Ralph, as the creature, a small bear of the black variety, howled and stumbled amidst the hot coals.

All at once its shaggy coat burst into flame, and with a cry of intense agony it dashed off into the woods.

“Poor creature!” cried Jack Merrill, “it will die in misery unless it’s put out of its agony quickly. Pete, lend me your gun.”

The plainsman handed it over with a quick interrogation to which he received no reply. Instead, Jack made a swift dash for the spot, a few feet distant, in which the horses of the party were tethered. Throwing himself on the back of one, with a twisted halter for a bridle, he set off in hot pursuit of the unfortunate bear.

He could see it quite plainly as it lumbered along through the woods, crying pitifully. Its long coat, greasy and shaggy, burned like a torch.

“Get along, Firewater, old boy,” breathed Jack, bending over his animal’s neck to avoid being brushed off by the low-hanging branches, for, after a short distance, the tangle on the hillside at the canyon’s bottom grew thick and dense.

But Firewater, alarmed and startled at the spectacle of the flaming beast rushing along through the dark woods in front, balked and jumped about and misbehaved in a manner very foreign to him when he had his young master on his back.

But Jack never made the mistake of allowing a pony or horse to think it could get the upper hand of him, and, consequently, Firewater soon quieted down and realized that there was no help for it but to go whither he was directed.

At length Jack arrived within pistol shot of the frenzied bear. Aiming as carefully as he could for a death shot, he pressed the trigger and the wretched animal, – the victim of its own curiosity, – plunged over and lay still.

“Poor creature,” quoth Jack to himself, “you are not the first to pay the toll of too much inquisitiveness. Gee whiz!” he broke off the next instant with one of his hearty, wholesome laughs, “I’m getting to be as much of a moralist as the professor.”

Having ascertained that the bear was quite dead and out of its suffering, the Border Boy remounted his pony and pressed back toward camp. But as he neared it, it was borne in upon him that the adventures of the night were by no means at an end, for before he reached the others, and while a thick screen of brush still lay between him and the glow of the newly made camp fire, a sudden volley of shots and the clattering of many horses’ hoofs broke the stillness.

A touch of the heel was enough to send Firewater bounding forward. The next instant the brush had been cleared, and a strange spectacle met Jack Merrill’s eyes. His companions, their weapons in hand, stood about the fire staring here and there into the darkness. A puzzled expression was on all their faces, and particularly was this true of the professor, who was scrutinizing, through his immense horn spectacles, a scrap of paper which he held in his hand. He was stooping low by the firelight the better to examine it.

“Oh, here you are,” cried Ralph, as the returned young adventurer came forward into the glow.

“Yes, here I am,” cried Jack, throwing himself from Firewater’s back. “I despatched that bear, too, but what on earth has been happening here?”

“Read this first, my boy, and then I will tell you,” said the professor, thrusting the not over-clean bit of paper into his hands.

“Read it aloud,” urged Pete, and Jack, in a clear voice, read the untidy scrawl as follows: —

“Señors; you are on a mission perilous. Advance no further but turn back while you are safe. The Mountains of Chinipal are not for your seeking, and what you shall find there if you persevere in your quest will prove more deadly than the Upas tree. Be warned in time. Adios.”

“Phew!” whistled Jack, “that sounds nice. But what was all the firing – for I suppose that had something to do with it?”

“Why, the firing was my work,” struck in Walt Phelps, looking rather shamefaced, “and I’m afraid I wounded the man I shot at, too.”

“You see it was this way,” went on Ralph Stetson. “We were watching the woods for your coming when, suddenly, a horseman appeared, as if by magic, from off there.”

He pointed behind him into the dark and silent trees.

“Under the impression that we were attacked, I guess, Walt opened fire. But the man did not return it. Instead, he flung that note, which was tied to a bit of stone, at our feet, and then dashed off as suddenly as he had come. What do you make of it?”

“I don’t know what to think,” rejoined Jack in a puzzled tone; “suppose we ask the professor and Pete first.”

“A good idea,” chorused the other boys. “Well, boys,” said the professor anxiously, “not being as well versed in such things as our friend Mr. Coyote, I shall defer to him. One thing, however, I noticed, and that was that the note is worded in fair English, although badly written in an uneducated hand.”

“Maybe whoever wrote it wished to disguise his writing,” ventured Walt Phelps.

“That’s my idee of it,” grunted Coyote Pete; “yer see,” he went on, “ther thing looks this yer way ter me. Some chap who knows of a plot on foot ter keep us frum the Chinipal, wanted to do us a good turn, but didn’t dare be seen in our company. So he hits on this way of doing it and gits drilled with a bullet fer his pains.”

Walt Phelps colored brilliantly. He felt ashamed of his haste.

“Don’t be upsot over it,” said Pete, noticing this, “it’s ther chap’s own fault fer dashing in on us that way. I reckon, though, he kalkerlated on finding us asleep, an’ so we would have bin if it hadn’t a bin fer Mister flaming b’ar.”