Back Aa

Pony Rider Boys in Texas, The

<h2>CHAPTER VIII</h2> <h3>THE APPROACH OF THE STORM</h3> "He's gone down!" cried a voice from the other side of the stream. Tad sprang down the bank and leaped in, striking out for the spot where Stacy had last been seen. Cattle were scattered here and there and the boy had to keep his eyes open to prevent being run down. He had almost reached the place where he had made up his mind to dive, should Stacy not rise to the surface, when a great shout from the bluff caused Tad to turn. "Wha—what is it?" he called. "Look! Look!" cried Ned Rector. "I don't see anything. Is it Chunky? Is he all right?" "Yes. He's driving oxen just now," answered Ned. By this time the cowpunchers had joined in the shouting. Tad could see, however, that they were shouting with merriment, though for the life of him he could not understand what there was to laugh about. Several steers were between him and the spot on which the glances of the others were fixed. "Come on in," called Ned. The lad swam shoreward with slow, easy strokes. Then he discovered what they were laughing at. Stacy, grasping desperately as he went down, had caught the tail of a swimming steer. He had been quickly drawn to the surface, and out through an opening between the treading animals, appeared the fat boy's head. Chunky was not swimming. He was allowing the steer to do that for him, clinging to its tail with all his strength. The lad's eyes were blinded for the moment by the water that was in them. He did not release his hold of the tail when they had reached the shore, but hung on desperately while the steer, dragging him along through the mire, scrambled up the bank. There was no telling how long Stacy might have hung to the animal's tail, had not Stallings grabbed him by the collar as he rose over the crest of the bank. Stallings shook him until the water-soaked clothes sent out a miniature rain storm and the boy had coughed himself back to his normal condition. "Well, you are a nice sort of cowboy," laughed the foreman. "When you are unable to do anything else to interest your friends, you try to drown yourself. Go, shake yourself!" Stacy rubbed the water from his eyes. "I—I fell in, didn't I?" he grinned. After having ferried the trail wagon over, everybody was ready for supper. No one seemed to mind the wetting he had gotten. Professor Zepplin made a joke of his own bedraggled condition, and the boys gave slight heed to theirs. The cattle were quickly bedded down and guards placed around them almost immediately, for the clouds were threatening. Stallings' watchful eyes told him that a bad night was before them. How bad, perhaps he did not even dream. Supper was ready a short time after the arrival of the wagon, and, laughing and joking, the boys gathered about the spread with a keen zest for the good things that had been placed before them. "Do you boys feel like going out on guard to-night?" asked the foreman while they were eating. "I do for one," answered Tad. "And I," chorused the rest of the lads. "I see your recent wetting has not dampened your spirits any," laughed Stallings. "Conditions make a lot of difference in the lives of all of us," announced the Professor. "Now, were these boys at home they'd all catch cold after what they have been through this afternoon. Their clothes, as it is, will not be dry much before sunrise." "And perhaps not even then," added the foreman, with an apprehensive glance at the sky. "What did you say, Mr. Stallings?" "I am thinking that it looks like rain." "What do we do when it rains?" asked Stacy Brown. "Same as any other time, kid," growled Big-foot Sanders. "I know; but what do you do?" persisted Chunky. "Young feller, we usually git wet," snapped Curley Adams, his mouth so full of potatoes that they could scarcely understand him. "He means where do we sleep?" spoke up Tad. "Oh, in the usual place," answered the foreman. "The only difference is that the bed is not quite so hard as at other times." "How's that, Mr. Stallings?" inquired Walter. "Because there's usually a puddle of water under you. I've woke up many a morning on the plains with only my head out of water. I'd a' been drowned if I hadn't had the saddle under my head for a pillow. However, it doesn't matter a great sight. After it has been raining a little while a fellow can't get any wetter, so what's the odds?" "That's what I say," added Ned Rector. Stacy Brown shook his head, disapproval plainly written on his face. "I don't agree with you. I have never been so wet that I couldn't be wetter." "How about when you came out of the river at the end of a cow's tail this afternoon? Think you could have been any more wet?" jeered Ned. "Sure thing. I might have drowned; then I'd been wet on the inside as well as the outside," answered the fat boy, wisely, his reply causing a ripple of merriment all around the party. "I guess the gopher scored that time, eh?" grinned Big-foot. That night Stacy was sent out on the second guard from ten-thirty to one o'clock. They had found him asleep under the chuck wagon, whence he was hauled out, feet first, by one of the returning guards. Tad had turned in early, as he was to be called shortly before one to go out with the third guard and to remain on duty till half-past three. For reasons of his own the foreman had given orders that all the ponies not on actual duty, that night, were to be staked down instead of being hobbled and turned out to graze. Tad heard the order given, and noting the foreman's questioning glances at the heavens, imagined that it had something to do with weather conditions. "Do you think Mr. Stallings is worried about the weather?" asked the lad of Big-foot Sanders, as he rode along beside the big cowman on the way to the bedding place of the herd. "I reckon he is," was the brief answer. "Then you think we are going to have a storm?" "Ever been through a Texas storm?" asked Big-foot by way of answering the boy's question. "No." "Well, you won't call it a storm after you have. There ain't no name in the dictionary that exactly fits that kind of a critter. A stampede is a Sunday in a country village as compared with one of them Texas howlers. You'll be wishing you had a place to hide, in about a minute after that kind of a ruction starts." "Are they so bad as that?" "Well, almost," answered the cowman. "I've heard tell," he continued, "that they've been known to blow the horns off a Mexican cow. Why, you couldn't check one of them things with a three inch rope and a snubbing post." Tad laughed at the quaintness of his companion's words. The sky near the horizon was a dull, leaden hue, though above their heads the stars twinkled reassuringly. "It doesn't look very threatening to me," decided Tad Butler, gazing intently toward the heavens. "Well, here's where we split," announced the cowboy, riding off to the left of the herd, Tad taking the right. Shortly after the lad heard the big cowman break out in song: <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> "Two little niggers upstairs in bed, One turned ober to de oder an' said, How 'bout dat short'nin' bread, How 'bout dat short'nin' bread?" </div> </div> Tad pulled up his pony and listened until the song had been finished. It was the cowpuncher's way of telling the herd that he had arrived and was on hand to guard them against trouble. "Big-foot seems to have a new song to-night," mused Tad. Now the lad noticed that there was an oppressiveness about the air that had not been present before. A deep orange glow showed on the southern horizon for an instant, then settled back into the prairie, leaving the gloom about the young cowboy even more dense than it had been before. "Feels spooky," was Tad's comment. Not being able to sing to his own satisfaction, Tad shoved his hands deep into his trousers pockets and began whistling "Old Black Joe." It was the most appropriate tune he could think of. "Kind of fits the night," he explained to the pony, which was picking its way slowly about the great herd. Then he resumed his whistling. The guards passed each other without a word, some being too sleepy; others too fully occupied with their own thoughts. The night, by this time, had grown intensely still, even the insects and night birds having hushed their weird songs. A flash more brilliant than the first attracted the lad's attention. "Lightning," he muttered, glancing off to the south. "I guess Mr. Stallings was right about the storm." Yet, directly overhead the stars still sparkled. In the distance Tad saw the comforting flicker of the camp-fire, about which the cowmen were sleeping undisturbed by the oppressiveness of the night. "I guess the foreman knew what he was talking about when he said we were going to have a storm," repeated Tad. "I wonder how the cattle will behave if things get lively." As if in answer to his question there came a stir among the animals on the side nearest him. Tad began whistling at once and the cows quieted down. "They must like my whistling. It's the first time anything ever did," thought the lad. Far over on the other side of the herd Big-foot crooned to his charges the song of the "Two little niggers upstairs in bed." "Sanders' stock must be walking in their sleep, too. I wonder——" A brilliant flash lighted the entire heaven, causing Tad Butler to cut short the remark he was about to make. A deep rumble of thunder, that seemed to roll across the plain like some great wave, followed a few seconds later. The lad shivered slightly. He was not afraid. Yet he realized that he was lonely, and wished that some of the other guards might come along to keep him company. Glancing up, Tad made the discovery that the small spot of clear sky had disappeared. By now he was unable to see anything. He made no effort to direct the pony, leaving it to the animal's instinct to keep a proper distance from the herd and follow its formation. The thunder gradually became louder and the flashes of lightning more frequent. The herd was disturbed. He could hear the cattle scrambling to their feet. Now and then the sound of locking horns reached him as the beasts crowded their neighbors too closely in their efforts to move about. Tad tried to sing, but gave it up and resumed his whistling. "I'm glad Chunky is not out on this trick," thought the boy aloud. "I am afraid he would be riding back to camp as fast as his pony could carry him." No sooner had the words left his mouth than a flash, so brilliant that it blinded Tad for the moment, lighted up the prairie. A crash which, as it seemed to him, must have split the earth wide open, followed almost instantly. Another roar, different from that caused by the thunder, rose on the night air, accompanied by the suggestive rattle of meeting horns and the bellowing of frightened cattle. By this time Tad had circled around to the west side of the herd. The instant this strange, startling noise reached him he halted his pony and listened. Off to the north of him he saw the flash of a six-shooter. Another answered it from his rear. Then a succession of shots followed quickly one after the other. The lad began slowly to understand. He could hear the rush and thunder of thousands of hoofs. "The cattle are stampeding!" cried Tad. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.