CHAPTER XIII.

GEORGE HAS COMPANY.

George knew Springer well. The latter had once been in his father’s employ; but being of no use as a herdsman or anything else, he had been discharged, to make room for a more industrious and pains-taking man. This enraged Springer, who threatened vengeance, and followed up his threats by attempting to fire the rancho. He had been detected in the act and almost captured; but he succeeded in making his escape, and since then George had never met him until this particular day. He had often heard of him, however, as a member of a band of cattle-thieves, who now and then made a raid through the country farther down the river. There were a good many others just like Springer, on the opposite side of the Rio Grande—renegade Americans—who, having left their country for their country’s good, had taken refuge among the Mexicans, and joined with them in raiding upon the well-stocked farms and ranches of their Texan neighbors.

“You needn’t be afeared, George,” repeated Springer, seeing that the boy cast uneasy glances about him, as if half expecting to see the rest of the band start up from some ambush among the willows. “Thar’s nobody here but me.”

“Where are your friends?” asked George.

“They’ve gone on, an’ I s’pose they’re acrosst the river by this time.”

“Did they leave you here to take care of yourself?” inquired George, who found it difficult to believe that men could be so heartless.

“What else could they do?” asked Springer, wincing a little, as he tried to move one of his wounded legs into a more comfortable position. “A man who is fool enough to get hurt, must take his chances. If he can keep up with the rest, well an’ good; if he can’t, he must fall behind an’ look out fur himself. I’m glad I ain’t in the settlement. I’d rather stay here an’ starve, fur want of grub an’ water, than have the ranchemen catch me. I ain’t had a bite to eat fur two days.”

“You haven’t!” exclaimed George. “I’ll divide with you.”

He opened his haversack, as he spoke, and producing from its capacious depths a goodly supply of bacon and cracker, placed it in the hands of the wounded man, whose eyes brightened as he received it. George stood by and saw him eat it, and was glad to see that he enjoyed it, although he knew that by thus diminishing his store he put himself in a fair way to go hungry for many a weary mile of his journey. The man was a scoundrel—no one except himself could tell what deeds of violence he had been guilty of during his raids—but for all that George was glad that it was in his power to relieve his distress.

“I am sorry to see you in this situation, Springer,” said he, when the bacon and cracker had disappeared.

“Are you, though?” exclaimed the man, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looking up in surprise. “I didn’t s’pose you would be.”

“Well, I am; and I hope that when you get well, you will behave yourself and live among white men.”

“That’s unpossible; ‘kase why, white men won’t have nothing to do with me,” replied Springer, almost fiercely. “Would you hire me to herd cattle fur you?”

“Yes, I would. I know you threatened that you would be revenged on my father for discharging you, but I don’t see why you should follow me up. I haven’t done anything to you. How did you get shot? And how came you here?”

“Wal, you see, we made the dash on your camp, kalkerlatin’ to take you by surprise; but Zeke, he allers sleeps with his rifle in his hand an’ one eye open, an’ I was the fust feller he got a crack at. He took two pulls at me, an’ this yere is the consequence,” said Springer, pointing with both forefingers toward his bandaged legs. “When we left your camp, the fellers put me on my hoss, an’ I kept up with ‘em fur a few hours; but the pace was too fast fur me—I couldn’t stand the joltin’; so I had to pull up. When I reached this bayou, I thought I’d get a drink of water; but when I got down I fell, lettin’ go my bridle, an’ my hoss walked away. I was too weak an’ bad hurt to crawl to the water; I couldn’t ketch my hoss, an’ I reckoned I’d got to stay right here. I happened to see you when you come to the top of the ridge, an’ called to you, thinkin’ mebbe you wouldn’t refuse to give me the drink I was a’most ready to die fur. But you wouldn’t a done it, if you knowed as much as I do!”

“Yes, I would. I don’t bear you any ill-will because you stole my cattle.”

“But that aint all!” exclaimed Springer.

“I know it isn’t! You tried to burn my home over my head; but I don’t bear you any ill-will for that, either; and I’ll prove it to you by putting you on your horse and giving you a chance to save yourself!”

“But _that_ aint all!” said Springer. “How do you reckon we knowed whar to look for you?”

“I’m sure I can’t tell! I never knew raiders to venture so far from the river before!”

“An’ they never did, nuther! Whar was you when we was in your camp?”

“I was lying in a buffalo wallow about a hundred yards away!”

“Did you see the fellars while they was a pokin’ around in the willows with their fire-brands? What do you reckon they was a lookin’ for?”

“I supposed they were looking for Zeke!”

“Wal, they wasn’t lookin’ for Zeke, nuther! They didn’t care nothing about Zeke! You was the fellow they wanted to find!”

“I was!” exclaimed George. “What did they want of me?”

“They wanted you ‘kase there’s a thousand head of fat steers wrapped up in you, ‘sides them three hundred we stole from you the other night!”

The boy was greatly astonished, and he was certain, too, that he knew what Springer was trying to get at. He seated himself on the ground with his back against a neighboring tree, and said as calmly as he could:

“You must speak plainer than that if you want me to know just what you mean!”

“I mean jist this yere,” said Springer; “an I’ll tell you ‘cause you was good enough to come here an’ give me the drink of water I was starvin’ fur, an’ feed me outen your grub when you haint got enough to eat yourself. George, you are in danger every day you spend at your rancho! Your uncle and cousin don’t want you there, an’ they aint goin’ to let you stay nuther!”

George thought from what Springer said before that he had some such revelation as this to make, but when it came it almost took his breath away. He had long been of the opinion that his relatives didn’t want him at the rancho, but how could this cattle-thief, who lived miles away on the other side of the river, have found it out? The man talked in a positive tone, as though he knew all about it, and this was what surprised George. There was one thing certain, however: He was not going to discuss family matters with any such fellow as Springer.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said he, as he arose to his feet and slung his haversack over his shoulders. “I’ll not stay here if you are going to insult my uncle and cousin!”

“Say, George, whar you goin’?” demanded Springer.

“I am going to start on again. Shall I put you on your horse before I go?”

“You needn’t go off mad,” said the man, earnestly, “‘cause every word I’m tellin’ you is the gospel truth. We got it all through Philip!”

“Got all what through Philip?” asked George.

“I mean we done all our business through him; an’ if I was in your place, I’d go home an’ bundle him outen the house, neck an’ heels. He’s makin’ mischief thar, _I_ tell you. He told us we’d find you in that grove on Brown’s Run; an’ when we didn’t find you thar, we follered your trail to Catfish Falls.”

“But how did Philip know I was going to that grove?” demanded George, growing more and more bewildered.

“What’s the use of me tellin’ you when you’ll get mad?” asked Springer in reply. “The under-standin’ atween us, was, that arter we had drove off your three hundred head of stock, we was to come over agin, in a week or two, an’ we would find a thousand more head whar we could get ‘em easy.”

“Who was going to put them where you could get them easy?”

“If I tell you, you’ll get mad at me. But mind you, we wasn’t to get them thousand head unless we gobbled you. The fellers done their level best, but couldn’t find you!”

“What were you going to do with me if you found me?”

“That’s something I can’t tell. Nobody but Fletcher knows that.”

“Who’s Fletcher?”

“He’s the boss—the cap’n.”

“Who told you to gobble me?”

“What’s the use of me tellin’ you when you’ll be sartin to go off mad? You see, we kalkerlated to make twenty-six thousand dollars clear by two night’s work, but that didn’t satisfy us. Philip, he told us that thar was a whole bit of gold and silver in your uncle’s office, an’ we wanted that too; so we slipped down thar, an’ Philip, he opened the door an’ let us in.”

“Into our house!” cried George, who now learned for the first time of the attack that had been made upon the rancho.

“Yes, into your house; but we didn’t get nothing but bullets an’ one hoss fur our pains.”

“It served you just right,” said George, indignantly. “They are not all traitors in that house, I tell you.”

“Not by no means they ain’t,” said Springer, with a knowing shake of the head. “One of the herders, who was awake, aroused the others by firing his revolver, an’ it’s the biggest wonder in the world that any of us got out. We tried to cut down the doors, but they drove us off, and then we made a strike fur Brown’s Run, whar we allowed to find you. On the way we run into about five hundred head of stock, an’ thinkin’ that a bird in the hand was worth a dozen in the woods, we drove ‘em off. We got ‘em across the river all right, an’ dodgin’ the rangers who follered us, we came back arter you. We found you too, an’ some of us got more’n we wanted,” added Springer, looking down at his bandages and groaning faintly.

George listened to all this in the greatest amazement. He remembered now, that just before he left home with his supplies, his uncle had questioned him closely about some things in which he had previously shown no interest whatever, and that he seemed particularly anxious to know where his nephew expected to find his herd, and which way Zeke would probably drive it after George joined him. The boy never would have thought of the circumstance again, if it had not been for this interview with his father’s old herdsman; but now it was recalled very vividly to his mind, and he was obliged to confess to himself that the half-formed suspicions he had long entertained were not without foundation. His Uncle John was at the bottom of all his troubles, and Philip, the Mexican cook, was his confidential assistant. The boy’s heart sank within him while he thought about it. He didn’t know what to do, and there was only one man in the settlement to whom he could go for advice.

“Well, Springer,” said George, suddenly, “we have wasted time enough. I have a long journey to make, and so have you. I hope you will succeed in getting safely over the river, and that the lesson you have received will be the means of making you an honest man. I will put you on your horse and divide my provisions with you, and that is all I can do for you.”

“An’ it’s a heap more nor any body else would do for me,” said Springer, gratefully. “You won’t tell none of the settlers that you seed me, will you?”

“I’ll not put any of them on your trail,” replied the boy. “I may be obliged to say something about you; but if you have good luck, you ought to be safe across the river before I reach Mr. Gilbert’s house, and that is where I am going.”

After bringing Springer another hatful of water from the bayou, and dividing with him the small supply of bacon and crackers he had left, George brought up his horse, and with infinite difficulty assisted the man to mount. Springer groaned a little and swore a great deal during the operation, and being a heavy man and almost unable to help himself, it required the outlay of all George’s strength to put him into the saddle. After thanking the boy over and over again for what he had done, he rode slowly away, and George feeling as though there was nothing in the world worth living for now, once more turned his face toward the settlement. He looked back now and then to see how Springer was getting on. The last time he saw the man he was standing on the top of a high swell holding his hat in his hand. When he saw George looking at him he waved it in the air and rode down the swell out of sight.

“If he can keep in his saddle for forty-eight hours—and he would have no trouble at all in doing it if it were not for his wounds—and can dodge the rangers who are probably out looking for the raiders, he will be all right,” thought George; “but if he is compelled to dismount, I don’t know what will become of him. He can’t possibly get on his horse again without help. Now, what shall I do? I am going back to a home where I am not wanted.”

This was the burden of the boy’s thoughts all the rest of the day. He could not make up his mind to any course of action, for he was so stunned and bewildered by what he had heard that he could not think clearly. The only thing he determined upon was, that he would lay the case before Mr. Gilbert, and be governed by his advice. Mr. Gilbert was a wealthy cattle-raiser and a prominent man in the settlement, who had gained his start in life through the assistance of George’s father. He was a firm friend of the family, and the boy knew that he could trust him. Toward his rancho he directed his course, making all the haste he could. He would have been glad to travel all night, but his weary limbs demanded rest, and when it grew dark George was obliged, much against his will, to go into camp. He built a fire in the edge of a belt of post-oaks that ran across his path, and after gathering fuel enough to last all night, he ate a very light supper and sat down to think over the situation. When eight o’clock came he scraped a few leaves together for a bed, and was about to throw himself down upon it, when he was brought to his feet by the clatter of hoofs, which sounded a short distance away.

George seized his haversack and waited with a beating heart for the horsemen, who he knew were approaching his camp, to come in sight. They came a moment later, and to the boy’s intense relief the light from his fire shone not upon silver buttons, gaudy sashes and wide trowsers, but upon a couple of red shirts and slouch hats. With a long-drawn sigh, indicative of the greatest satisfaction, George threw down his haversack and stepped forward to greet the new comers.

“Good-evening, stranger,” said the foremost horseman. “Have you any objections to good company to-night?”

“None whatever,” answered George, readily. “I shall be only too glad to have it, for it is lonely work keeping house all by one’s self.”

“We saw the light of your fire,” said the other, “and as we have got a little out of our reckoning, we made bold to come here, thinking that perhaps you could set us right.”

“I am glad to see you,” answered George; “but I hope you have brought your supper with you, for it is little I can offer you.”

“O, that’s nothing. It is no uncommon thing for ranchemen to go supperless to bed, you know. Where did you stake out your horse, my lad?”

“I haven’t any, sir. He was stampeded when the Greasers stole my cattle, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Ah! been cleaned out, have you? That’s provoking.”

The man said this in much the same tone of voice he would have used if he had been speaking of an event that was of every-day occurrence. They both listened while George, in accordance with their request, hurriedly related the story of his loss, and then staked out their horses and came back to the fire. George offered them what was left of his supply of provisions, but the ranchemen declined it with thanks, and proceeded to fill their pipes.

“We need an adventure now and then to give a little variety to our life,” said one of the men, after he had taken a few pulls at his pipe, to make sure that it was well lighted. “My friend and I have been on the trail of a horse-thief.”

“Did you overtake him?” asked George.

“Yes; but we didn’t get the horse, and we wanted him more than we wanted the thief. He had disposed of the animal, traded him off for a fresher one, you know, and we offered him his liberty if he would tell us where the horse was. He told us, and we started back with him to make sure that he told us the truth, and he gave us the slip. But we think we know where the horse is.”

“Is he anywhere about here?” inquired George.

“Is there anybody living about here who goes by the name of Ackerman?” asked the rancheman.

“Yes, there is,” answered George, opening his eyes in great surprise.

“Well, my horse is at his rancho. We’re going there after him, and we’re going to smash things when we get there, too.”

George was so utterly confounded that he could not say a word. He sat looking from one to the other of the ranchemen, who fortunately did not notice the expression of astonishment that settled on his face. One of them sat on the opposite side of the fire, where he could not see the boy, and the other was stretched out on his blanket, with his hands clasped under his head, watching the clouds of smoke that arose from his pipe.

“It’s a little the strangest piece of business I ever heard of,” said the latter, “and it doesn’t seem to me that anybody of ordinary common sense could do such a thing. The thief told us that he traded Silk Stocking to a young fellow who looked as though he might be going to a fancy-dress ball somewhere, for he sported a buckskin coat with silver buttons, high patent-leather boots, and so on, and we saw just such a fellow as that at Ackerman’s rancho. We stopped there and got fresh horses—those nags out there belong to Ackerman—and took supper; and when we came out on the porch Silk Stocking called to us. He was hitched under an open shed a short distance from the house. I recognised the call and so did Joe; but we never suspected anything, and so we didn’t look into the matter as we ought to have done.”

George had never been more astonished in his life. He was greatly alarmed too, for he knew that his cousin had got himself into serious trouble. The man on the blanket, who told the story, looked like one who could smash things if he once set about it, and the tone of his voice and the decided manner in which he puffed at his pipe, indicated that he had fully made up his mind to do it. He and his companion would certainly make it warm for somebody when they reached the rancho. Was there any way in which he could save Ned from the consequences of his folly? George did not believe there was, for he knew too well the estimation in which horse-thieves and everybody connected with them were held in that country; but still he determined to make the attempt. Ned was his cousin, the only one he had in the world, and it was plainly his duty to stand by him. Controlling himself as well as he could, he said:

“You told me, I believe, that this boy, whoever he is, traded his horse for yours: Perhaps he didn’t know it was stolen!”

“Probably he didn’t at the time he made the trade,” replied the man; “but he knew it when Joe and I stopped at his father’s rancho, for he heard us tell the story. Why did he not give him up?”

“No doubt he was so badly frightened that he dared not do it,” answered George. “This boy, I believe, has not been long in Texas, and he don’t know much about the customs of the country.”

“Now just see here, stranger!” said the rancheman, taking his pipe out of his mouth and looking steadily at George. “If he knows anything he’d ought to know that it is a dangerous piece of business for a man to have stolen property in his possession, knowing it to be stolen, hadn’t he?”

George could only nod his head in reply. He had made the best excuse for his cousin that he could think of on the spur of the moment, but it was a very flimsy one, and he saw plainly that he could not make any more without arousing suspicion against himself.

“It is my private opinion that there is a regular nest of thieves in that house!” said the other rancheman.

“It’s mine, too!” said the man in the blanket.

“If that Ackerman is an honest fellow why does he go about wearing his boiled shirt and broadcloth suit every day? The moment I got a fair look at him I told myself that there was something wrong about him. If that chap in the silver buttons was a man I’d fix him; but seeing that he’s nothing but a boy, I’ll snatch him so bald-headed that his hair will never grow again. I’ll teach him that one who receives and holds fast to stolen property, knowing it to be stolen, is as bad as the man who steals it, and that the law holds good here in Texas as well as it does in Maine!”

The man did not bluster when he said this—those who mean just what they say seldom do—and that was just what made George believe that his cousin was in a fair way to be severely punished. What the man would do to him when he found him, George of course did not know, and he dared not ask; but he was satisfied that it would be something Ned would always remember. The angry rancheman said several other things in a very decided tone of voice, all going to show that no boy’s-play was intended, and when he and his companion had finished their pipes they arranged their blankets, bade George good-night, and lay down to sleep. But there was no sleep for George. He was keenly alive to Ned’s danger, and a thousand wild schemes for extricating him from his troubles suggested themselves to George’s busy brain; but he could hit upon only one thing just then. If that succeeded Ned’s peril might be averted until he could have an interview with Mr. Gilbert. George was certain that that gentleman could tell him just what ought to be done.

“I shall put myself in danger by doing it, but it can’t be helped,” thought the boy. “My cousin must be saved at all hazards; and if these men, or any of the settlers, want to take revenge on me for putting him out of harm’s way, they are welcome to do it. How easy it is to get into trouble and how hard it is to get out of it!”

With this reflection George scraped his bed of leaves a little closer together, threw another stick of wood on the fire, and tried to follow his two guests into the land of dreams; but the sleep he so much needed to prepare him for the next day’s journey would not come at his bidding. All the night long he tossed restlessly about on his hard couch, and about half an hour before daylight sank into an uneasy slumber.