CHAPTER VI.

A FRONTIER HOTEL.

By the time Gus reached Palos he had lost a good deal of the “style” for which he had been noted in Foxboro’, and if some of the numerous acquaintances he had left there could have seen him when he stepped out of the stage and passed through the crowd of cattle-herders, ranchemen and idlers who had gathered on the verandah of the hotel to see the coach come in, they would hardly have taken him for Gus Robbins. If some of the boys who think so much of themselves could get out among entire strangers for a while they would very soon see how small is the space they occupy in the world, and how comparatively useless they are. This was just what Gus had been finding out. He had learned a good deal during his travels, and he had already seen the time when he would have been glad to face about and go back where he came from.

The people he met were different in every way from those with whom he had been in the habit of associating. The majority of them were rough in person, dress and manners; and although they treated him civilly, and were always ready to answer his questions and give him all the information they could concerning the journey before him, Gus was afraid of them and felt like avoiding them as much as he could. The nearer he approached to the frontier the rougher the men became. A good many of them wore red shirts without any coats, high boots, carried revolvers in their belts and looked more like brigands than peaceable, law-abiding citizens. The crowd on the verandah were all armed; and although they stepped politely out of his way, Gus could not help shuddering as he passed through their ranks. The man who met him at the door and took his valise out of his hand, and who proved to be the landlord, looked worse than any of the rest. He wore no weapons, but the brace of navy six-shooters that were hung up in the office toward which he conducted his guest, showed that he was ready for any emergency. He looked equal to any emergency, too. He was a giant in size, very muscular, and the voice that came up from his broad chest was as loud as a steam-whistle.

“Can I obtain a night’s lodging here?” asked Gus.

“I reckon ye kin, stranger,” roared the host. “Yer a Yank!”

“O, no I am not,” replied the boy, who knew there had been a civil war not so very many years ago, and that the Texans were mostly all rebels. “I’m from Ohio.”

“Wal, what’s the odds?” demanded the host. “All Northern men are Yanks, and they aint ashamed of it, nuther. I’m one myself. I’m from the Green Mountains.”

“From Vermont?” cried Gus, who now began to feel more at his ease.

“That’s the very identical spot.”

“But you’re a Southerner now, I suppose?” said Gus, who thought that was the politest way in which he could ask the man if he was a rebel.

“Do you mean that I’m a gray-back?” exclaimed the host. “Not much. All the relations I ever had fit under the old flag, and I couldn’t be the first of the family to go agin it. I’m powerful glad to see you, stranger. Put it thar.”

The man held out an immense bony hand as he spoke, and Gus placed his own within it. A moment later he was doubled up with pain. The Green Mountain boy’s greeting was almost too cordial.

“Want lodgin’, do ye? An’ breakfast an’ supper, too, I reckon, don’t ye?” said he. “Goin’ to stay here long?”

“No, sir. I want to find a way to reach Ackerman’s rancho,” replied the boy, after he had pulled his fingers apart and straightened them out.

“O, goin’ there, be ye? All right. I kin help ye along. One of Ackerman’s herdsmen is stopping with me now.”

“Is it far from here?” asked Gus.

“O, no; just a jump—a hundred and fifty miles mebbe. Ye’ll see lively times thar, too, ‘kase the raiders come in thar thicker’n huckleberries last full moon. Want lodgin’, do ye? Take the third bench to the left in the bar-room. O, Mose!” shouted the landlord, so suddenly that Gus started involuntarily.

In response to this call, which was uttered in a tone so loud that it would have reached the ears of the person for whom it was intended, if he had been a quarter of a mile away, a young man, roughly dressed and armed like his companions, left the crowd on the verandah and came into the office. The host glanced at the register, on which Gus had placed his name, and introduced the newcomer to his guest.

“Mose,” said he, “this young feller is the chap yer lookin’ fur—Gus Robbins. Look out ye don’t lose him, fur he’s so green the cattle’ll eat him up when ye get him out thar to the ranche.”

Gus did not know who Mose was, but he shook hands with him, and was surprised to hear him say, in as good English as he could have used himself—

“We were all green when we first came out here. I have been looking for you for three days,” he added, as he led Gus toward a bench on one side of the room. “Ned told me he was expecting you, and described you so accurately that I was certain I knew who you were the moment I set eyes on you. I am one of Mr. Ackerman’s herdsmen, you know, and have just driven down five hundred head of stock that he sold the other day.”

Gus had not talked with his new acquaintance more than five minutes before he began to feel perfectly at home in his company. Mose was a good deal like the young men he had known in the North. True, he was bronzed and weather-beaten, and his clothing looked as though it had seen the hardest of service; but the words he used showed him to be an intelligent man, and he did not shout as though he thought his listener was hard of hearing. When there was a little pause in the conversation, Gus began to seek information on some points.

“What is the reason you men down here all go armed?” he asked.

“O, we don’t. The people who live here in town never think of such a thing. The men out there on the porch don’t belong here. They live out on the plains, two or three hundred miles away; and when you have been out there, and have fallen in with a war-party of Apaches or a band of Mexican raiders, you will know why it is that they go armed. When they are at home, they wear their weapons all the time, day and night, for they never know when they are going to be pounced upon, and their stock driven off; and they get so in the habit of keeping themselves always in readiness for a fight, that they do it even in the settlements.”

“What do you suppose the landlord meant by telling me that I would have lively times out there on the ranche?”

“O, the Indians and Mexicans have begun their raids again. My employer lost about five hundred head of cattle last full moon, and his herdsmen were expecting another raid when I came away. The country for fifty miles around Palos is crowded with men who have been obliged to leave their ranches in the western part of the state, and come nearer to the settlements for the protection of their families and property.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed Gus. “Am I so near to hostile Indians?”

“You are within a hundred miles of the place where they bushwhacked a lot of herdsmen no longer ago than last week!”

Gus shuddered, and wondered how Mose could talk about it without showing some signs of alarm.

“Do they ever come near Mr. Ackerman’s rancho?” he asked.

“O, yes; that is, the Mexicans do. There’s hardly a stone in the wall that hasn’t been hit by bullets. They rode by there a few nights ago, but they didn’t get the stock they expected to find there, for it was all out of their reach. You see, they cross the river at some lonely spot, late in the afternoon, and approach as near to the settlements as they can without being discovered. Then, as soon as it grows dark, they dash over the ranches, pick up all the stock they can find, shoot anybody, man, woman or child, who happens to fall in their way, and depart as quickly as they came. They lose no time in getting back into their own country, for the herdsmen always start in pursuit as soon as they can get together, and if they overtake the raiders, they are sure to whip them and get the most of their cattle back. The Greasers are better on the run than they are on the fight.”

Mose talked to Gus in this way for an hour or two, and during that time the boy learned a good deal concerning the people, the country, the raiders, both Indians and Mexicans, and the life he was likely to lead as long as he remained at Mr. Ackerman’s rancho. He learned also, to his great surprise, that his father’s old book-keeper and clerk were not looked upon by the natives of the country with any degree of respect; but this was a matter upon which Mose had very little to say, and Gus did not find out why it was that Uncle John and his son were so unpopular.

Before Gus had learned all he wanted to know, the landlord came up to pilot him in to supper. The tables were loaded with frontier delicacies, and although there were no table-cloths or napkins, and the guests sat on long benches, instead of chairs, and used their fingers and formidable-looking bowies, instead of the knives and forks that had been provided for them, everything was as neat as it could be, and Gus made a hearty meal. Soon after they arose from the table, Mose went out to attend to some business for his employer, first telling Gus that he had better go to bed at an early hour, for they would be miles on their way toward the rancho by the time the sun arose the next morning. The boy was only too glad to follow this advice, for he was almost tired out. He made his way to the office and found the landlord there.

“Where did you say my room was?” he inquired.

“Room!” roared the landlord. “The bar-room. Best room in the house, ‘kase it’s the biggest. A good many folk sleep thar, though.”

“Couldn’t you give me a room to myself?” asked Gus. “I can pay for it.”

“Can’t possibly crowd ye into ary bed-room in this rancho to-night,” was the reply. “They’re all full cl’ar up to the ceiling. Every square inch of my tables is occupied, an’ some of the boarders are glad to hang up on the hooks in the office. The bench is the best I kin do for ye, an’ ye’ll find a good bed thar. It’ll make ye that sleepy to look at it that ye’ll want to tumble right into it. Come on an’ I’ll show it to ye!”

Gus followed his host into the bar-room, which was crowded with men and filled so full of tobacco smoke that it was a wonder how the landlord ever found his way through it. But he did. He had no trouble in finding the bed Gus was to occupy that night, and when he showed it to him the boy told himself that it was the worst he had ever seen. It was made of a buffalo robe and two blankets. The robe was spread over the bench and one of the blankets was rolled up into a bundle to serve as a pillow, while the other lay on the foot of the bed and was to be used as a covering. There were a score of beds in the room just like it, and some of them were already occupied by weary frontiersmen, who were snoring lustily in spite of the almost deafening racket made by the wakeful guests who were gathered in front of the bar. Gus glanced about the dingy apartment, thought of his cheerful little room at home and sighed deeply.

“Father certainly knew what he was talking about when he said that if boys would spend as much time in thinking about the comforts and pleasures they have, as they do in worrying over those they _don’t_ have, they would be a great deal more contented than they generally are,” thought Gus, as he placed his hat and boots on the bench, and lay down without taking off any of his clothes. “If I had been asked to sleep on a bed like this at home wouldn’t I have raised a row about it? But now I’ve got to take it or go without; and if I should find any fault with it, that big landlord would throw me out of doors neck and heels. I wonder if Ned and his father live in this way? There are hostile Indians and Mexican cattle-thieves where they are, too.”

Gus slept soundly that night in spite of his unpleasant surroundings, but it seemed to him that he had scarcely closed his eyes when he was awakened by a hand laid on his shoulder. He started up and saw Mose standing over him with a lighted lantern in his hand and a heavy rifle on his back. “Time to catch up now,” said the latter.

Gus slowly raised himself to a sitting posture, stretched his aching legs and arms, and looked out at the windows. Not a ray of light came in through them. It was as dark as pitch, and there were Indians and Mexicans somewhere out doors, too. If he could have had his own way he would have gone back to his hard bed rather than venture out of the hotel with only a single companion to protect him.

“Come on,” said Mose. “Everything is ready. I have borrowed a horse for you—a good one, too.”

Mose seemed to be in a hurry, and so the boy began to bestir himself. When he had put on his hat and boots he followed the herdsman to the office, where he settled his bill and received his valise, and thence to the verandah, beside which stood two small, shaggy ponies, saddled and bridled. Mose made the boy’s valise fast behind one of the saddles, and after assisting him to mount, sprang into the saddle himself and led the way toward the prairie.

The journey thus began occupied the best part of five days. Mose himself could have accomplished it in half the time, but Gus had never been in the saddle a half a dozen times before in his life, and the first day used him up completely. If there was anything interesting to be seen during the first part of the ride he never noticed it, and neither could he recall a single one of the many stories of adventure with which the obliging and kind-hearted Mose tried to beguile the long hours of their journey.

On the third day the boy began to get “hardened to it” in some degree, as Mose said, and about that time an incident happened that drove all thoughts of fatigue out of his mind, and made him doubly anxious to reach the shelter of Uncle John’s rancho at the earliest possible moment. By this time our two travellers were fairly in the wilderness. They had left all signs of civilization behind them, and had ridden far without seeing a living thing; consequently the sight of a horseman who came galloping toward them, and who, with a companion, was watching a small herd of cattle that were feeding beside the trail, was a most welcome one. The horseman came down to intercept them and learn the news. Mose told him everything of interest he had heard during his stay in Palos, and the man in return told him that the Apaches and Mexicans were making things warm for settlers on the border. There had recently been four raids through his county, he said, during which some of his relatives had been killed and wounded, and he had lost more than half his stock. In order to save the lives of the rest of his family, and provide for the safety of his remaining cattle, he had tumbled a few necessary things into a wagon, abandoned his comfortable home and was striking for the settlements. The man talked about his misfortunes in much the same way that he would have talked of a profitable bargain he had just made, and Mose listened to the story without making any remark. They were used to such things and took them as a matter of course; but Gus was not used to them, and he was frightened indeed. His hair seemed to rise up on end while he listened. He had never before talked face to face with men who had witnessed such thrilling scenes and taken part in them, and it was no wonder that he wanted to turn around and go back.

The man rode off after he had finished his story, and while Gus was thinking about it he and Mose met the wagon of which their visitor had spoken. It was drawn by a span of scraggy mules, and was loaded with women, children, cooking utensils and bedding. The occupants were ragged and dirty, and the driver carried his left arm in a sling and wore a bandage about his head.

“It was a close call for me,” said he, in response to some question that Mose addressed to him. “I got a bullet through my shoulder and a rap over the head with a hatchet. You want to watch out, you two do. The reds are most too thick about here to make travelling pleasant. We saw the trail of a small party only yesterday morning.”

This information and warning took away every atom of the boy’s courage, and when he and his companion had ridden beyond earshot of the people in the wagon, he said suddenly: “Don’t let’s go any farther, Mose.”

The herdsman ceased the merry whistling which he kept up all the time when he was not talking, and looked at Gus in great surprise.

“Let’s go back to Palos,” continued the latter. “We’ll be safe there, and I am afraid to go any farther.”

Mose laughed long and heartily. “Why, I’d rather be out here among the Indians than in the settlements,” said he. “I wouldn’t live in Palos for anything. There isn’t elbow-room enough there for me. I want to be where I can stretch my arms when I feel like it without hitting something. You needn’t worry,” he added, glancing at the boy’s pale face. “You’ll be just as safe in Mr. Ackerman’s rancho as you would be in Palos.”

“But perhaps the Indians will catch us before we get there.”

“No they won’t. We’ve just as much right to keep out of their way as they have to hunt us up. But they never waste any time in hunting up settlers. All they care for is the stock; and they gobble it up and get out of the country with it as quickly as they can. Of course, if a fellow gets in their way he stands a chance of being popped over.”

“Do you all go in the house when the raiders come?”

“Bless you, no. Some of us herdsmen are fifty or a hundred miles away, and we couldn’t get back there if we tried. Besides, it would be poor management to bring our different herds all together so that the raiders could swoop down and stampede them. You see we know about what time to expect these raids. They are generally made about the time of the full moon, and if a herder is alert and watchful he will have his stock out of the way.”

“What will he do with it?”

“He will drive it farther back in the country than the Greasers care to come. Perhaps we had better turn off the trail a little way. It runs through an open country here, and if there are any reds about, we want to keep out of their sight.”

Again Gus wondered how in the world Mose could talk about these things in this careless, indifferent way. He seemed to care no more for Indians and Mexicans than his pony did for the grass he trampled under his feet. While Gus was trembling all over with excitement and apprehension Mose was as cool as a cucumber, and whistled and talked as cheerfully as he had done ever since leaving Palos. He slept just as soundly at night, too, relying on his pony, which was always picketed near the camp, to give him notice of the approach of danger.

“You must know,” he said to Gus, one night, “that horses and dogs are a good deal like the people among whom they live, and seem to share in their likes and dislikes. An Indian’s dog or pony has no more affection for a white man than his master has; while a white man’s dog or pony will raise an awful row, if a redskin shows his ugly face over a hill, anywhere within smelling or seeing distance of him.”

But Gus did not place so much confidence in the mustang as his owner did, and he could not sleep. He lay awake almost every night, starting at the least unusual sound, and was always greatly relieved when morning came. It was so gloomy and lonely on the prairie after dark, and the wolves howled so mournfully! Gus was growing heartily tired of this sort of life, and although his companion assured him that they were making good time now, and rapidly nearing their journey’s end, he was continually urging him to go faster. How his heart bounded, when Mose one day said, in reply to this request:

“There is no need of it. We are almost there. When we reach the top of the next swell, you can see the rancho.”

Just then a horseman made his appearance on the summit of the swell of which Mose had spoken, and after gazing steadily at them for a moment, came forward at a rapid gallop. There was no need that Gus should ask who he was, for he knew as soon as he saw him that it was Ned Ackerman. He galloped on ahead to meet him, and if one might judge by the way the two boys greeted each other, they were very glad to meet again. They had a multitude of questions to ask and answer, and Mose, seeing that they were too fully occupied with their own affairs to pay any attention to him, rode on and left them alone.

“I declare, Ned, you’re a nobby-looking fellow!” exclaimed Gus, running his eye over his friend’s neat suit of “working clothes,” and glancing from the stylish, high-stepping horse he rode to his own shaggy, ill-conditioned mustang, “and you ride as though you had lived in the saddle all your life. I see you have a rifle, too! Is that the one you killed the grizzly bears with? There goes Mose over the swell, out of sight; hadn’t we better ride on? By the way, what has become of the Indians? You must have had fearful times here since you wrote!”

“There are no Indians at all about here,” was Ned’s reassuring reply. “They have bothered the settlers in the next county above a good deal, but we have seen nothing of them. It’s the Mexicans who troubled us.”

“Did you have a fight with them?”

“I should say so!” exclaimed Ned. “I’ve got so now that I don’t care——”

Ned suddenly paused and looked at Gus. He had been on the point of declaring that he did not care any more for a fight with raiders than he did for a game of snow-ball; but after a little reflection he decided that he wouldn’t say it. It would do very well to put into a letter, if he were going to write to Gus, but since the latter was there on the ground, and in a situation to learn all he wanted to know by making inquiries of others, Ned thought he had better, for once in his life, tell the truth.

“You have got so you don’t care for what?” asked Gus, when his friend paused.

“I don’t care to see them any more,” replied Ned. “We had a fearful time on the night they jumped down on us. They didn’t find any stock about the rancho to drive off, and so they shot into the house and tried to cut the doors down with axes.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed Gus. “Were you in the house at the time?”

“No, I wasn’t, and that’s just what frightened me. They treed me in a shed, and I don’t know what they would have done to me, if they had discovered me. But I’ll tell you about that by-and-by. It is my turn to ask questions now. Did you let your father know that you were coming down here?”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t _let_ anybody know it, but Sam Holmes found it out, as I told you in my last letter, and would have made me a great deal of trouble, if I hadn’t been too sharp for him. Where can I get a rig like yours, Ned? Is it the fashion?”

“I bought it in Palos. It is _my_ fashion. I won’t dress as my cousin and all the other fellows about here do. They are a lot of boors!”

“All except your cousin, of course.”

“No, I don’t except even him. He goes looking like a day-laborer, and he’s rich, too. He has six thousand dollars that he made himself. More than that, when he becomes of age, he will step into a property worth forty thousand a year, and father and I will have to step out of it, and I’ll have to go behind a counter again.”

“Who gets the property if anything happens to your cousin?”

“I do.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know, and neither does Zeke, his herdsman. He went away to his camp a few hours before the Greasers came through here, and we begin to fear that he was carried off by them, although we never heard of their taking a prisoner.”

“Well, if I were in your boots I should hope that he would never come back again.”

Ned looked down at the horn of his saddle, and made no reply in words; but his manner seemed to say, at least Gus so interpreted it, that if George had been so unfortunate as to fall into the hands of the Mexicans, and they should decide to keep him a life-long prisoner, Ned would waste no sorrow over it.