AT THE B. P. RANCH
Although the sun was hot when the boys and Mr. Hawke started for the ride to Phipps' ranch the following Sunday afternoon, the air seemed cooled by an almost imperceptible breeze. It had rained the night before, and while the road was quite dry, there was less dust than usual. On one hand stretched the refreshed green pastures, spotted with many-hued wild flowers, making a gorgeous pattern of color. On the other hand were the towering mountains, their snow-capped peaks in marked contrast with the thick foliage of the forest which climbed halfway up their rugged slopes. Rising above the timber line were bare gorges of rock. Below lay the irregular foothills, thickly covered with cedars, pines and firs.
But despite the compelling beauties of nature, which Hawke and Fred were enjoying in silent admiration, it was not long before the others, more accustomed to the sight which charmed the new-comers, began talking of the thing which they had all probably dreamed of the night before.
"Say, Mr. Hawke," queried Jerry, who had been turning the matter over in his mind, "if Herb's dad'll stand for that aeroplane, how long'll it take to get it?"
"If Mr. Phipps should make such a decision as that," replied Mr. Hawke, who really had some doubt that he would, "we'll have it done in two weeks."
"We'll have it done?" echoed Fred. "What do you mean by that?"
"Why, I mean that I want you boys to help me build it," replied the aviator coolly, watching out of the corner of his twinkling eyes for the effect his words would have on the boys.
"What's that?" cried the astonished Dunk, unconsciously digging his heels into his pony, which reared, and started off at a brisk canter.
Mr. Hawke smiled broadly. He was growing more and more fond of the enthusiastic and manly Fort Bayard boys, and was especially amused at Dunk's frank expressions.
After going a few rods, the latter got control of his horse and slowed the animal down for the rest of the party to catch up.
"Do you really mean that?" asked Fly with flashing eyes, when they were all riding quietly again.
"Why not? We can get the material here in a week or less. Then we can probably find a machine shop around here to work in, and, when we need it, build a hangar of our own."
"Gee, that sounds bully," exclaimed Jerry.
"You can use our place," volunteered Fly. "We've got all kinds of tools, a bellows and most everything you'd need, I guess."
"An aeroplane could almost be built in a carpenter shop," replied Mr. Hawke. "There's very little metal on them. Mostly good strong spruce, bamboo and well-seasoned woods of different kinds."
"What a chance that would be," reflected Fly, more to himself than anybody in the party. "But, what if it shouldn't be a bird after all?" he asked suddenly, his face growing grave and anxious. "Then we wouldn't need an aeroplane and everything would go to smash."
Instantly a cloud seemed to fall over the faces of all the boys, as they looked instinctively at Mr. Hawke. The latter found the sudden change in affairs too much for his humorous vein, and with a hearty laugh he dispelled the gloom as quickly as it had gathered.
"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," he said, finally regaining composure.
"Give Fly a good punch, Dunk," exclaimed Jerry. "You're next to him."
"There ain't no use in you givin' us all cold feet like that, Fly," admonished Dunk, by way of complying with Jerry's request.
"Oh, it just seems too good to be true," defended Fly. "I think I must be moving in a pipe dream."
"Leave it to Mr. Hawke," assured Fred.
"By the way," said the aviator genially; "Hawke is good enough for me. Cut out the Mister."
"All right, Hawke," returned Fly, with a strong accent on the name.
The path turned to the left at that point, and took them through a rather scant growth of pine trees. The boys welcomed this meager shade, which was the first cool spot they had reached since leaving the Fort. They stopped under the trees for a few minutes, and turned aside from the main road while a large freight wagon, loaded several feet above its top and covered with canvas, passed, drawn by six strong horses. It was followed by a smaller two-horse wagon. Both of the drivers were Greasers.
"What you got on there," yelled Dunk mischievously.
The Mexicans replied with a curious glance, and one of them gave the usual, "No sabe!"
After wiping their perspiring faces with their handkerchiefs, the boys and Hawke pulled out from under the trees and rode out into the sun again. It was not an unusually warm day for New Mexico, but warm enough to give them some discomfort.
"We might go out of our way a little and get a drink at the river over here," suggested Dunk.
"We'll have something better'n that to drink when we get to Phipps' I bet," answered Jerry scornfully. "He always treats us great whenever we go over there—and besides, we got company to-day."
"I don't want to say nothin'," interjected Fly, who had been thinking on the subject since his last remark. "But I do hope it is a bird."
"Say, you joy-killer, you calamity howler, cut that out, will you?" Jerry pulled his pony over and gave Fly a jab in the ribs. "If you don't quit, this will turn into a funeral procession. I'm gettin' cold feet already."
At that moment Carlito, who had been riding silently a little in advance of the others, spurred up his pony, and with a hasty "I think I see something," dashed on ahead.
After a moment of surprise and hesitation, the others galloped after him. Carlito did not go far, however, but before he stopped the others saw what he was after. When he pulled up, four or five chattering magpies flew complainingly from the ground, where they had been feeding on a dead lamb.
Carl slipped off his pony and the others followed his example. The party gathered around the Indian, who was stooping over the animal and examining it closely. It was frightfully torn under the belly and its back was broken.
"There's been somethin' doin' in the sheep stealin' line again," said Jerry. "What do you think about it, Carl?"
"It's so badly smashed up I can't tell much, but it does look to me as if there were marks of claws—large claws," answered the Indian finally. "But I can't tell for sure."
"This must be one of the B. P. herd," conjectured Dunk.
"Does it look like some bird had him?" asked Fly, eager to settle the doubt which had arisen.
"It looks like talons, all right. But I can't say positive. He's too riddled. I'll look around."
Carl separated himself from the circle and patrolled the ground round about.
"If there was any tracks the rain last night washed them away," he said finally, satisfied that nothing could be learned by further search.
"There could be no tracks of a bird, could there?" asked Hawke.
"If it's a big one, sometimes there's the sweep of the wings when they bear down on something."
"Well, let's ride on and see what Mr. Phipps has to say about it," suggested Dunk, after they had thoroughly inspected the animal a second time.
It was a hot, dusty and rather excited party that greeted Herb half an hour later at the B. P. corral.
"Lost any sheep last night?" asked Fly, as soon as the few words of greeting had been said.
"Half a dozen of 'em," replied the rancher's son. "Dad's mad as all get out. Says he's goin' to watch every night, and when that thing comes again he's goin' to blow it to kingdom come."
"Well, we saw one sheep down the road," informed Dunk, "all cut to pieces."
"A nice little lamb too," said Fred regretfully.
"Shouldn't be surprised. We found a couple, and they sure was done for. Now's the time for us to hit dad hard for that aeroplane."
"Glad to know yuh; come right up," was Mr. Phipps' cordial greeting as he came halfway down the veranda step to meet the aviator and welcome the boys. His cool, spotless linen suit was quite a contrast to the somewhat grimy appearance of the visitors.
"We're pretty warm after that ride," apologized Hawke, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief.
"Mebbe yuh'd like to go inside and wash up," suggested Mr. Phipps amiably, and his invitation was heartily accepted by all the party. "Herb, show them around," commanded the rancher, and his son readily complied.
The ranch-house, which Mr. Phipps had built himself, was a duplicate of the old homestead in Texas. The roominess which the large, square exterior suggested was carried out in the great, wide rooms and high ceilings within. The spacious halls and stairways reminded one more of a magnificent southern home than of a New Mexico ranch-house. Oriental rugs in delicate shadings covered the highly polished floors, and the massive mahogany furniture and tasteful hangings gave the whole an appearance of elegance and refinement such as sheepmen are not reputed to have.
"This is one of my venerable ancestors," said Herb, when the party filed downstairs, refreshed. "Yuh see, father's folks was French. This fellow is General Dupont, and fought some good fights in the Franco-Prussian war. They say he never would have been killed, born under a lucky star like Napoleon—only he lingered too long with a wounded comrade at the siege of Paris."
"And this lady?" asked Hawke, pointing to a large portrait of a slim, dark beauty, dressed in white, and wearing a cluster of yellow roses at her waist line.
"That's my mother." Herb lowered his voice a little as he answered. "She died when I was a little tad, yuh know."
"A very beautiful woman," said Mr. Hawke, quickly passing on to spare Herb's feelings. "And this man looks like your father."
"That was painted a long time ago," said Herb.
"It looks like you now," put in Jerry, who had been inspecting the same painting, while the other boys walked up and down the halls and made an interested examination of the many large oils which lined the walls.
"This is father's sister, who used to keep house for us. She died a few years ago. Then we got Hop Sing."
There was, then, Hawke reflected, no woman in this immaculately-kept house, where there seemed to be so many evidences of the feminine touch. The rough rancher, it seemed, had that strain of tenderness so often found in outwardly brusque men, which expressed itself in his home.
"This is just the way the house down South looked when mother died," said Herb, as if in answer to the visitor's thoughts. "Dad never wants anything changed. Even her room is the same, and no one ever sleeps in it. One night we had so many visitors we thought we'd have to use it or be rude, but father slept in the herder's cottage instead. You'll always find a bunch of yellow tea roses in her room—she was very fond of them, and father grows them himself in the greenhouse."
Herb shook his head back with a sudden jerk, as though shaking off a painful twinge, and passed on to some relics which were hung in the next room.
"This is General Dupont's sword, and a medal which Napoleon gave him for his services."
After a few minutes they all returned to the veranda, where they found Mr. Phipps mixing some purple colored stuff in a huge punch bowl. The clink of the ice was an agreeable sound, for they were all thirsty.
"This is my own grape juice punch," said Mr. Phipps, as he filled glasses for the Chinaman to pass around. "My scheme is to have Sing make it, and set it out here. Then when the guests appear I am stirring it industriously, as though it were my own job."
Sitting in the shade of the vine-covered veranda, and sipping the iced punch, it was not long before Mr. Hawke and the boys were thoroughly refreshed and rested. The aviator felt entirely at home with the hospitable rancher, and they chatted like old friends. Hawke noticed that besides holding vases of flowers, the tables were stacked with the latest magazines and popular books. He caught sight of a New York newspaper, and some from other parts of the country. There were hanging baskets suspended from the roof of the veranda, and the whole scene was restful and quiet, and even luxuriously comfortable.