THE DESTROYER
"Who's that good-lookin' Indian, Jerry?" asked Fred, as the light of Fort Bayard came into sight.
"Araviapa Apache," came the reply. "He's been chasing around the Post 'most all his life. Came from the San Carlos agency, I guess, so folks called him Carl. Used to be a Dutchman named Carl here, and the Greasers called the Injun Carlito, or Little Carl. He goes by both names. He's the cool guy, you bet, and a wise one, too."
"But what does he do?" persisted the practical Fred. "He can't live on air, can he? Does he get his living for nothing?"
"Don't you think it! Not him," returned Dunk warmly. "He does a lot of work for us—trailin', and things like that. He's a bird at it."
"Yes, and he's learned to read and write," added Fly. "You kids ought to see some of the books and stuff he's got."
There was no more time for conversation, as they now drew into the Post grounds and drove up to the house occupied by the Crawfords, where the guests were to stay. The captain and two or three of his brother officers met the new arrivals. At the tale of the runaway there was great excitement on the veranda and Captain Crawford called Ike up from the drive. After examining the teamster and the boys, he gave up the effort he was making to solve the mystery of the runaway.
"It must have been a bird," laughed Dr. Rivers, who bore the title of lieutenant.
"That seems to be the only explanation," admitted the captain. "Are you sure the thing hit you, Ike?"
"Yessah," maintained the teamster stoutly. "It was the s'prise more'n anythin' else that knocked me off, Cap'n. Felt like a bird, though."
"It was too large, father," protested Jerry. "There ain't no bird as big as that. Mebbe it was an aeroplane."
The officers laughed, but Jerry stuck to it that the "thing" was not a bird. The examination ended in nothing. The boys had brought the mail over with them, so as soon as the ladies had retired the officers went over to the quartermaster's office while the four boys separated for the night.
The next day was a perfect one such as only the New Mexican hills can produce. To the north and west of Fort Bayard stretched a wilderness of deep valleys and mountain peaks as far as the Rio Gila. The Bread Pudding ranch, as the Circle B P was locally known, lay five miles to the east.
After breakfasting, Fred and his mother were driven around the garrison. There was plenty to be seen, and neither Jerry nor Fred realized how the time was flying until Dunk approached.
"Hey, Jerry," called the latter, with some show of indignation. "What's the mater with you? We've been waiting more'n an hour."
After hastily explaining to the older members of the party that they were going over to the ranch for the day, Jerry and Fred accompanied Dunk to the stables. Here they found Fly and Carlito waiting and after saddling up they speedily left Fort Bayard behind.
"Ever ride much?" asked Dunk, seeing that Fred experienced a little difficulty with his saddle.
"Sure, lots!" replied the Cleveland boy.
"Never ran up against this kind of saddle, though. Spanish, ain't it?"
"Used to be," grinned Jerry. "Good U. S. now. Say, Carlito, what was that thing that scared our horses last night?"
"You'll hear more of that when we get to the ranch," replied the Apache, looking away. Fred noticed that Carlito spoke slowly and used exact English, probably gained from books. "I do not know what it was but—"
"Well, but what?" prodded Dunk.
"I think it must have been the Thunder Bird!" concluded Carlito.
A shout went up from all except Fred, who asked wonderingly what the Thunder Bird was.
"It's one of the old Injun gods, Windy," explained Dunk. "He made the lightning and thunder and had something to do with the rain and crops. General boss of the gods, wasn't he, Carlo?"
"Pretty near," nodded the Apache gravely. "The Thunder Bird not only represented the Deity but he had great power over rain, which is important in this part of the country. Our people used to have great sacrifices to him twice a year."
"Human sacrifices?" asked Fred innocently. At this even Carlito burst out laughing.
"Where'm I off now?" cried Fred.
"There were no human sacrifices," replied the Indian boy. "Only the Aztecs used to have them. Our people and the other Apaches, the Navajos, Moqui and neighboring tribes used to appoint deputies twice each year. They'd go to a certain place where the medicine men went through elaborate rituals, the deputies representing the tribes. No people is so symbolical as we are—or were. I mean by that in religious rites. For instance, every line of paint and every article used has a symbolical and often mystical meaning."
"That Gov'ment shark from Washington," said Jerry, "who was here last summer, knew a lot about that. He sent dad one of his books, and the whole thing explained a single six-day Zuni corn feast!"
"Say, speed up, fellows. You jog along as though we had all day and to-morrow," and Fly spurred up his pony, calling back, "Race you to the turn of the road."
For a few minutes the boys made the dust fly, and, despite the good start Fly had made, Windy came in first with Carlito a close second. They kept up a brisk canter all the way to the ranch.
"Here come the other fellows, Windy," said Dunk, as they reached the B. P. Windy saw two horses leave the corral now only a few hundred feet away. The two approached at a gallop and a moment later met the Post boys with a yell. One of the B. P. boys was roughly and carelessly dressed and was brown as an Indian. He was introduced to Fred as Herb Phipps. The second wore a Boy Scout tenderfoot emblem on his flannel shirt. This was Howard Graystock, the New Yorker. His face lit up as he saw the first-class and merit badges that decorated Fred's shirt.
"How long you been a scout, Windham?" he asked as the party whirled and rode up to the corral.
"'Bout three years," replied Fred, dismounting.
"Wish I was first-class!" rejoined Gray. "I swore in about a week before I come out here." He lowered his voice slightly, "Say, you back me an' Phipps up strong, will you? Don't say anything—you'll see pretty quick."
Fred laughed assent as all dismounted, and they joined the others. After turning the horses into the corral the party started up to the house but were stopped by a hail. Looking around, they saw a large man striding around the opposite end of the corral. The boys from the Fort gave him a shout of greeting and all waited for him to come up.
Brett Phipps was big in every sense of the word. He had fought his way up from cowpuncher to millionaire by sheer strength of will and brains. Although he had started on a Texas ranch and fully shared the prejudices of the cow-men against the sheepmen, he realized that there was big money in sheep. Therefore he had started the large Circle B. P. sheep ranch near Fort Bayard where there was good water, although he owned a large cow range in the Taos country as well.
Like the boys he was dressed in flannel shirt and wide Stetson. Over his trousers he wore chaps of plain leather, to protect his clothes from the wear of the saddle, and his legs from rattlers. He greeted the party vigorously.
"Well, I'm sure glad to see yuh, boys! Hullo, new member? Windham? Glad to meet yuh! Hang up on the veranda, boys, till I get these chaps off. Right back."
He disappeared inside the house, and the boys "hung up" on the wide veranda which was littered with canvas, reed and other easy-chairs. Indeed, the veranda of the ranch-house served largely as an office and living room combined. Both Mr. Phipps and the boys spent a large share of their time there.
In a few moments the rancher returned minus his chaps, followed by a Chinaman, the ranch-house cook, who greeted the boys with a cheerful grin of recognition.
"What'll it be?" inquired Mr. Phipps, as he sank into a big chair and glanced around.
"Lemonade!" arose the shout, and the "Chink" vanished.
"Carl hinted last night that you had something special on, Herb," began Dunk to the rancher's son. Herb grinned and looked at his father.
"Not me," he said. "I reckon dad has somethin' under his hat, though."
At this moment the Celestial returned with a gigantic olla or Mexican jar full of lemonade, together with glasses.
"Well, John, didn't take you long," said Mr. Phipps, as he tossed off a glass with a sigh of satisfaction.
"Him all leddy," grinned the Chinaman.
"Let's get together, boys," commanded Mr. Phipps, with a sweep of his broad hand. "I've got to get over to Three Mile Crick after lunch, so I reckon we'll hold a confab right now."
The boys hitched their chairs up closer to Mr. Phipps and the lemonade, and when their glasses had been refilled the ranchman continued.
"Mebbe y'all don't know it, but there's been a lot o' devilment goin' on for quite a spell back. We've kep' it dark, hopin' to catch whoever done it, but no chance. There's somethin' or some one raisin' Cain with my sheep. We've missed a lot o' lambs, plumb gone. We've found sheep with pieces o' their backs clean torn out, an' last week I come across a big ram all smashed to bits like he'd been dropped off a cliff.
"Night 'fore last young Morales who has a hut ten mile north of here, hears somethin' doin' and rushes out of his hut. Bein' a Greaser he don't know any better than to yell. Somethin' jabs him in the shoulder and he lets off his sixgun. Then, he swears he heard wings an' was carried up in the air for a minute and was dropped. O' course all that's pure guff—yuh can't believe what a Greaser says nohow. But Jap Fisher, my foreman, finds him yesterday lyin' with his leg broke, a couple hundred yards from the hut."
"Mebbe he wasn't lyin', Mr. Phipps!" broke in Jerry excitedly. "Listen." And he rapidly sketched their adventure of the night before. It was now the turn of Herb and Gray to stare, while Mr. Phipps listened in growing surprise.
"Jehosaphat!" he exclaimed when Jerry finished. "That sure beats me! I figured Morales was doin' a heap o' fabricatin', but he may 'a' told the truth for once. Anyhow, here's what I had in mind. Gray has been fillin' me and Herb up with his Boy Scout stuff, so I want to know why y'all don't get busy? If yuh will, I'll put up for the equipment on condition that yuh get right after what's raisin' thunder with them sheep. You boys have a heap o' time hangin' heavy on your young hands, and yuh might as well be doin' somethin' useful. It'll save me bringin' in a lot o' men from Silver City, an' as far as brain goes yuh'll have 'em beat a mile. How about it?"
Fred caught an appealing glance from Gray, and though he hesitated to put himself forward, he was a loyal scout, and as he had taken a decided liking to the clean-cut New Yorker, he felt obliged to comply with the earnest request Gray had made when they met.
"I think it's bully, Mr. Phipps," Fred gathered courage to say. "Of course I'm new out here an' all that, but I've been in the scouts pretty near three years now and it's done me a heap of good. More fun than a circus too."
"Sure, we'll do it!" cried Dunk. "We'll lay for that Thunder Bird of yours, Carl, eh, Jerry?"
"Bet your life!" answered Jerry fervently.
"Here wait a minute," cried Mr. Phipps. "What's this about the Thunder Bird, Carlito? What do you know 'bout this thing?"
"Nothing, sir," replied the young Apache with a smile. "I just guessed that it was the Thunder Bird. Of course, I don't believe that. We could certainly have some fun besides being of possible use to you."
"Count me in too," cried Fly. "Aviator's badge for mine!"
"Same here," "Me too." "That's what I say," came from all the boys.
"Good," shouted Jerry enthusiastically. "Carl can run the trailin' end of it an' Dunk can boss the first-aid work an' Windy'll be chief cook and bottle washer o' the whole bunch!"
"There's the lunch gong," laughed Mr. Phipps, springing to his feet. "Come on to grub pile! I've got to get away pretty quick, but y'all can have the ranch to yourselves all day. Comin', Hop Sing, comin'. Chase along, boys!"