The Border Boys with the Mexican Rangers

by John Henry Goldfrap

Suddenly he became aware that the wood encasing him like a coffin had become easier in its pressure on him. He moved, and with a tearing, rending sound the log burst asunder.

Like a butterfly from its cocoon,—if Coyote will forgive me for comparing his rugged form to a butterfly,—the cow-puncher, bruised, wounded and sore in every limb, peered forth. Where was he?

All at once he felt the portion of the log which remained beneath him gently swaying like a boat on rippling waves. In a short time, by cautious feeling about him, he found that the log had, by some providential miracle, landed on a sort of island of trees growing, apparently, right straight out from the cliff face. As he realized his position the cold sweat burst out in great drops on his brow and all over his body. If this was the case his fate was to be worse than if he had been dashed to pieces and mercifully killed outright.

Hung where he was between heaven and earth, he would have to die miserably of starvation, unless madness intervened and he leaped crazily to his own destruction. All at once, as he made his investigations, his foot slipped, and with a cry of actual terror the cow-puncher felt himself beginning to dart downward through space. By a desperate, despairing effort he clutched the branches as he fell, and drew himself, with infinite pains, back upon his precious perch. Once there he lay trembling and nauseated at the thought of the narrowness of his escape from a plunge into the abyss.

Of all the tight places he had ever been in, Coyote Pete was surely now in the very worst. He felt the wall behind him when he had somewhat recovered from his attack of deadly sickness. It was smooth as glass. No chance of climbing up. He would have examined his surroundings at greater length, but he dared not risk another slip like the one that had so unnerved him.

It was many years since Coyote Pete had prayed, but he did so then, commending his soul to his Maker, for that he would ever escape from his frightful predicament he did not dare to hope. Somewhat calmer after his devotions he lay still, not daring to move lest the motion of his body might dislodge some of the rotten wood, and he could not bear to think of hearing it go dropping down into that awful gorge beneath, finally losing all sound in the dread profundities.

It was unlikely in the extreme that he would ever be found, for in that unfrequented part of the mountain fastnesses it was most improbable that anyone ever passed. It was only the thirst for gold that had brought Ramon into the rugged place.

There came no sound from above, and Coyote concluded that the outlaws, hearing the crash of the landing, had concluded that he was dead, and departed.

“What a story fer the boys and the professor to hyar,” groaned the unhappy man, burying his face in his hands.

So the dark hours rolled away and daylight came. But those hours of terror had unnerved Coyote terribly. With the coming of day he dreaded more than ever to look beneath him. He felt that if he ever dared to gaze into the voids which he felt must lie beneath his fragile perch, that he must be impelled by a crazy desire to leap into space.