“Why, senor. A thousand pardons. I see that a mistake has been made. But pardon me, how do you come to be riding the horse of the notorious outlaw, De Acosta, who is one of Black Ramon de Barros’s chief lieutenants?”
“Oh, I see it all now,” cried Jack, “you were in search of Black Ramon, and when you saw a horse answering the description of De Acosta’s, you at once jumped to the conclusion that I must be he. Say, that’s quite a joke.”
“It wouldn’t have been much of a joke for you, if you had not proved your identity, senor,” was the grave reply of the officer,—for such Jack now knew he must be, “do you know what we would have done with the real Acosta had we found him? Hanged him to the nearest tree and left his body for the gallinazos and the buzzards.”
The day was warm, but Jack shuddered as the leader of the Mexican Rangers spoke.
“But, senor,” went on the young officer, “you hinted just now at having a story to tell about how you came by the horse. Will you breakfast with me at our camp yonder, and you can relate your story as we eat? It may be of great value to the State if it throws any light on the ways of Black Ramon.”
Jack assented to this proposition. For one thing, he was hungry. For another, he saw that the Mexican Rangers might prove valuable allies in case of a brush with the Ramon outfit. All the rurales, among whom a very democratic spirit prevailed, were much interested in his tale. They hung closely about the officer’s quarters, a blanket stretched on the ground, while Jack related his story of the happenings at the lonely rancho. It made an odd scene, this conclave under the great mountain pines. There was the clean-cut American lad sitting tailor fashion opposite the young officer who listened eagerly, while all about hovered the forms of the rangers, clad in bright sashes and brilliant-hued serapes, with immense cone-topped hats lavishly decorated with gold and silver braid. Jack learned later that some of these men oftentimes pay as high as two hundred dollars for their headgear, and that a good sombrero will pass down from father to son and grandson without deteriorating.
At the conclusion of Jack’s narrative, the officer expressed a wish to visit the camp of the Border Boys, more especially as it was in a part of the mountains unfamiliar to him. No time, therefore, was lost in mounting and getting under way. The Rangers used bugle calls like regular troops, the trumpeter riding at the leader’s side.
In single line they defiled down the steep trail by which Jack had ascended, and were soon at the foot of the mighty cliff.
“And where is your camp, senor?” inquired the officer, after they had ridden for some time in the direction in which Jack knew it lay.
“That’s what’s puzzling me, senor,” rejoined the boy anxiously, “it should be here, but——”