Harry Castlemon - Frank Among The Rancheros

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[Illustration: THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES]

_THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES._

FRANK AMONG THE RANCHEROS.

BY
HARRY CASTLEMON,
AUTHOR OF "THE GUN-BOAT SERIES," "THE GO-AHEAD
SERIES," ETC.

THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.,
PHILADELPHIA,
CHICAGO, TORONTO.

FAMOUS CASTLEMON BOOKS.

GUNBOAT SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 6 vols. 12mo.

FRANK THE YOUNG NATURALIST.
FRANK IN THE WOODS.
FRANK ON THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI.
FRANK ON A GUNBOAT.
FRANK BEFORE VICKSBURG.
FRANK ON THE PRAIRIE.

ROCKY MOUNTAIN SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo.
Cloth.

FRANK AMONG THE RANCHEROS.
FRANK AT DON CARLOS' RANCH.
FRANK IN THE MOUNTAINS.

SPORTSMAN'S CLUB SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo.
Cloth.

THE SPORTSMAN'S CLUB IN THE SADDLE.
THE SPORTSMAN'S CLUB AFLOAT.
THE SPORTSMAN'S CLUB AMONG THE TRAPPERS.

FRANK NELSON SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

SNOWED UP.
FRANK IN THE FORECASTLE.
THE BOY TRADERS.

BOY TRAPPER SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

THE BURIED TREASURE.
THE BOY TRAPPER.
THE MAIL-CARRIER.

ROUGHING IT SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

GEORGE IN CAMP.
GEORGE AT THE WHEEL.
GEORGE AT THE FORT.

ROD AND GUN SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

DON GORDON'S SHOOTING BOX.
ROD AND GUN CLUB.
THE YOUNG WILD FOWLERS.

GO-AHEAD SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

TOM NEWCOMBE.
GO-AHEAD.
NO MOSS.

FOREST AND STREAM SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 3 vols. 12mo.
Cloth.

JOE WAYRING.
SNAGGED AND SUNK.
STEEL HORSE.

WAR SERIES. By HARRY CASTLEMON. 5 vols. 12mo. Cloth.

TRUE TO HIS COLORS.
RODNEY THE PARTISAN.
RODNEY THE OVERSEER.
MARCY THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER.
MARCY THE REFUGEE.

Other Volumes in Preparation.

* * * * *

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868,
by R.W. CARROLL & CO.,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States,
for the Southern District of Ohio.

COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY CHARLES A. FOSDICK.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

CHAPTER I.

A Novel Battle, 5

CHAPTER II.

Frank's New Home, 16

CHAPTER III.

Twelve Thousand Dollars, 29

CHAPTER IV.

Frank Proves Himself a Hero, 40

CHAPTER V.

The Fight in the Court, 54

CHAPTER VI.

The Mysteries Solved, 68

CHAPTER VII.

Frank Meets a Highwayman, 81

CHAPTER VIII.

Colonel Arthur Vane, 95

CHAPTER IX.

An Old Boy, 110

CHAPTER X.

Arthur Shows His Courage, 126

CHAPTER XI.

Arthur Plans Revenge, 137

CHAPTER XII.

Off for the Mountains, 154

CHAPTER XIII.

Pierre and His Band, 168

CHAPTER XIV.

A Dinner in the Mountains, 180

CHAPTER XV.

More Treachery, 193

CHAPTER XVI.

The Escape, 204

CHAPTER XVII.

The Struggle on the Cliff, 221

CHAPTER XVIII.

Conclusion, 237

FRANK AMONG THE RANCHEROS.

CHAPTER I.

A NOVEL BATTLE.

"Pull him along, Carlos! Pull him along!" shouted a young gentleman
about sixteen years of age, as he danced about on the back porch of his
uncle's house, in a state of great excitement; "why don't you pull him
along?"

"He'll come, after awhile," replied the person addressed; "but he is
very wild and obstinate."

The boy on the porch was almost beside himself--so much so, in fact,
that he found it utterly impossible to stand still. He was jumping
wildly about, swinging his arms around his head, and laughing and
shouting at the top of his lungs.

We have met this young gentleman before. We have been with him through
the woods, accompanied him across the prairie, and seen him in some
exciting situations; but, for all that, it is by no means certain that
his most intimate friend, could he have beheld him while he was dancing
about on the porch, would have recognized him. The last time we saw him
he was dressed in a suit of blue jeans, rather the worse for wear, a
slouch hat, and a pair of heavy horseman's boots. Now, he sports a suit
of clothes cut in the height of fashion--that is, Mexican fashion. They
are not exactly of the description that we see on the streets every day,
but they are common among the farmers of Southern California, for that
is where this young gentleman lives. He is dressed in a short jacket of
dark blue cloth, trimmed around the edges, and on the sleeves, with gold
lace, and wide trousers of the same material, also gaudily ornamented.
The hat, with which he fans his flushed face, is a sombrero, bound with
gold cord, the ends of which are adorned with tassels, that fall
jauntily over the edge of the brim. An embroidered shirt of gray cloth,
and shoes and stockings, complete his attire; or, we may add, a long
crimson sash, which is wound several times around his waist, and tied at
the side, and a pair of small Mexican spurs, whose rowels are ornamented
with little silver bells, which tinkle musically as he moves his feet
about. If you fail to recognize an old acquaintance in this excited,
sunburnt boy, you surely can call the name of the tall,
broad-shouldered, sober-looking youth, who stands at his side. Three
months in the saddle have not changed Frank Nelson a great deal, only he
is a little more robust, and, perhaps, more sedate. He has lost none of
his love of excitement, and he is quite as interested in what is going
on before him as Archie; but he stands with his hands in his pockets,
looking as dignified as a judge. It would be a wonder if they were not
somewhat excited, as they are witnessing a desperate battle that is
going on between two of their uncle's Rancheros and a wild steer, which
one of them has lassoed, and is trying to pull through the gate into the
cow-pen. The animal is struggling furiously for his freedom, and the
issue of the contest is doubtful.

At the time our story begins, Frank and his cousin had lived two months
in Southern California, where Mr. Winters owned a farm--or, in the
language of that country, a _rancho_--of sixteen thousand acres. Besides
attending to his business in the mines, and superintending his affairs
in Sacramento, Uncle James had devoted a portion of his time to
stock-raising; and, when Frank and Archie first saw his immense droves
of horses and cattle, they thought them sufficient in numbers to supply
all the markets in America.

Mr. Winters's rancho was not managed like the farms in our part of the
country. To begin with, there were but three fences on it--one inclosed
two small barns and corn-cribs; another, a pasture of two or three
acres, and the third formed the cow-pen. In the barns, Uncle James kept
his riding and farm horses; the pasture was for the use of the half
dozen cows which supplied the rancho with butter and milk; and the
cow-pen was nothing more nor less than a prison, into which, in the
spring of the year, all the young cattle and horses were driven and
branded with the initials of the owner's name. This was done so that
Mr. Winters and his hired men might be able to recognize the stock
anywhere. The cattle sometimes strayed, and became mixed up with those
of the neighbors, and the marks on their flanks showed to whom they
belonged.

[Illustration]

A fence around that farm would have been useless. None of the cattle and
horses had ever been handled, except when they were branded, and,
consequently, they were very wild. Sometimes they became frightened and
stampeded; and then they behaved like a herd of buffaloes, which turn
aside for nothing, and stop only when they are completely tired out. On
these occasions, the strongest fences that could have been made would
have been trampled down like the grass beneath their feet.

Of course, these cattle and horses had never seen the inside of a
stable. Indeed, a barn large enough to accommodate them would have been
an immense building, and would have cost more money than all the
stock-raisers in the country were worth. However, there was no need of
shelter for them. The grass on the prairie was abundant at all seasons
of the year, the winters were very mild, and the cattle were always fat
and in condition to be driven to market.

All this stock was managed by half a dozen men, called Rancheros. Four
of them were Mexicans; the others were our old friends, Dick Lewis and
Bob Kelly. So skillful were these men in their business, that a herd of
cattle, which, in the hands of any one else, would have proved utterly
unmanageable, was driven about by them with perfect ease. Sometimes it
became necessary to secure a single member of these droves. Perhaps the
housekeeper wanted some fresh meat for dinner, or Uncle James desired a
new riding horse; in either case, the services of these men were
invaluable. Mr. Winters would issue the necessary orders to Carlos--who
was the chief of the Rancheros, and the man who managed the farm during
the absence of his employer--and an hour or two afterward four quarters
of fine beef would be carried into the cellar, or Mr. Winters would be
requested to step to the door and see if they had captured the horse he
wanted. The Rancheros accomplished this with their lassos, which they
carried suspended from the horns of their saddles wherever they went. A
lasso is a long rope, about as large as a clothes-line, and is generally
made of rawhide. One end of it is fastened to the saddle, and the other,
by the aid of a strong iron ring, formed into a running noose. This
contrivance these herdsmen could use with a skill that was astonishing.
Mounted on their fleet horses, they would ride up behind a wild steer,
and catch him by the horns, around his neck, or by one of his feet, as
suited their fancy.

On the morning we find Frank and Archie on the porch, their nearest
neighbor, also a stock-raiser, had ridden over to inform them that one
of his fine steers, which he had intended to drive to market, had
escaped from his Rancheros, and joined one of Mr. Winters's droves;
whereupon Frank, who, in the absence of his uncle, acted as the head man
of the ranch, sent for Carlos, and commanded him to capture the runaway,
and confine him in the cow-pen until his owner should send for him.
Carlos had obeyed the first part of the order, but just then it seemed
that that was all he could do. The steer had suddenly taken it into his
head that he had been driven far enough, and that he would not go
through the gate that led into the cow-pen; and, although Carlos pulled
him by his lasso, which he had thrown over his horns, and another
Ranchero, named Felix, vigorously applied a whip from behind, the
obstinate animal refused to budge an inch. Sometimes he would kick, and
plunge, and try to run off; and then the horse on which Carlos was
mounted, which seemed to understand the business quite as well as his
master, would plant his fore-feet firmly on the ground to stop him.
Finding that he could not effect his escape in that way, the steer would
run around in a circle; and the horse would turn around also, keeping
his face toward the animal all the while, and thus avoid being wrapped
up in the lasso. This novel battle had been going on for nearly ten
minutes, and even Frank had become highly excited over it.

"Pull him along, Carlos!" shouted Archie, jumping about on the porch as
if he had lost all control over his legs, and they would dance in spite
of every thing he could do to prevent it. "Pull him along! Whip up
behind, Felix; hit him hard!"

Archie continued to shout his orders at the top of his voice; but they
did not seem to help the matter any, for the steer still refused to
move. He had fallen to his knees, and laid his head close to the ground,
as if he had deliberately resolved that he would remain there; and for a
long time, all the pulling and whipping the two Rancheros could do,
brought nothing from him but angry snorts and shakes of the head.

"Now, Archie," said Carlos, as he stopped to wipe the big drops of
perspiration from his face, "what would you do with this fellow?"

The boys, who never neglected an opportunity to pick up items of
information concerning every thing that came in their way, had been
taking lessons of the Rancheros in horsemanship, throwing the lasso, and
managing wild cattle; and Carlos thought this a proper occasion to
ascertain how much they remembered of what they had learned.

"Well," replied Archie, pulling off his sombrero, and digging his
fingers into his head, to stir up his ideas, "I'd keep pulling and
hauling at him until I got him tired out, and then I think I could
manage him."

"That would take up too much time," said Carlos; "I've got other work to
do, and I am in a hurry."

"Make your lasso fast to the horn of your saddle, and start up your
horse, and drag him in," suggested Frank.

"That's the idea, and that's just what I'm going to do," said Carlos.

But that was just what the Ranchero did _not_ do. While he was preparing
to put this plan into operation, the steer suddenly jumped to his feet,
and made another desperate attempt to effect his escape, and this time
he was successful. There was a loud snap, Carlos's heels made a flourish
in the air like the shafts of a windmill, and, in an instant, he was
stretched at full length on the ground. His saddle-girth had parted, and
the steer was at liberty to take himself off, which he did in short
order.

The boys gazed in astonishment at the fallen horseman, who righted
himself with alacrity, stretched his arms and legs to satisfy himself
that there were no bones broken, and then commenced shouting some
orders to his companion, who put spurs to his horse and started in
pursuit of the steer, which was galloping over the prairie, dragging
Carlos's saddle after him. He was very soon overtaken, and Felix,
raising himself in his stirrups, swung his lasso around his head once or
twice, to make sure of an accurate aim, and launched it at the steer.
The lariat whistled through the air, as true to its course as a ball
from a rifle, the noose settled down over his horns, the horse stopped
suddenly, and the runaway lay struggling on the ground.

His last attempt at escape seemed to have exhausted his energies, for
when he had regained his feet, he allowed Felix to lead him back to the
gate and into the cow-pen, where he was turned loose, to remain until
his owner should send for him.

CHAPTER II.

FRANK'S NEW HOME.

Frank and Archie, as we have before remarked, had been in California
about two months; and, between riding, hunting, visiting, and assisting
Uncle James, who was engaged in selling off his stock and closing up his
business, preparatory to his return to Lawrence, they had passed the
time most agreeably. They were as fond as ever of excitement, were
almost constantly in the saddle, and Mr. Winters often said that if they
and their horses and dog did not travel a thousand miles every day, it
was not because they did not try.

When the boys first arrived in California, they thought themselves
expert in all manner of frontier accomplishments. But one morning, they
rode over to visit Johnny Harris and Dick Thomas--two boys, about their
own age, with whom they had become acquainted--and, during the day,
they witnessed some feats of skill that made them wonder. Johnny and
Dick, to show what they could do, captured and rode a couple of wild
horses, that had never been handled before; and Frank and Archie were
compelled to admit that they had some things yet to learn. Every boy in
that country could throw the lasso, and the cousins found that, if they
desired to keep up their reputation, they must put themselves under
instructions. Dick and Bob readily took them in hand, and, although the
boys were awkward at first, they improved rapidly. They soon learned to
throw the lasso with considerable skill, and Frank speedily took the
lead in rifle-shooting, while Archie began to brag of his horsemanship.
The former could bring a squirrel out of the top of the highest oak on
the farm, at every shot; and his cousin could bend down from his saddle
and pick up his sombrero from the ground, while his horse was going at
the top of his speed.

The horses the boys rode were the same that had carried them across the
prairie, and they were now hitched at the end of the porch, saddled and
bridled, and awaiting the pleasure of their masters. One of them, Sleepy
Sam, looked as sleepy as ever. He stood with his head down, and his eyes
half closed, as if it made no difference to him whether Archie took his
morning ride or not. The other, a magnificent iron-gray, pulled
impatiently at his halter, and pranced about, apparently as much excited
as Archie had been a few moments before. This was the "king of the
drove"--the one the trappers had captured during their sojourn at the
Old Bear's Hole. He answered to the name of Roderick; for Frank had read
Sir Walter Scott's "Lady of the Lake," and, admiring the character of
the rebel chieftain, had named his favorite after him. Perhaps the name
was appropriate, for the animal sometimes showed a disposition to rebel
against lawful authority, especially when any one besides Frank
attempted to put a saddle or bridle on him. He was a wild-looking
fellow, and he had a way of laying back his ears, and opening his mouth,
when any one came near him, that would have made a stranger think twice
before trying to mount him. With Frank, however, he was as gentle as a
dog. He would come at his call, stand on his hind legs, and carry his
master's whip or sombrero. He would kick and bite at Frank when the
latter tickled him in the ribs, all in sport, of course; but if Mr.
Winters, or one of the herdsmen, came about him, he would use his teeth
and heels in good earnest. He was as swift as ever, and Frank had yet to
see the horse that could beat him.

The saddles these horses wore were like every thing else about
themselves and masters, of the Mexican pattern. They were made of
beautifully-stamped leather, with high pommels in front, the tops of
which were flat, and as large around as the crown of Frank's sombrero. A
pair of saddle-bags was fastened across the seat of each, in which the
boys carried several handy articles, such as flint, steel, and tinder
for lighting a fire; ammunition for their revolvers, which were safely
stowed away in bearskin holsters strapped in front of the saddles, and
large clasp-knives, that were useful in skinning squirrels when the boys
went hunting. Behind the saddles, neatly rolled up, and held in their
places by straps, were a couple of pouches, which they used in rainy
weather. They were pieces of India-rubber cloth, with holes in the
center for the wearers' heads. They were large enough to afford complete
protection from the rain, and could also be used as tents in case the
boys found it necessary to camp all night on the prairie.

We have spoken of Frank's dog; but were we to let the matter drop here,
it would be slighting an animal which had played a somewhat important
part in the history of Frank's life in California. His name was Marmion,
and he had been presented to Frank by Captain Porter--an old fur-trader,
who lived a few miles distant from the rancho, and with whom the cousins
were great favorites. Archie did not like the dog, and, if the truth
must be told, the dog had not the smallest particle of affection for
Archie. In fact, he cared for no one except his master, and that was the
reason the fur-trader had given him to Frank. He was as large as two
ordinary dogs--very courageous, and so savage that no one cared to
trouble him. He had seen some stirring times during his life, and his
body was covered with wounds, some of which were not entirely healed.
Frank was quite as fond of him as he was of Brave, and with good reason,
too. Marmion had received those wounds while fighting for his master,
and it was through his interference that Frank had been saved from a
long captivity. It happened before the commencement of our story, and
how it came to pass shall be told in the following chapters.

The house in which Frank and Archie lived stood in a grove of stately
oak-trees, and, externally, was in perfect keeping with its
surroundings. It was built of massive logs, in the form of a hollow
square, with an open court in the center, which was paved with stone.
The windows, which extended down to the floor, and which were used for
ingress and egress quite as often as the doors, were protected by
shutters made of heavy planks, and there were four loop-holes on each
side of the house, showing that it had been intended to serve as a
defense as well as a shelter. Indeed, it looked more like a
fortification than a dwelling.

The house was old, and had a history--an exciting one, too, as any one
could have told after examining it closely. The walls bore numerous
scars, which had been made by bullets, and the trees surrounding the
dwelling were marked in the same manner. The grove had not always been
as peaceful and quiet as we found it. Its echoes had been awakened by
the yells of infuriated men and the reports of hostile rifles, and the
very sod upon which Frank sometimes stretched himself after dinner, to
while away an hour with some favorite author, had been wet with blood.

When the house was built, there was not another human habitation within
a circle of twenty miles. The country was an unbroken wilderness. Mr.
Winters's nearest neighbors were bands of roving freebooters, who robbed
all who came in their way. They did not, however, content themselves
with waylaying solitary travelers. They frequently made organized
attacks upon remote farm-houses, and one night they made a sudden
descent upon Mr. Winters's rancho. But the old frontiersman had lived
too long in that country, and was too well acquainted with the
character of his neighbors, to be caught napping. He and his Rancheros
were armed to the teeth, and prepared for a fight; and, after a siege of
two days, during which time the robbers poured an almost constant shower
of bullets against the walls of the house, they withdrew, after shooting
and dispersing the cattle, and destroying the crops. Not one of Mr.
Winters's party was injured; but the outlaws suffered so severely, that
they never repeated the attempt to rob that rancho.

Frank and Archie never grew tired of hearing Uncle James tell the story
of that fight, and nearly every day they examined the marks of the
bullets on the logs, sometimes being foolish enough to wish that they
had been there to take part in those exciting scenes, or that the
robbers would return and make another attack on the house, so that they
might be able to say that they had been in a real battle. Then they
should have a story to tell that would be worth listening to. They never
imagined that, before they were many years older, they could recount
adventures quite as exciting as their uncle's.

The interior of the house presented a strange contrast to the outside.
When one crossed the threshold, he found himself surrounded with all the
comforts of civilization. There were fine carpets on the floors, oil
paintings on the walls, and easy chairs, sofas, and musical instruments
in abundance. The room the boys occupied was the only one in which could
be found any traces of the backwoods. It was a pleasant, cheerful
apartment, quite as nicely furnished as the other rooms in the house,
and every thing about it bespoke the taste and character of its young
masters. A stranger, having taken a single glance at the numerous
articles hung upon the walls, and scattered about over the floor--some
of them useful and ornamental, others apparently of no value or service
to any one--could have told that its presiding geniuses were live,
wide-awake, restless boys.

The room contained a fine library, an extensive collection of relics of
all descriptions, and its walls were adorned with pictures, only they
were of a different character from those in the other parts of the
house. Frank and Archie cared nothing for such scenes as the "Soldier's
Dream" and "Sunrise in the Mountains;" their tastes ran in another
channel. Their favorite picture hung over their writing desk, and was
entitled, "One Rubbed Out." In the foreground was a man mounted on a
mustang that was going at full speed. The man was dressed in the garb of
a hunter, with leggins, moccasins, and coonskin cap, and in one hand he
carried a rifle, while the other held the reins which guided his horse.
The hunter was turned half around in the saddle, looking back toward
half a dozen Indians, who had been pursuing him, but were now gathered
about their chief, who had been struck from his horse by a ball from the
hunter's rifle. The latter's face wore a broad grin, which testified to
the satisfaction he felt at the result of this shot. This picture had
been shown to old Bob Kelly, who, after regarding it attentively for a
few moments, declared that it must have been painted by some one who was
acquainted with the story of his last trip to the Saskatchewan, the
particulars of which he had related to Dick on the night he made his
first appearance in their camp.

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