Chapter XXII: Hail

The storm drifted steadily northward over the valley with its accompanying flashes of lightning, followed by volleys of rain mingled with the shot of hail. As soon as the boys heard the hail on the canvas roof of their tent they hustled out to put blankets on their horses, so as to protect them from the beating hail. They moved them under the protecting branches as much as possible and made them as snug as they could.

"Remember the time we got into a hail storm in Kansas?" questioned Jo, as they walked back through the beating white pellets, that were getting larger every minute.

"That was fun," laughed Tom. "We pretended that the hail was bullets and the one who was struck on the head was to be dead."

"You were it," declared Jo.

"I was not," said Tom decidedly.

"We will leave it to this storm to decide," said Jo.

"All right," agreed Tom.

"Jeems to be the referee," said Jo.

This was likewise acceptable to Tom. The hail was now coming faster and of good size, about as big as the end of one's thumb, but the boys did not seem to mind as they slouched along with their sombreros pulled down around their ears, thus affording pretty fair protection. Just then a big bullet of hail struck fairly on top of Tom's skull and bounced, the others saw, about six inches into the air.

"Hurrah!" yelled Jo, "that proves it. You are it again. Isn't he judge?" this to Jeems.

"You mean hit again, not 'it. I fear you are English," replied Jeems.

"Don't insult me," said Jo, "I'm plain U. S. Southwest. But isn't Tom out?"

"Yes," replied Jeems, "he is."

"What!" cried Tom in great surprise, "did something strike me."

"I always thought your head was thick," replied Jo contemptuously, "now I'm sure of it."

By this time they had reached the shelter of the tent and stood looking out at the antics of the hail as it danced upon the hard ground and leaped from the surface of the rocks, and spatted into fire until a steam arose into the air. In a short time the ground was covered with several inches of whiteness.

"Did you boys ever hear that old circus joke?" inquired Jeems, looking musingly out at the jumping hail.

"Not recently," said Jo. "Fire away, Jeems, and relieve your mind."

"Well, in the circus they have a king rigged up on a throne. Him in a red robe and a tinsel crown. All the varlets come in and bow low before his majesty. Then comes the clown and bows lower than the others.

"'Hail! Hail!' he cries.

"'How dare you hail,' roars the king, 'when I'm reigning!' Then the crowd yells."

"That isn't so worse, Jeems," laughed Jo, and the rest joined in.

"What's the difference, boys," questioned Jim, "between rain and a hen?"

"Give it up," said the chorus.

"The one lays the dust and the other dost lay."

Then Jim leaped out of the tent to get away from the boys, who would have combined and given him a good licking in token of their appreciation of his brilliant wit. It was his turn to keep watch, anyway, and so he stayed out under a tree, while the boys went peacefully to sleep, with the hail beating on the canvas roof of their tent, confident that with Jim on deck they would be safe enough.

How about the vanished Mexican? He had made his escape as Jim had said. Though stiff from being tightly bound and suffering from the blow he had got from the stone that Jo had thrown at him, he made quick time to the pine-clad slope of the mountain. He seemed to know the way even through the darkness of the forest of pine. After going half a mile he saw the outline of his horse hitched to a sapling.

As soon as he was mounted he turned his animal's head down the slope until he came to the edge of the meadow. There he stopped for a moment and looked towards the star of the boys' campfire upon the hill, then he shook his fist in their direction, with an imprecation and a threat of what was going to happen to them in a short time. Finally he turned his mustang's head up the valley and rode at a slow dog trot through the darkness, groaning considerably with the pain that the jolting gave him.

In a short time the storm overtook him and the falling hail made his pony hump himself threateningly, but his rider gave him a dig with his long and cruel spurs in the flank and that furnished the broncho with something else to think about. After several miles of hard travel, the two began going up steadily, along a narrow and steep trail, with the brawling stream below. The valley had narrowed into a deep canyon with great walls of pale granite, and uncountable black pines growing everywhere.

The hail made the trail slippery and once the horse came near slipping into the depths of the gorge below, but with a tremendous straining effort the plucky animal scrambled back to safety. It was evident that his rider was born to be hanged, for he seemed able to escape every other form of death. Having regained the trail, he rode on for some distance, then he turned into a side canyon, and his knowing horse took him through the labyrinth of trees, until there appeared a light of a campfire at the end of the trail. The gaunt forms of some men could be seen moving around it.

One of the men heard the approach of the Mexican and gave the alarm. In an instant no one was in sight, but there were a number of guns ready to take the number of the stranger whoever he might be. But the Mexican was on to their little ways. He reined in his horse, gave a low whistle, and called out something in Spanish and then rode up to the group.

There were eight in the gang, including the stout red-necked man who had given the boys a chase early in the morning. The evident leader of the crowd was a lanky young fellow whose unusual length of limb did not indicate any frailty of physique. He was a man to be dreaded in any encounter. Gus Gols had a rather shock head of light hair, one bunch always sticking up; high cheek bones, a skin of dully burnished red, and rather small blue eyes, both keen and insolent in their gaze. He had a queer, aggressive way of hooking his head forward when speaking that was very noticeable.

He was not vicious in speech, but he was in action, and was one of the most dangerous characters in the West. He had been cowboy, cattle rustler and road agent in different parts of the country west of the Missouri. Now he was at the head of a desperate gang who raided far and wide, taking gold from the pack trains or from the individual miner, where he had struck it rich; even making raids on the settlements on the western slope of the Sierras.

It appeared as though the Frontier Boys were walking directly into the jaws of this desperate gang. They were already trailing them and might pounce upon them at any time. Physically it would seem that Jim himself would be no match for "Big Gus," as he was generally known in that section of the woods, but two of them, say Jim and Juarez, would have made it interesting for him.

Gus Gols listened to his Mexican's story of adventure with much impassiveness, then he got slowly to his feet. He had made no comment to break the course of the Greaser's narrative, only eyeing him occasionally with a squint of his hard blue eyes.

"I don't see, Mike" (his true name was Miguel Jose Maria, etc.), "why them fellars down there in the valley didn't choke the breath out of your black carcass; they must be soft ones, and I'm going to git their horses pretty soon now. I'm going to turn in, and I don't want you boys raising Cain around here. If you want to do any chawing be quiet about it, understand?"

They understood perfectly; Miguel Jose Maria, better known as "Mike," looking blackly at the slouching figure of "the boss," as the giant stooped his head through the low doorway of the cabin. What he muttered to himself was complimentary neither to Big Gus' character nor career, but he stood in great fear of him nevertheless. It was characteristic of Gus Gols' shrewdness that his gang was made up for the most part of Mexicans and half-breeds, with only two white men for lieutenants.

He could dominate these mongrels and make them subservient. Also they had to be satisfied with a small part of the spoils, while with a gang of white men he would have been obliged to have divided up evenly and he would constantly have had to prove his right to leadership. He had drilled his motley crew until they were a very dangerous band of outlaws. Naturally the Mexicans and half-breeds were poor shots, but Big Gus had trained them until he had made good marksmen out of them, and cool under fire. He had used threats, cajolery and even occasional money prizes to obtain this result.

From this it was evident that the Frontier Boys had their work cut out for them, with this dangerous gang barring their way and liable to attack them at any time. Gus Gols was even now making his plans for an ambush or a raid. The reports that his scouts had brought him in regard to the boys' horses had made him greedy to get hold of them.

His own horseflesh was not in the best of shape. Besides, he needed ammunition and other supplies which the boys had so thoughtfully brought along. He chuckled to himself as he saw how easy it all was. What chance would those tenderfoot kids have against his cunning courage, strength and the odds of numbers? He would eat them alive. In truth there seemed excellent ground for his confidence and it would take something besides luck to save Jim and his followers at this crisis. It would require hard fighting and skillful strategy.

"The Boss is planning some devilment or ruther," said the red-faced scout to the other white man. "It's a sartain sign when he chuckles to himself that a-way."

"Your diagnosis is correct, Ephraim," replied his pal, giving his black moustache a delicate twist.

"Better not let Big Gus hear you use such language, Edgar," said Eph, "because he's kind of tetchy sometimes."

Edgar only laughed. He was an odd sheep to be in such a fold, for he looked more like a consumptive than an outlaw; his face had a decided pallor, and he was subject to a hacking cough. It was evident that he also gave some attention to dress and a real diamond shone in his shirt front, once white, but now of a dubious grime.

But make no mistake. Next to the Boss he was the most dangerous man in the pack. He was a man with a certain amount of education, but it did him no good, and if he got near a piano, he could make it hum with harmony. His chief accomplishment, however, and one which made him valuable to his chief, was his ability to use a revolver with rapidity and precision.

"You fellars better turn in;" it was the voice of Gus Gols; "I'm liable to give yer somethin' besides conversation in a day or two. I want yer to look pink and purty if we should happen to meet them swell tenderfeet. Shet up now." They "shet."