The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Boy Scouts of the Air in Indian Land, by Gordon Stuart This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Boy Scouts of the Air in Indian Land Author: Gordon Stuart Release Date: April 9, 2011 [EBook #35808] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BOY SCOUTS OF THE AIR--INDIAN LAND *** Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net The Boy Scouts of the Air in Indian Land Boy Scouts of the Air Books BY GORDON STUART Illustrated by Norman P. Hall The Reilly & Britton Co. Chicago COPYRIGHT, 1912 By THE REILLY & BRITTON CO. THE BOY SCOUTS OF THE AIR IN INDIAN LAND They crept, wriggled and crawled toward the machine. The air was stifling and they could hardly breathe, but, groping in the smoke and darkness, Carl finally got his hands on the truck. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. A Ride and a Runaway CHAPTER II. The Destroyer CHAPTER III. The Legend of the Thunder Bird CHAPTER IV. An Aviator Appears CHAPTER V. At the B. P. Ranch CHAPTER VI. Winning an Aeroplane CHAPTER VII. In the Mountains CHAPTER VIII. The Storm CHAPTER IX. A Strange Meeting CHAPTER X. The Patrol Becomes a Fact CHAPTER XI. A Surprise for Mr. Phipps CHAPTER XII. The Thunder Bird Attacks CHAPTER XIII. At Work on the Aeroplane CHAPTER XIV. The Fire CHAPTER XV. Repairing the Plane CHAPTER XVI. The First Flight CHAPTER XVII. In Sight of the Enemy CHAPTER XVIII. Success at Last CHAPTER XIX. Jumping a Peak Advertisements for other books LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS They crept, wriggled and crawled toward the machine. The air was stifling and they could hardly breathe, but, groping in the smoke and darkness, Carl finally got his hands on the truck. "Now, scouts," said Mr. Hawke, amused at their excited exclamations, "we'll put this together, and I'll show you the model of the 'Thunder Bird Aeroplane.'" Carl stopped short. In front of him stood a tall, stately, blanketed Indian. His whole face was hideously painted in various colors, and his countenance was set and expressionless. The struggle promised to be a long and hard one if Carl were left to fight it alone. But this the other boys did not propose to allow, and they immediately began to cross on the rope ladder. Boy Scouts of the Air In Indian Land CHAPTER I A RIDE AND A RUNAWAY "There she comes," exclaimed a boy, one of a crowd awaiting the evening train in the hot little box of a depot at Silver City, New Mexico. A speck of yellow had suddenly appeared far down the light, worn rails to the east. Fifty loungers moved forward. The evening train was coming at last. "If mother don't look out," added the speaker, who was a tall, slender young chap with strikingly black hair and eyes, "she'll miss the train an' the folks that are coming. Mother seems to like to be late—always." "Don't get excited, Jerry," broke in a second boy, this one with big shoulders, a square determined face with a winning smile, and, his chief characteristic, a big mop of yellow hair. "I think Ike and your mother are coming right now." While the headlight was yet only a growing star on the far-away plain, a military hack, drawn by two nervous horses in charge of a colored soldier in uniform, dashed up to the now lively depot in a cloud of dust. Those awaiting the arrival of the train made a fair picture of the people living in that part of the half-desert Southwest. There were miners, soldiers, sheepmen, freighters, loafers not easily classified, and the usual mixture of Mexicans and civilized Indians. The arrival of the train meant little to any of these except that it brought the daily mail, strangers in the shape of prospectors, or drummers who might spend a few dollars, and nearly always some one going to the Fort. All soldiers know Fort Bayard. It isn't a real fort any more, although a few cannon sit idly about the big white stockade and new brick buildings, but the tired and sick soldier in the Philippines, in California or in New York, knows that here, when all else fails, he may be sent to find rest and new health. Uncle Sam has selected the old post as the best place in the United States to put new life into his ailing soldiers. That's why, the Indian and his troubles having disappeared, and consequently the need for armed militia, that old Fort Bayard has been dismantled, new buildings put up, and the old structures repaired and whitewashed and put in charge of a medical staff. Here, at the time of this story, Captain H. Wilmot Crawford was in charge of the Post, he and his under officers and the medical staff living apart with their families in their own homes. This made the Post quite a settlement. The Fort was six miles from Silver City. Every foot of the intervening military road climbed upward to the big plateau, high and dry, and looking in all directions toward the still higher mountain ranges. The Post was an ideal home for the officers detailed there. The lady in the hack that had reached the station just as the train arrived was Mrs. Wilmot Crawford, wife of the Post commandant. She was also the mother of the first boy speaker, Gerald Crawford, commonly known as Jerry. The interest of Mrs. Crawford and the two boys in the approaching train was due to the fact that on it Mrs. Windham of Cleveland and her son Fred were passengers. Mrs. Windham was coming to visit Mrs. Crawford, her old schoolgirl friend, and, as her son was with her, it meant a boy to join the Post quartette of kids. That his coming was eagerly anticipated by the boys at the station was indicated by the actions of the latter. "I s'pose Windham won't think this is much of a place," remarked a third boy as Jerry Crawford sprang to attend on his mother. "After living in a big city like Cleveland, I reckon he'll think this is rotten," went on the boy. "I hope he ain't stuck up, Dunk. It wouldn't seem just right to take a fall out of Jerry's guest." "Say," answered the boy addressed as Dunk, grabbing the speaker by the arm. Then Dunk stopped, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and said, with emphasis, "If I were you, Fly, I wouldn't fret about our new friend liking us or the place. He ain't visitin' to our houses. It's up to Jerry to entertain him an' keep him right. But, as far as that goes, he may take to it like that New York kid who's over to Brett's ranch. Graystock just took one look at a cow pony and the mountains and gave it out cold he didn't care whether he ever went back to New York. And New York's a heap sight bigger than Cleveland." "I ain't looking for trouble," protested the boy addressed as Fly. "But I hope he's all right. The summer's pretty long down here, and they ain't many of us. So, what there are of us ought to be right if we're goin' to pull together." Little did any of the boys think when they heard that a Fred Windham was to arrive from Cleveland, what a whirl of events was to arrive with him! Mrs. Windham's doctors had advised her to go to New Mexico. Jerry, Dunk and Fly had driven over in a four-horse freight wagon from the Post. Mrs. Crawford had come to Silver City earlier in the day to do some shopping. As Mrs. Crawford dashed up to the station, the dusty but well appointed hack, the spirited horses and Mrs. Crawford's half western, snappy costume indicated that life at the Post was probably not without pleasures of its own. In fact, an invitation from one of the Post families to spend a few weeks at Fort Bayard in the summer was generally considered a special favor. With a growing rumble and spreading glare of light the swaying train at last stopped before the station. Jerry darted from his mother and with his two companions was at once lost in the crowd. Mrs. Crawford remained in the hack awaiting her old friend. There was so much confusion on the platform that, at first, the expected guests were not seen. Jerry separated from his crowd, but, not knowing the Windhams by sight, he had not much hope of recognizing them. However, seeing a rather undersized boy before him, he raised his voice without hesitation. "Say, your name Windham?" "You bet!" The other's face broke into a smile. "You're Crawford? Glad to meet you. Here's my mother, Crawford." "Come right along," laughed Jerry, after shaking hands. "My mother's right over here." He led them out of the crowd, and a moment later the two ladies greeted each other while Jerry introduced his friends to the northerner. Fred Windham was small for his age, but this was offset by a striking face. High forehead, twinkling gray eyes with flecks of brown in them, a mouth and jaw like a steel trap, and quick, firm handclasp won him a place at once among the other boys. Fly seemed satisfied. Mrs. Windham met the boys; then the two ladies entered the hack. Evidently Mrs. Crawford's guest expected her son to follow her. "Oh, he'll drive with the boys," laughed Mrs. Crawford, "unless he's afraid of the jolting." "Sure I will!" grinned Fred. "If it's all right with you fellows?" "What do you think we're here for?" responded Dunk, vigorously. "Go ahead, Ike. We'll load up the trucks and be right behind." The hack started off with lighted lamps, while the four boys got the Windham trunks and piled into the waiting freight wagon on top of them, Jerry taking the reins. The boys in the freighter escorting Fred Windham up the mountain road to Fort Bayard were members of the Post quartette. The fourth member of the gang, however, although a constant comrade and companion of the three who had gone to meet Windham, was an Indian—an Apache boy known as Carlito. The other lads were Gerald Crawford, son of the Post commandant; Duncan Rivers or "Dunk," son of Lieutenant Rivers of the Post staff, and Art Giles, known as Fly for reasons that will soon be apparent. There were other boys in the neighborhood, however. One of them was Herb Phipps, the son of the owner of the big B. P. ranch five miles east of Fort Bayard, and another was his cousin Howard Graystock, already mentioned by Dunk. Art Giles was not the son of an officer; his father was post mechanic, and the boy, brought up with little schooling, had known no life but that of the West. He was straightforward, impetuous and full of enthusiasm. His red hair was no untrue index of a sunny and lively disposition. More than one boy's share of freckles was distributed over his bright, frank face. Jerry's four horses were headed toward the Post plateau with its picturesque mountains and deserts to the north and west. The road was rough. It was now pitch dark, for there was no moon, and a slight haze somewhat obscured the brilliant stars. Jerry soon caught up with the lights of the hack, and then his team jogged along a few yards behind. "Say, Windy," began Dunk, giving Fred the most natural nickname that occurred to him, "it's all in the family now, so just wise up that I'm Dunk, Gerald's Jerry and Art's Fly." "Much obliged," said Fred pleasantly. "I'm used to Windy, but why the Fly?" "Oh, those boneheads know I've been studyin' aeroplanes," answered Art. "Say, I clean forgot to tell you guys that Tender Gray called up this afternoon and we're all going over to-morrow." "Aeroplanes?" repeated Windy, the newcomer impolitely ignoring the message from Tender Gray. "How can you study aeroplanes way down here almost out of all creation?" "Easy," answered Fly. "I've never seen a real flying machine but I guess every boy's got some angle. My father takes a big English magazine about flying machines." "And Red-head's gone crazy over them," exclaimed Dunk. "You ought to see the fine little machine he made a couple of months ago. He made it just from reading about them in books, and it was a dandy too. Of course it wouldn't fly, but it looked just like an aeroplane." "I'd rather see a real one than find a silver mine," announced young Giles promptly. "But nothin' doin' in airships on this plateau." "They're great," broke in Windham. "I've seen a lot of them. Who's Tender Gray?" he concluded with boyish curiosity, recalling that Fly had mentioned another lad. "Oh," answered Dunk Rivers, Jerry being busy with the horses, "he's a cousin of Herb Phipps. Mr. Phipps is the richest man in this part of the country. I guess he's a millionaire. They live over here about five miles east on the big home ranch. Mr. Phipps goes in for sheep you know. But he's got a lot of sheep ranches, and mines too. They call the one over east the B. P. ranch. That's the brand too. Of course it means Brett Phipps, Mr. Phipps' name. But we all call it the Bread Pudding ranch." "What's the cousin's name?" went on Windham, pulling off his light straw hat to keep it from blowing away as the big freight wagon rolled upward on the mountain road. "Oh," answered Dunk, "he's Tender Gray. His name's Howard Graystock. We call him Tender Gray because he's what they call a Boy Scout up there in New York." "Boy Scout," almost shouted Windham. "Why, I'm one of them myself. I want to know Graystock, you bet." "That won't be hard to do," broke in Fly. "Him and Herb are over to the Post about half the time. And anyway, we're to go over to the B. P. to-morrow." "I suppose you call him Tender Gray because he's a tenderfoot scout," remarked Windham. "I reckon," chuckled Duncan. "That or because he's tender on the subject of Boy Scouts. He's sure a bug on that question. But you'll like both the B. P. kids. Herb goes to college every winter." "You say you're a Boy Scout, too," called back Jerry over his shoulder. "Yes, I'm a Boy Scout, first class, and I've got the badges to prove it too." "What are they?" inquired Dunk eagerly. "One's for athletics—basketball's my game—one's for handicraft, and the other—" Fred paused an instant with a smile —"the other's for aviation." There was a gasp of surprise, then Fly stuck a hand across the trunks. "Shake old man!" he cried. They shook hands solemnly. For some minutes, while Jerry's team lunged ahead and the freight wagon swung like a vessel adrift, Windham and Fly forgot even Boy Scout matters. But there was no time for prolonged talk, although each boy related what he had studied on the subject of aviation. The exhilaration of the ride was too much. "Tell you what," Windham almost shouted, "I'm certainly glad to get out here. Airships, Boy Scouts and a ranch too— Whoopee! Real cowpunchers and roundups!" He paused as a shout of laughter went up. "Wait till we put Herb next!" gasped Jerry. "Wow! Ain't that a peach though. Cowpunchers!" "Well, I'll bite," exclaimed Fred. "What's the joke?" "Roundups!" shouted Dunk. "Roundups and cowpunchers! Why, Brett Phipps ain't got a puncher on the place!" "Thought you said it was a ranch," protested Fred. "It is," explained Jerry. "Sheep ranch though. All the punchers you'll see will be Greaser sheep herders. 'Bout a million sheep on the Bread Puddin'—Hello! See that?" "What?" cried the others. "Look out!" yelled Windham suddenly. Everybody dodged as a great gray and white shape drove down through the air beside them and was gone on the instant. A shriek went up from the hack in front, followed by a wild shout from Ike. "Runaway!" cried Dunk. "After 'em Jerry!" The latter needed no urging. He had already caught a glimpse of Ike's form falling headlong from the hack seat as the two terrified horses plunged into headlong flight. With a shout of encouragement to his mother and Mrs. Windham, Jerry doubled the reins and lashed his four horses into a run, barely missing Ike's body as he passed it. "What was it?" called Dunk, between jolts. "I couldn't see," shouted Jerry. The hack before them was careering madly over the sand and stones. The glimmering lamps showed the sweating flanks of the two horses that were running frantically. The freight team behind gained rapidly, however, and slowly drew abreast of the runaways. Jerry was urging his horses on with hat and reins when a dark shadow threw itself at the forward team. Something seized the bridles and hung there, dragging down the horses' heads, and Jerry barely managed to draw up his four as the hack stopped abruptly. Instantly the boys were helping Mrs. Crawford and Mrs. Windham to the ground. Assured of their safety Jerry and Dunk ran to the heads of the hack team. "Carlito," cried Jerry, gripping the shoulder of the slim young fellow who stood there. "Old man, I'm—I—darn it all, come on back!" "It's Carlito, mother," he shouted, dragging the reluctant young figure with him. "Carl stopped 'em!" The rescuer reached for his sombrero, which had fallen from his head, as Mrs. Crawford held out her hand. "You are a brave boy, Carlito!" she said gravely, her face pale. "You've saved us all, I guess. Mrs. Windham, this is Carlito, one of the finest boys at the Post." As their rescuer turned, his face came into the light of the lamps, and Mrs. Windham started, for she saw he was an Indian. Quickly recovering, she thanked him warmly. "It wasn't much," said Carlito, smiling composedly. "The horses were stopping themselves." "Not on your life they weren't!" cried Dunk, hotly. "Jump in and go with us to the fort, Carl." "Can't. Going to town," replied Carl, putting his hands to his mouth and emitting a strange sound. There was an answering whinny and he walked in the direction from which it came. "That's the way he finds his pony at night, or when he doesn't know just where it is. He certainly can make it loud too, when he wants to," explained Jerry. As Carlito started down the road, he met Ike loping along rather lamely. "Anybody hurt," gasped the driver as soon as he was within hearing distance. "No. How about yourself," Jerry answered, surprised and at the same time relieved to see the darky had not sustained any injury. "Oh, I'm tough," grinned the driver, resuming his seat. "Say, what was dat thing? I heard a rush and somethin' soft give me a swipe in de face jest as the hosses broke, an' over I goes." "Was it in the air?" asked Dunk. "Bird mebbe." "Bird nothin'," contradicted Jerry. "It felt a heap bigger'n any bird I ever heard of." By this time the ladies had again taken their places in the hack and Ike took up the reins. "Better come along, Carlito," urged Fly, but the Indian boy shook his head. "See you at the B. P. ranch to-morrow," he said. "Get there about eleven and you'll hear something worth while. So long." And the Apache sprang on his pony and disappeared into the night. CHAPTER II 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!" CHAPTER III THE LEGEND OF THE THUNDER BIRD Immediately after lunch Mr. Phipps hastened off and the boys returned to the veranda to form their patrol. Herb Phipps was acclaimed chairman and the meeting was on. "First thing's nomination of officers," announced the chair. "Shoot in some names, yuh guys!" "The patrol leader's got to be a first-class scout," grinned Gray. "Stand up, Windy! I move the nom'nations be closed!" "Here, hold on!" Fred sprang up at once. "I'll only be here a few weeks, kids. What's the use? One of you had better —" "Aw, beat it." "Sit down!" "Cut it out!" came from the others. Dunk gained the floor. "Second the nomination, Mr. Chairman! Let's make Windy leader while he's here, anyhow." "All in favor?" "Aye." And Fred was elected. Carlito was then put up against Gray for assistant, but the New Yorker promptly withdrew and the young Apache got the honor. The boys were then sworn by Fred and Gray together, and the patrol was a fact. "What we goin' to call her?" asked Fly. Various titles were proposed and voted down but finally Carl came across with "The Thunder Bird Patrol." This was greeted with a yell of delight, and was chosen without delay. "Oh, Windy!" called Jerry from a swing at the other end of the veranda. "Chase out to the kitchen and tell Hop Sing to give you the rattler lariat, will you? This swing needs tying up." Fred promptly rose and vanished, suspecting nothing. At Fort Bayard the men had a standing joke on all tenderfeet. They sent them all over the fort asking for the "rattler lariat"—which is slang for whiskey—and as whiskey is a thing forbidden at the fort, the unhappy tenderfoot usually ended up under arrest. The crowd on the porch expected that Hop Sing would catch the joke as he had done before, and send Fred out to the bunkhouse or corral to some of the men who would send him on farther. "Thought mebbe it'd be good for him," grinned Jerry in expectation. "Windy's pretty solid, but he's liable to get the notion that being from the East he knows 'bout everythin' that's—Wow!" The speech ended in a startled yell. Jerry and Fly had been sitting in the vine-shaded swing at the end of the porch, and from the vines beside them came an unmistakable rattle. Jerry took one flying leap, lost his balance, and crashed into Dunk's chair. Fly followed him so closely that he tripped and all three rolled headfirst into Carlito. At the same instant there was a rustle among the vines and Herb jumped to the wall, where a revolver was hanging. "Don't shoot!" came the laughing voice of Fred. As he poked his head through the vines a shout went up and Fred came around the corner of the veranda. "Pretty slick," he laughed, as Jerry scrambled up. "Hop Sing put me wise, though!" "Say, did you make that blamed rattle?" inquired Fly uneasily. "Sure," grinned Windy, holding up a string of rattles. "Hop gave me these and showed me how to use 'em." "Oh, what I'll do to that Chink!" groaned Jerry as the crowd shouted with laughter. But just then Hop Sing appeared with a platter of doughnuts as propitiation, and peace was made. During the afternoon Fred and Gray measured the others for their uniforms. These would consist of the breeches, puttees and coat, the latter being only necessary for trips up into the mountains where it was chilly. A complete list of everything that was wanted was made out and given to Herb, who would hand it over to his father to be ordered at once. "Ever see a cliff dwelling, Windy?" asked Dunk, after they had been measured. "No," answered Fred. "Any 'round here?" "Sure," cried Fly eagerly. "Feller over at Silver City has a tame one—built it himself! Collects two bits each from tourists to see it." "Shut up!" laughed Dunk, and fired a pillow at Fly. "There's a mighty good bunch of 'em over north of the post, Windy. Five or six real old Mojaves there too. Make baskets and stuff to sell. S'pose we ride over there to-morrow, fellows." This proved agreeable to all save Fly, who was to help his father with some work. So it was arranged that Herb and Gray should come over early for the others and all would take a trip who could do so. "Tell your dad," said Jerry to Herb, "that we'll start work Monday. This is Tuesday. If our uniforms ain't here it won't matter." "Monday night, then," replied Herb. "I can't see what there is to do 'cept just sit around and keep an eye on the sheep all night. We'll prob'ly scatter all over the range." The party returned to the garrison in time for dinner. All were in high feather at having actually formed a patrol. When the news spread around the fort that evening it met with general approval. "Good for Phipps!" exclaimed Captain Crawford, at dinner. "Guess we can spare you chaps some service revolvers if you want 'em. How about it, Gerald?" "Fine!" cried Jerry delightedly. "Sure we want 'em." "We won't really need them, I s'pose?" asked Fred. "You may," returned the captain. "Especially if you're going up against that sheep-destroyer of Phipps'. Looks to me like it was some cattle men from the ranges over beyond the Circle B. P. If it is you'll have to pass it up. If it's some animal or other, go to it!" Herb and Gray arrived before the sunrise gun boomed next morning, and after a hasty breakfast the party rode to the northwest. They soon found themselves among the hills that bordered the river, and about ten o'clock Carlito halted them. "See that cliff yonder?" Jerry pointed to a steep ascent that rose above the low water across the river. Halfway up could be seen a crumbling ruin from which rose a trail of smoke. "There's a cliff dwellin', Windy. Looks like old Tommy's home too." "Tommy's the only Mojave there who can talk any English," explained Dunk as they splashed through the river. "We'll leave the horses down here an' hike up." Leaving the ponies to graze along the river bank the boys began the ascent of a well-worn path. It had been hollowed out in places and made easier for visitors, so that they had no difficulty in reaching the cliff dwellings on the ledge. As they did so, Fred, who had followed Carlito closely, saw two wrinkled and blanket-clad Indians with a couple of fat squaws, seated over a small fire. One of the chiefs was hideously tattooed on the forehead and chin, and the women were heavily ornamented with strings of many-colored beads and gaudy pendants. Two of them wore large brass earrings. All had a miscellaneous supply of brass buttons distributed over their blankets. "Hello, Tommy!" called Jerry cheerfully as he gained the ledge. "Better bring over some more stuff! We've got some new people at the post. Sell some baskets easy." The eldest Mojave shook his head without looking up. "No tadavia," he returned. "No got. Nex' week, mebbe. All gone." "You fellows show Windy over the place," said Carl. "I'm going to talk to Tommy." Squatting down beside the other Indians, he broke into a flood of Mexican. "Come on, Windy," laughed Dunk. "Carl ain't got no use for us now." At first Fred was somewhat disappointed in the cliff dwellings, or what was left of them. Only part of the walls were standing in many cases, the roofs having caved in, the remainder of the buildings being surrounded by fallen rocks and mortar. "I suppose these are a good many hundred years old," he said as he stepped into one of the better preserved caves which the Indians had taken possession of. There was a rounded hole in the center of the stone floor where the inhabitants had ground their corn, and this was still in use by Tommy and his friends. All the arrow heads and broken pottery had been taken away by previous visitors, but the walls were inscribed with strange characters, the sign language of the vanished race. Queer animals of all sorts drawn in crude fashion, mingled with figures of dogs, snakes and mysterious marks of their own, were among the rough drawings. Very little light came in through the narrow door and single small window, and when Fred emerged and stood at the edge of the terrace the bright sunshine made him blink his eyes, and the fresh beauties of nature were a strange contrast to the dark, dusty interior of the cliff house. They were now far above the river, which could be heard below. Opposite was a low hill or two and beyond the hills the blistering yellow and red of the desert. They were facing the garrison, which was hidden by the hills. Behind them lay the mountains, and to the west a far-off snowy peak was just visible around the corner of the ledge. "She's fifty miles away," said Herb, as he pointed to the latter. "Looks about ten, eh? Seems like yuh could toss a stone into them hills yonder." Fred had not yet become used to judging distances in this country, where the atmosphere was wonderfully clear. It seemed almost incredible to him that the mountain was so far away. He would have liked more time to explore other of the cliff dwellings, for the strange sights held his interest, but the other boys, who had been over the ground many times, seemed to be growing impatient, and they all returned to where Carl was still talking to Tommy. They stood behind the silently working Indians, whose faces were as expressionless and inhospitable as their bent backs. "Just see 'em weave," exclaimed Fred, as the large but deft fingers wound in and out through many colors of straw. "And listen to Carl and that Indian jabber," he continued. "I didn't know they could talk so fast." "Oh, the Indians around here are partly civilized," said Jerry, who had been watching with them. "As long as they can get good trade for their baskets and beadwork, and do some swapping now and then, they seem satisfied." Carl finally ended his conversation with Tommy, and springing to his feet, in true Indian fashion, he joined the other boys and sat down to eat the lunch which they had brought with them. After Fred had induced Tommy to part with a beaded buckskin knife sheath for a dollar, all returned down the winding path to the river. "Well, I've got some red-hot news for you," announced Carlito, as they left the river behind and headed back through the low hills toward the fort. "Yuh must 'a' got it from Tommy, then," returned Herb. "Yuh ain't done nothin' but jabber Greaser to him and old Alche-say. What's on your mind?" "Why, Tommy's the oldest buck anywhere around here," replied Carlito. "I thought maybe he'd give me some dope on the Thunder Bird. I don't know anything but what I heard when I was a little kid, but I got him to loosen up. Want to hear it?" "Sure," cried Dunk, and drew back his pony beside Carl. "Come on back here, Windy! Slow down, Jerry. Now we're fixed." "What I told you before," began Carlito when all were riding in a bunch around him, "was true enough. Deputies from the tribes met twice a year, spring and fall. This was all long before the white men ever showed up. Tommy says—and he ought to know if anyone does—that somewhere up in the mountains north of here was the shrine of the Thunder Bird. It seems that there were three medicine men who kept an altar for offering sacrifices to the Thunder Bird three times a year, and there were great festivities in which the people took part. One year there was a big scrap on between the Navajos and some of my own people. While the deputies were worshipping at the altar that fall, somebody said something, and the Apache delegates pulled out hidden knives and killed a Navajo. It was a rule that no weapons were allowed on the sacred place, and no sooner had the blood been shed than the Thunder Bird came down in a big-storm and killed the whole bunch with his lightning arrows." "And that's the kind of a monster we have to fight!" exclaimed Fred. "Oh, well, that's the way Tommy told it. I suppose they really got struck by lightning. Anyhow, everyone was killed, even the medicine men, except one brave who crawled away with the news and died. It was a sacred law that no one could visit the shrine in the daytime except during the sacrifices. Everybody was scared to go after the bodies until next spring. Then some medicine men tried it. They got about halfway when the Thunder Bird flew down in the dark and beat them off the path. After that it was said that the Thunder Bird was angry; so the sacred spot was left alone and gradually forgotten. Each tribe of Indians worshipped him at home, and the old custom was passed up. Tommy says that nobody knows now even where the sacred spot is. When he was a boy an old man told him it was on a high peak in the mountains, but hidden by some rocks and boulders so nobody could find it. It's all a legend now." "That's funny," exclaimed Jerry, as Carlito paused. "How did the Thunder Bird knock those chaps around that way?" "Search me," responded the Apache. "He says the Thunder Bird was angry at having his shrine profaned with blood and wouldn't let it be used again." "Sounds a whole lot like the Thunder Bird was after them sheep, Herb," laughed Dunk. "Better get us medicine men's outfits, Carl! We may need 'em!" "I think we'll need six-guns more," replied the Apache gravely. "Gee, it's goin' to be a real adventure," exclaimed Fred, his bright eyes snapping. "But how are we goin' to start?" "Well, if the Thunder Bird lives up in the mountains, why not try and find out where he roosts?" suggested Herb. "Anyhow, while we're waiting for our uniforms, we might take Fred on a little hunting an' fishing trip up in the mountains, and mebbe do some investigating on the side," added Jerry. "And talk over how we're goin' to get at the sheep stealer," went on Fred. So it was decided that on Monday the boys would go for a hunt and map out their plans. But they did not know what was to happen in the meantime to help solve the problem for them. CHAPTER IV AN AVIATOR APPEARS "Hello, who's that talkin' to father?" exclaimed Jerry next morning as he and Fred came back from the range where they had been having a target contest to try out the service revolvers Captain Crawford had lent them. Captain Crawford called the boys over and introduced the stranger, a tall, trim-built young man, as Mr. Hawke. "I'm sure you boys will like Mr. Hawke," he said. "He's from the military aviation school at Fort Omaha, and knows how to build aeroplanes." This was enough to make the boys look upon Hawke as a friend and hero, even if he hadn't smiled encouragingly and held out his hand. "I'm sure I'm going to like you too, boys, and I'm glad to know you're interested in aviation. I always like to see boys up-to-date." The boys hardly knew what to say to such a warm greeting as this, but Fly put in his appearance at that moment and saved them from further confusion. "Come on over here, Fly," called Jerry. "He's just crazy about airships," he explained, turning to Mr. Hawke. "Then I want to meet him," said the aviator, his genial face lighting with a smile. "I'd rather meet you then Santa Claus," exclaimed Fly, enthusiastically, feeling at home at once with the newcomer, and experiencing none of the embarrassment of the other boys. "I hope you're goin' to stay." "Well, I'm planning to spend my vacation here. I didn't expect to arrive so soon, but some friends were coming this way, so I dropped in unannounced." "We all like this kind of a surprise," assured the captain, just as Dunk Rivers came up and said he was wanted on the telephone. "I guess I can leave you with the boys, Hawke," said the captain, after introducing Dunk. "You bet. I like boys—especially aeroplane boys." "Maybe you can give them some pointers about the mystery at the Phipps ranch," Mr. Crawford called back as he hurried away. "We'll tell you about that," volunteered Jerry, in answer to Mr. Hawke's look of inquiry, and, assisted by Fly, Dunk and Fred, he told the story of the runaway and the loss of sheep at the ranch. "And this trouble has been going on about a month?" asked Mr. Hawke. "Looks to me as if your Indian friend is pretty near right. It must be some kind of flesh-eating animal or bird that is doing the damage. So you boys are going to trail him down?" "That's the idea," answered Dunk. "We've formed a Boy Scout Patrol," continued Jerry; "ordered our uniforms an' everythin'. Fred's leader." "Splendid," exclaimed Mr. Hawke heartily. "I used to be scout master of a bunch of fellows down at Fort Omaha, but my work got so pressing that I was obliged to give it up. I enjoyed it though." "Gee, that's fine. Glad you're goin' to stay all summer," exclaimed Fred. "How are you going to carry on this hunt?" asked the aviator. "We haven't just decided yet," replied Jerry. "Got to figure that out." "If it's a bird it seems to me you ought to have an aeroplane," suggested Mr. Hawke, his eyes twinkling as he watched for the effect this would have on the boys. "It would be just the thing," cried Fly. "Of course," chimed in Dunk. "We could fly right after him then." "That would be the way to do it," said Mr. Hawke, pleased with their enthusiasm. "Can't you manage to build a machine here at the fort?" he added. "Mebbe Mr. Phipps would help us out," cried Fly at once, taking the suggestion seriously. "That's right," assented Jerry gravely. "But we don't know nothin' at all about it," said Dunk. "Well, you boys come up to my room to-night," responded Hawke. "I'll show you something you'll be interested in. Come along and bring your friends. I suppose there are some other boys around here." "You bet; three more in our crowd. They're all bugs on aviation too," Dunk assured him. "We want to get the Boy Scout aviation badge." "Bully for you. That's the kind of talk I like to hear." Hawke gave Dunk a friendly slap on the shoulder. "Now, I'm going to spend the afternoon with your father and Captain Crawford. Good-bye till to-night." "Ain't he a peach?" exclaimed Fly, when Hawke was out of hearing. "He's a looloo! Gee, this is luck. Aviator—scout master—everything nearly," agreed Jerry warmly. "Wonder what he's going to show us to-night," queried Fred. "Mebbe he's got some more ideas about the Thunder Bird that he didn't tell us," suggested Dunk. "He's a prince anyway," Jerry exclaimed. And in this all the boys agreed. Fly had to go back to his work, and it was decided to call up Herb Phipps and Tender Gray, telling them to come over that evening on the aviator's special invitation. Dunk said he would notify Carlito. At eight that night all the boys met at Jerry's and went together to Mr. Hawke's quarters on the third floor of the old barracks. Graystock wore his tenderfoot badge, while Fred had pinned on all his medals, including the one for aviation. Carlito, Herb Phipps and his cousin edged into the room somewhat timidly, but the aviator's cordial greeting caused them instantly to forget their embarrassment. "I'm glad you managed to round up the bunch," Hawke said, after the new trio had been presented. "This lesson won't have to be repeated. And," he continued, observing Fred's decorations, "all of you scouts ought to be wearing aviation badges soon. That is, if you give careful attention to what I'm going to tell you." "We'll listen, all right," pro...