Oscar Gleeson the cowboy, who appeared at such a timely juncture for Avon Burnet, when he was hard pressed by his Comanche pursuer, took the young man on his mustang behind him, as the reader will recall, and set out for the camp, several miles distant.

Despite the fears of the youth for the safety of his friends in the cabin, the veteran ranchman was more concerned for the fifty-odd cattle that had chosen to stampede themselves, and were at that moment dashing over the prairie for no one could tell where.

But inasmuch as the captain had sent for help, it must be given, regardless of other matters, and the easy swing of the mustang continued until the two arrived at the fire that had been kindled in a small valley, where the provision wagon was stationed with the other 168 animals tethered near, ready for the start that was set for an early hour the next morning.

Most of the men had stretched themselves out in the wagon to sleep, for a hard and arduous campaign was before them, in which they were likely to be compelled to keep their horses for fifteen or twenty hours at a stretch, changing them when necessary and catching snatches of slumber as chance presented.

But the unaccountable stampede of a portion of the herd had roused all, and, at the moment “Ballyhoo,” as he was known to his friends, reined up, preparations were under way for a general start after the absent ones.

“Where’s Madstone and Shackaye?” asked Gleeson, looking down in the faces of the group, dimly shown in the firelight, and noticing that two of their number were missing.

“They started out for the cattle a little while ago,” replied one of the ranchmen, “thinking as how you might not be able to manage them.”

“I’d fetched ’em back all right,” replied 169 Gleeson, “if it hadn’t been for some other business that turned up.”

“What’s that?”

“The reds are down at the cabin raising the mischief; a lot of ’em got after Baby here, and I had to drop one, and then take him on my hoss and bring him along with me.”

“What was he doing out at night on foot?” was the natural query of another of the cowboys.

“Wal, he was putting in the tallest kind of running, when I set eyes on him; if he had kept it up, I don’t believe I would have been able to overhaul him myself.”

This remark caused several of the grinning ranchmen to turn toward Avon, who had slipped off the horse and laughed as he made answer:

“I got into the worst scrape of my life,” he explained, “and it would have gone hard with me if Ballyhoo hadn’t turned up just as he did. The reason I was abroad was because Uncle Dohm thought it best I should come to camp after you fellows.”

“What’s the matter with him?” asked one, who, despite the brief explanation already given, could not understand how it was their leader and his family were in special danger, even if their home was surrounded by Comanches.

“The folks could stand them off for a week, or month, if they had water and provisions, if it wasn’t for one thing; the roof of the cabin is as dry as tinder, and the captain knows they intend to set fire to it. If they do, nothing can save the folks, for the building will burn down before we can get there.”

This was putting a new face on matters, and the ranchmen realized that more serious work was required of them than rounding up the strayed cattle. Captain Shirril was too brave a man to feel needless alarm, and the fact that he had sent for help was proof that there was urgent need of it.

Two of the party were gone and might not be back for several hours. That, however, was of no account, since, including young Burnet, seven were left, and not one of them would have hesitated, with his companions, to 171 attack a party of Comanches two or three times as numerous as that which had laid siege to the captain’s cabin.

These men were fully armed with Winchester, revolvers, and knives, they had no superiors as horsemen, they were accustomed to the rough out-door life, and it may be said that all welcomed the chance of a stirring brush with the red men that had been hovering in their vicinity so long, but who took care to avoid anything in the nature of a fair stand-up fight.

There were horses for all, including Avon Burnet, and, in a very brief space of time, the men were in the saddle and heading toward the home of their leader.

It would be hard to find a company of cowboys or plainsmen whose members are not known by distinctive names, generally based on some personal peculiarity. Thus young Burnet, as we have stated, was nearly always addressed as “Baby,” because of his youth. Oscar Gleeson, one of the most skilful and famous cowmen of the Southwest, was addressed as “Ballyhoo,” for the reason that, 172 whenever he indulged in a shout or loud call, he used that exclamation.

Hauser Files, the associate of Gleeson, once took part in a game of baseball in San Antonio, during which he received the elusive sphere on the point of his nose. He withdrew in disgust from the amusement, and was always known thereafter as Short Stop.

Gleeson and Files were between thirty and forty years of age, but Ward Burrell, from the lowlands of Arkansas, had rounded his half-century of existence, acquiring during the journey such a peculiar complexion that he was known as Old Bronze. Andy Wynwood, from the same State, was younger. One of his most stirring narratives related to the manner in which he escaped hydrophobia, after being bitten by a rabid wolf. He claimed that the only thing that saved him was the use of a madstone. Whether he was mistaken or not is not for us to say, but there was certainly no mistake about the origin of the name of Madstone, which clung to him forever afterward.

Antonio Nunez, the Mexican, was the 173 “Greaser,” Zach Collis from New Mexico, who was also more than fifty years of age, was “Rickety,” because of a peculiarity in his gait, while George Garland was “Jersey George,” for no other reason than that he was born in the State of New Jersey.

The remaining member of Captain Shirril’s party was Shackaye, a Comanche Indian, about a year older than Avon Burnet, concerning whom we shall soon have something to say further.

Captain Shirril was right when he expressed his belief that the arrival of his friends would be in the nature of one of those wild western cyclones, which have grown quite familiar of late in the West and Southwest.

The cowboys swung along at an easy gallop, until near the cabin. They wanted to arrive without giving the Comanches more notice than was inevitable; but, when they knew their approach could be concealed no longer, they drove their spurs into the flanks of their ponies, gave utterance to their wild whoops, and went forward on a dead run.

Before this, the Indians must have suspected 174 that matters were not progressing right. They were aware that one or more white men were in the vicinity, and as a matter of course knew of the Texan camp, only a few miles away. If the cowboys had not learned what was going on from the reports of the guns, they must soon learn it from the whites, who were not only near the building, but who managed to keep out of their clutches.

Not only that, but the red men had already lost several of their best warriors, and having been repeatedly baffled in their attempts to fire the building, were considering a withdrawal, at the moment they were joined by their comrade, who received such unmerited mercy from Mrs. Shirril.

The shouts, firing of guns, and tramp of the horses settled the question off-hand. There was an instant scattering to their own steeds, upon whose backs they vaulted, and then, turning their heads toward the mesquite bush, they sent them flying away at breakneck speed.

But the Texans were not to be disappointed 175 of their entertainment in that style. Catching a glimpse of the scurrying horsemen, they were after them like so many thunderbolts, firing their pistols and rifles, even when there was no chance of hitting anything. There was no time to aim, and they took the chances of so much powder accomplishing something, when burned with ardor and eagerness.

Thus it came about that, within a minute after the arrival of our friends, they were out of sight again in the brush, doing their utmost to teach the marauders a lesson that would keep them forever away from that neighborhood.

“Ballyhoo” fixed his eye on one of the red men, who seemed to be at the rear. He was in fact the very fellow whose life had been spared by Mrs. Shirril. Arriving on the ground at the last moment, he was obliged to run several rods before reaching his horse; but he did it quickly, and, turning his head toward the bush, dashed after his companions and was almost upon their heels.

“You’re my game!” exclaimed Gleeson, 176 banging away with his revolver at him, but, so far as he could see, without effect.

The mesquite bush was not vigorous enough to offer much obstruction to the mustangs, though it was much more objectionable than the open plain. The horses could plunge through it, almost as if it were so much tall grass, besides which it gave something of shelter to the Comanches, who were now fleeing for their lives.

Flinging themselves forward on the necks of their steeds, who were as fleet as those of their pursuers, with the brush swaying on all sides, they became such bad targets that only chance or wonderful skill could tumble them to the earth.

Gleeson was so close to the savage he had singled out as his special target, and his own steed coursed so swiftly through the bush, that it looked as if he would down his man. The fugitive was hardly visible, as he stretched forward, not upon his horse’s neck, but along the further side and almost under it. About the only part of his person within reach was his foot, the toes of which were 177 curved over the spine of his animal, and his left arm, which clasped the neck from below.

It was useless, therefore, for the Texan to try any sort of aim, and when he discharged his pistol now and then, until the chambers were emptied, it was with the same hope as before, that by accident one of the missiles would reach home.

But this little amusement was not to be entirely on the side of the pursuer. Suddenly there was a flash beneath the neck of the mustang, a resounding report, and the bullet grazed the temple of the enthusiastic cowboy.

“Well done, old fellow,” he muttered, shoving his smaller weapon in his holster, and bringing his Winchester round in front; “it makes things more lively when they are not one-sided.”

He bent forward, and, sighting as best he could, fired. A whinnying scream rang out in the confusion, and the mustang plunged forward on his knees and rolled over on his side, stone dead because of the bullet that had bored its way through his brain.

Such a mishap would have been fatal to the 178 majority of riders, but the wonderful activity of the Comanche saved him from harm because of the fall of his animal. He struck the ground on his feet, and showed a tremendous burst of speed, as he took up the interrupted flight of his horse, keeping straight on, without darting to the right or left.

“I’ve got you now,” exclaimed the exultant Texan, holding the nose of his animal toward him.

Astonishing as was the fleetness of the Comanche, it could not equal that of the intelligent mustang, that knew what was needed from him. He wanted no guidance from his rider, who was therefore left free to manipulate his Winchester as best he could with the brush whipping about him.

All at once the gun was brought to his shoulder, but, before it was fired, the Indian dropped his head, dodged to one side, and vanished as if by magic.

Where he had gone was a mystery to the Texan, whose steed checked himself so suddenly that the rider was nearly thrown from his saddle.

There was so much noise and confusion that Gleeson could not hear clearly, but something caused him to turn his head, under the impression that he detected a movement near at hand.

He was just in time to catch a glimpse of the Comanche, darting through the bush in a direction almost the opposite of that which he had been following so long.

“How the mischief did you get there?” was the astonished exclamation of the Texan, as he again brought his rifle to a level.

At the moment of doing so, he comprehended how it all came about. The Comanche had darted directly under the mustang, doing so with a quickness and skill that baffled the eye of his foe. Few, even of his own people, could have performed the exploit which he executed with perfection.

Ballyhoo Gleeson lowered his gun.

“You can go! I’ll be hanged if you don’t deserve to get away after that trick!”