THE TRAIL OF THE TREMBLING MOUNTAIN.

But the Trembling Mountain still lay far from them. Following that bivouac at the foot of the somber chain of mountains, they made their way for some days through the most magnificent scenery they had ever seen. Even Grizzly Pass could show nothing to compare with it. It was an enchanted land of soaring peaks, deep and narrow canyons in whose depths lay perpetual twilight, mighty cliffs and crags and leaping waterfalls.

Sometimes on topping an eminence they could see far off to the southwest a circle of snowy peaks vaunting it above their timber clothed brethren. From some of these peaks issued columns of blue smoke. Somewhere among those smoldering volcanoes, the professor told them, lay the object of their quest. At noon every day careful observations were taken, but they still pressed onward, the mystery and charm of their quest increasing all the time.

Often, seated about the campfire, they discussed the possibility of the Ramon gang having trailed them; but the consensus of opinion was that they had succeeded in throwing the rascals off their tracks.

“But the scoundrels are keen on the scent where gold or treasure is concerned,” said Ralph one evening, “and I’ll bet that if they are not now on our trail they are trying to get upon it. I’ve got a private presentiment that we are not destined to land that treasure without a struggle.”

“If only we could encounter those Mexican Rangers of Colonel Alverado’s, our task would be easier,” said Jack. “I’ve a good mind to look about at daylight to-morrow before we get under way, and see if I can discover some trace of them.”

“Not a bad idea,” assented the professor, “the Don said that his men were off in this section somewhere, as it was suspected that the rascally gang of which Ramon is the head would make in this direction to seek shelter in the wild fastnesses.”

The next day, dawn had hardly made things visible before Jack was stirring, and saddling the big horse which they had taken from the Mexican outlaws at the lone rancho, set forth on his quest. They had wished to leave this horse as a present to Don Alverado for his kindness, but the Don would not hear of it. He argued that they might need an extra horse, and his words had proven true. The extra animal had come in handy once or twice when one or another of their own mounts was crippled temporarily by the rough mountain roads.

Jack did not set out without an objective point. This was the summit of a cliff at some distance which he felt sure he could reach by a sort of natural trail he had observed from below. It was going to be risky, though. To begin with, the trail was too narrow for him to turn back if he found it ended abruptly, but it was the only way of reaching the cliff top, and Jack felt that only from there could he obtain a good view of the surrounding country.

To his relieved surprise, however, the trail, though narrow enough in places to give a timid rider heart failure, was yet wide enough toward the summit to afford a foothold to a sure-footed horse like the one he bestrode. After about half an hour of breath-catching riding, the Border Boy at length reached the top. As he had anticipated, the view from there was as extended as it was magnificent. Peak after peak in serried ranks stretched away on every side. Deep canyons lay between them, with here and there a solitary eagle soaring above the dark depths. The sky above was a blinding blue, and the newly risen sun shone brightly, but yet, at that great altitude, Jack felt chilled.

But if he had expected to see the smoke of campfires, or spy a distant line of moving dots on this vast panorama, he was mistaken. No human note marred the impressive solemnity of the scene. Jack Merrill, poised with his horse on the cliff top, might have been the only being in the world for any evidence to the contrary.

“Well, I suppose I’d better be getting back again,” he thought to himself. “What a magnificent country! It is like those cloud palaces you see among the thunder heads on a still summer’s day in New England.”

With half a sigh at leaving such a spectacle behind him, the boy turned his horse, and as he did so gave vent to a shout of surprise.

Kneeling on one knee behind a rock, and pointing a rifle full at him, was the figure of a man who must have crept quietly up while Jack had been admiring the view. This figure made a gesture cautioning Jack not to move, and then gave a shrill whistle. Instantly the woods all about galvanized into life. A score of wild-looking horsemen sprang out. They were all armed, and Jack, utterly at a loss to know what this could portend, stopped short.

“Well, senors, what is it?” he asked politely.

“Get off that horse, Miguel de Acosta,” ordered one of the men sternly. “It is useless to resist, and——”

“But my name doesn’t happen to be Miguel de Acosta,” protested Jack.

“In that case, what are you doing with his horse?”

“Whose horse?”

“Why, De Acosta’s. If you are not De Acosta and have his horse you are a horse thief, which is as bad under our laws as any of the crimes of which De Acosta is accused.”

“Will somebody please tell me what all this means?” cried Jack, looking about him bewilderedly.

“Please let me examine the brand of that horse,” said the first speaker, who seemed to be a kind of leader; “ah, just as I thought. A bar and a flying U. That’s De Acosta’s horse and you are the man we’re after. Get off now.”

“But—but——,” began Jack, beginning to think that this adventure might turn out seriously after all.

“No explanations now. You may make those to the commandante later. Come, senor,” as Jack still hesitated, “are you going to dismount?”

“Nothing for it I suppose but to obey,” said Jack, clambering out of the saddle.

The man who was conducting this inquiry while the rest looked grimly on, was excessively polite, but there was something alarming in his very suavity. As Jack’s feet touched the ground a sharp order was given in Spanish, and two of the horsemen who had so suddenly appeared stepped to his side. As they did so they tapped their rifles significantly. But suddenly Jack noted something, and that was that on the butt of each of the rifles was stamped Republica de Mexico, No. 2, Sonora.

A great light broke upon him.

“Why, you are Mexican Rangers,—Rurales,—are you not?” he demanded of the seeming leader.

“Si, senor. None should know that better than you.” was the grave reply. “We are the second division of Sonora, with headquarters at Santa Anita.”

“Hooray, then it’s all right after all,” cried the boy, and plunging his hand into his breast pocket he drew forth the paper which Don Alverado had given him before they departed from his hospitable roof. The officer scanned it with raised eyebrows.

“Why, senor. A thousand pardons. I see that a mistake has been made. But pardon me, how do you come to be riding the horse of the notorious outlaw, De Acosta, who is one of Black Ramon de Barros’s chief lieutenants?”

“Oh, I see it all now,” cried Jack, “you were in search of Black Ramon, and when you saw a horse answering the description of De Acosta’s, you at once jumped to the conclusion that I must be he. Say, that’s quite a joke.”

“It wouldn’t have been much of a joke for you, if you had not proved your identity, senor,” was the grave reply of the officer,—for such Jack now knew he must be, “do you know what we would have done with the real Acosta had we found him? Hanged him to the nearest tree and left his body for the gallinazos and the buzzards.”

The day was warm, but Jack shuddered as the leader of the Mexican Rangers spoke.

“But, senor,” went on the young officer, “you hinted just now at having a story to tell about how you came by the horse. Will you breakfast with me at our camp yonder, and you can relate your story as we eat? It may be of great value to the State if it throws any light on the ways of Black Ramon.”

Jack assented to this proposition. For one thing, he was hungry. For another, he saw that the Mexican Rangers might prove valuable allies in case of a brush with the Ramon outfit. All the rurales, among whom a very democratic spirit prevailed, were much interested in his tale. They hung closely about the officer’s quarters, a blanket stretched on the ground, while Jack related his story of the happenings at the lonely rancho. It made an odd scene, this conclave under the great mountain pines. There was the clean-cut American lad sitting tailor fashion opposite the young officer who listened eagerly, while all about hovered the forms of the rangers, clad in bright sashes and brilliant-hued serapes, with immense cone-topped hats lavishly decorated with gold and silver braid. Jack learned later that some of these men oftentimes pay as high as two hundred dollars for their headgear, and that a good sombrero will pass down from father to son and grandson without deteriorating.

At the conclusion of Jack’s narrative, the officer expressed a wish to visit the camp of the Border Boys, more especially as it was in a part of the mountains unfamiliar to him. No time, therefore, was lost in mounting and getting under way. The Rangers used bugle calls like regular troops, the trumpeter riding at the leader’s side.

In single line they defiled down the steep trail by which Jack had ascended, and were soon at the foot of the mighty cliff.

“And where is your camp, senor?” inquired the officer, after they had ridden for some time in the direction in which Jack knew it lay.

“That’s what’s puzzling me, senor,” rejoined the boy anxiously, “it should be here, but——”

He broke off abruptly. Undoubtedly from the litter and the still smoking embers upon which they had just that minute stumbled they must be at the site of the camp. But where were the lad’s companions?

Had the earth swallowed them they could not have vanished more completely, nor did a painstaking search by the Rangers reveal any clue as to their whereabouts or the manner of their departure.