The Boy Scouts of the Air in Indian Land.

by Gordon Stuart.

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 cla.s.sified, 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 pa.s.sengers. 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 antic.i.p.ated 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."