The Boy Ranchers Among the Indians | Page 8

ranch, tried to get work and so have paid for the use of the animal.
"However, fate had other things in store for me. I never saw such wild animals! They came at me like so many fiends, and after trying in vain to quiet them, and I may say I have some skill with wild beasts, I thought discretion the better part of foolhardiness, and--made for the fence!"
He chuckled at the recollection.
"Then you weren't going to steal a horse?" asked Nort.
"Far from it, kind sir," and the man bowed with just the slightest suggestion of mockery, at which Bud frowned. "I am a lone traveler, and I sought help on my way--help for which I would have paid in work."
"Who are you?" snapped out Bud.
"I have told you my name," said the stranger, in gentle contrast to Bud's harsh tone. "Rolling Stone, at your service," and he bowed again, this time with no trace of mockery.
"Rolling Stone!" ejaculated Nort.
"That isn't a name," complained Bud, but his voice had lost some of its stern quality, and his lips trembled on the verge of a smile.
"I realize that it is more a state of being, or a quality," the man admitted. "But it happens to be a sort of paraphrase of my title. I am Roland Stone, at your service, but my taste, inclination and the action of disheartened friends has fastened the other appellation on me. Rolling Stone I am by name and by nature."
He said it in a way that left little room for doubt, and the boy ranchers seemed to realize this. They could understand how such a character could easily change Roland into "Rolling," if such was his nature. And "Stone" was a common enough name.
"All right, Mr. Rolling Stone," said Bud. "If that's your choice it still leaves the other question unanswered. Where are you from?"
"Everywhere and anywhere, which is to say nowhere," came the reply. "You need only to look at me to tell what I am--a happy-go-lucky individual, a tramp, a hobo, and yet I am willing to work when the spirit is on me. I never stole a dollar or a dollar's worth in all my life. I have harmed neither man, woman or child. I am my own worst enemy, and I am--frankly--hungry! If you will give me food I'll pay for it in work to the best of my ability--"
"You said you had some skill with wild animals," interrupted Bud. "Do you mean--"
"I don't mean horses, if you will excuse the interruption," the man said. "There is my one failing. I used to be with a circus, and the lion and I were good friends. Perhaps some taint of the wild beast odor clings to me, which causes horses to rear up and tear. Or else--"
"That didn't cause these ponies to act that way," laughed Bud, who, with his cousins, was rapidly forming a liking for the stranger. "They're half wild themselves. Just in off the range, and they haven't been broken yet. I doubt if Yellin' Kid would tackle one. It isn't anything to your discredit that you got out in a hurry. But you say you're hungry?"
That was an appeal which never went unheeded in the west.
"Mightily hungry, fair sir!" and, though Rolling Stone smiled, there was an appealing note in his voice. "The last meal I had for nothing was given me by Hank Fowler."
"Hank Fowler!" cried Bud.
"The sheriff?" added Nort.
"Who sent on to Mr. Merkel the message from Rosemary?" completed Dick.
"Rosemary--that's for remembrance," quoted Rolling Stone with a smile. "I know her not, and yet Hank Fowler is a sheriff to my certain knowledge."
"Do you mean the one from La Nogalique?" persisted Bud.
"That same. I appealed to him when I was down on my luck, as I nearly always am, and he befriended me. I have known him for years."
"Then there can't be much wrong with you," decided Bud. "If you want work, my father can fix you up. We'll need some extra hands if we pull out a lot to take the trail after the Yaquis. So--"
"Excuse me, young man. But did you say--Yaquis?" asked Rolling Stone, and there was a new and eager note in his voice.
"Yes," supplemented Nort. "The Yaquis--Indians you know--have gone wild again and they've raided a town and carried off some of our friends. We're going to--"
"You can't tell me anything about the Yaquis that I don't know, young man!" exclaimed Rolling Stone, and he seemed imbued with new life. "I know they're Indians, of a sort, though a very rotten sort. They killed my best friend years ago. I haven't heard anything about a raid lately. Been too lazy to look for news, I reckon. But if it's true that they're on the rampage, and you're on the trail after them