The Boy Scouts On The Range Part 12

Soapy Sam, his sleeves rolled up and a big ap.r.o.n about his waist, flourished a spoon at them as they began chanting in a kind of monotonous chorus:

"Chick-chock-we-want Chuck!

Chuck-chuck we want chuck!

Cook-ee! Cook-ee! Cook-ee!"

What's the luck?

As they chanted they rode round and round the cook, whose fires and pots were all on the ground. In a huge iron kettle behind him, simmered that staple of the cow-puncher, beans. The atmosphere was redolent with those sweetest of aromas to the hungry man or boy, sizzling hot steaks and strong coffee. Soapy Sam had fairly outdone himself since Blinky had ridden in with news that the boss and some guests were on the way.

"Now you go way back and sit down, you ill-mannered steer-steering bunch of cattle-teasers," bellowed Soapy Sam indignantly, at the singing punchers. "If you don't, you won't get a thing to eat."

"Oh, cook-ee!" howled the cowboys.

"Oh, I mean it, not a mother's son of you," yelled Soapy Sam. "All you fellows think about is eating and drinking, and then smoking and swopping lies."

"How about work, cook-ee?" yelled some one.

"Work!" sputtered the cook with biting sarcasm. "Why, if work 'ud come up to you and say 'h.e.l.lo, Bill!' you'd say, 'Sir, I don't know you.'"

Further exchange of ranch pleasantries was put a stop to at this moment by the arrival of Mr. Harkness and the boys, for the Simmons boys and the other Boy Scouts had been included in his invitation. The cowboys dispersed at once, riding over toward the huts, where they unsaddled their ponies and turned them into a rough corral. Water from a spring was dipped into tin basins, and a hasty toilet was made. By the time this was finished, Soapy Sam announced dinner by beating loudly on the bottom of a tin pan with a spoon.

"Grub!" yelled the cowboys.

"Come and get it," rejoined Sam in the time-honored formula.

Within ten minutes everybody was seated, and in the lap of each member of the party was a tin plate, piled high with juicy steak, fried potatoes, and a generous portion of beans of Soapy Sam's own peculiar devising. Handy at each man's or boy's right was a steaming cup of coffee. But milk there was none, as Tubby soon found out when he plaintively asked for some of that fluid.

"Maybe there's a tin cow in the wagon," said Soapy Sam; "I'll see."

"A 'tin cow'," repeated Tubby wonderingly; "whatever is that?"

A perfect howl of merriment greeted the fat boy's query.

"I guess its first cousin to a can of condensed milk," smiled Mr.

Harkness. "But if you'll take my advice, you'll drink your coffee straight, in the regular range way."

And so the meal went merrily forward, in the shadow of the frowning, rugged peaks of the Santa Catapinas. In after days, the Boy Scouts were destined to eat in many strange places and by many "strange camp fires,"

but they never forgot that chuck-wagon luncheon, eaten under the cloudless Arizona sky on the open range.

CHAPTER IX.

THE HOME OF A VANISHED RACE.

The meal disposed of, the cow-punchers and the boys, all of whom were pretty well tired out by their exertions of the morning, lounged about a while. Then preparations for the return to the ranch began. A guard was to be left over the cattle, however, as they were still restless and ill at ease, and the boys begged hard to be allowed to form a part of it. At first Mr. Harkness would not hear of it.

"Why, dad, the boys are out here to get experience," protested Harry, "and what better training could they have in ranch life than by standing a night watch over restive cattle?"

"That's all very well," rejoined his father, "but you must remember that I am in a measure responsible for the safety of these young men, and you boys have, up to date, displayed quite a capacity for getting into mischief."

"And getting out of it again," put in the irrepressible Tubby. And the victory was won, as many another victory has been, by a burst of laughter. Soon after, the boys loped to the top of a nearby knoll, and waved good-by to the ranch-bound party. Then they turned their ponies and cantered back to the cow-punchers' huts at a smart pace. Besides the boys, the three Simmons brothers, Frank and Charlie Price and Jeb Cotton were to share the Scouts' watch, Mr. Harkness having promised to 'phone to their various homes explaining their absences. In charge of the four punchers was Blinky, who had also been given orders by Mr. Harkness to keep the boys out of mischief. The cattle, however, grew so restive during the afternoon that the attention of the punchers was fully occupied in "riding them." It seemed to soothe the bovines to have their guardians constantly near them.

"The brutes smell Injuns, just as sure as my name is Blinky Small,"

declared Blinky emphatically.

The boys, after riding a few rounds with the punchers, began to find this occupation growing monotonous, and looked about for some other means of diversion.

"I know," shouted Tubby suddenly.

"Tubby's got an idea," laughed Merritt.

"Tell him to hold it. He may never get another," jeered Rob.

"Let's play ball," went on the stout youth, absolutely unperturbed by the laughter Rob's comment aroused.

"Fine," came sarcastically from one of the boys. "Where's the bat?"

"Where's the ball?"

"Where are the mitts?"

"Oh, where's the earth?" interrupted Tubby impatiently, stemming the tide of objections. "Say, can't you fellows play ball without a big league collection of stuff?"

"Well, here's a bit of board I can trim down a bit and make a bat of,"

said Jeb Cotton.

"Good for you, Jeb. You are a young man of resource and ingenuity.

You'll make a good scout. How's this for a ball?"

The stout youth held up a rounded bowlder, which must have weighed at least four pounds.

"Oh, rats! Say, what do you want to do--brain us?"

"Couldn't," responded Tubby enigmatically.

"Couldn't what?"

"Brain you."

"Why?"

"Haven't got any."

"Any what?"

"B-r-a-i-n-s, brains!" yelled Tubby, retreating to a safe distance.