The Rambler Club on the Texas Border

“Honestly, fellows, I can hardly keep from shouting hip, hip, hurrah—rah, rah, rah, all the time. Just think, here we are, out for adventure. Yes, I’ve got to let it go. Rah, rah, rah for the Ramblers, and ditto for the Texas Rangers!”

It was a big, husky-looking chap who uttered this rapid flow of words, and the shout which ended his sentence rang through the spacious square room of the ranch-house so lustily that his hearers, a crowd of six boys and two men, broke into a storm of laughter.

The shining eyes of Cranny Beaumont, once of Kingswood, Wisconsin, and later of Tacoma, Washington, would have told of his delight and exuberant spirits without this corroborative evidence. And his companions, or at least the boys, looked just as happy as he.

The Rambler Club and Cranny Beaumont, the impetuous, the reckless, the daring but always rollicking, light-hearted lad, were once more in each other’s company and eager for the adventurous life which they hoped would be theirs for a few weeks to come.

It was rather an odd assortment of boys and men which lounged informally about the room. Beside the five Ramblers,—Bob Somers, Dave Brandon, Tom Clifton, Dick Travers, Sam Randall and their friend Don Stratton, the son of a New Orleans financier,—there were present Sergeant Robson Howell and Private Carl Alvin of the Ranger force at Texas.

Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton were easily the most conspicuous members of the club. The former, stout, round-faced, with twinkling eyes that betrayed a wealth of good humor, was an excellent foil to the tall, active Tom, whose shoulders, now broadening out, gave him quite the appearance of a formidable athlete.

All the lads with the exception of Don Stratton showed the beneficial effects of outdoor life. Clear skins, cheeks flushed with the ruddy hue of health, and keen steady eyes stamped each with an air of vigor and strength.

Cranny Beaumont hadn’t lived out in the open as much as his friends, but to none did that life hold a stronger appeal. As he ceased pacing the floor, to come to a halt before the window, his eyes rested upon two brown-patched mustangs tethered to hitching-posts near the broad flight of steps which led to the entrance. To him these restless, stamping animals, surcharged with life, dynamic with force and energy, seemed fairly to breathe the spirit of the plains. In his mind’s eye he could see those vast reaches, the great herds of cattle roaming over them and the cowboys on their lonely rounds. It was a pleasant picture to contemplate, even though it loomed only in the shadowy depths of his imagination, and a loud whoop almost involuntarily escaped his lips.