[Illustration: HE WAVED HIS HAND]




  The Rambler Club
  with the
  Northwest Mounted

  BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

  AUTHOR OF

  “THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB’S WINTER CAMP”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB’S GOLD MINE”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB’S AEROPLANE”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB’S HOUSE-BOAT”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB’S MOTOR CAR”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB’S BALL NINE”
  “THE RAMBLER CLUB’S FOOTBALL TEAM”

  Illustrated by the Author

  [Illustration]

  THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
  PHILADELPHIA
  MCMXIV




  COPYRIGHT
  1914 BY
  THE PENN
  PUBLISHING
  COMPANY




Introduction


When Bob Somers and his four friends, of Kingswood, Wisconsin, formed
the Rambler Club they probably had little idea of the numerous and
exciting adventures which were before them. These are related in: “The
Rambler Club Afloat,” “The Rambler Club’s Winter Camp,” “The Rambler
Club in the Mountains,” “The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch,” “The
Rambler Club Among the Lumberjacks,” “The Rambler Club’s Gold Mine,”
“The Rambler Club’s Aeroplane,” “The Rambler Club’s House-boat,” “The
Rambler Club’s Motor Car,” and “The Rambler Club’s Ball Nine.”

The present book carries them to the great Northwest Territories,
patrolled by that famous body of men known as the Royal Northwest
Mounted Police. Their intention was to camp out, to see the country,
and to meet their old-time friend, Jed Warren, of Circle T Ranch,
Wyoming, who had become a member of the force. The lads’ plans,
however, are thoroughly disarranged at the start by an unwelcome
surprise, and their energies are immediately turned into other
channels. They do see a great deal of the country, and are also mixed
up with some of the affairs of the “riders of the plains.” In a great
measure this is brought about through the agency of big blond Larry
Burnham; and the astonishing events which follow an apparently trivial
occurrence surprise the lads as much as they do the Royal Northwest
Mounted.

In “The Rambler Club’s Football Eleven” is told the interesting
experiences of the club at the Wentworth Preparatory School. Here,
again, many unexpected things take place.

                                                    W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD.




Contents


      I. AT THE BARRACKS                    9

     II. “WHERE IS JED WARREN?”            22

    III. TEDDY BANES                       39

     IV. IN THE SADDLE                     49

      V. THE INDIAN VILLAGE                62

     VI. BILLY ASHE                        78

    VII. THE FIRST CAMP                    90

   VIII. THE STAMPEDE                     105

     IX. LARRY HAS A PLAN                 117

      X. FOOL’S CASTLE                    126

     XI. THE RIDER                        136

    XII. TOM FOLLOWS                      145

   XIII. SMUGGLERS                        157

    XIV. LARRY’S COURAGE                  167

     XV. CAPTURED                         178

    XVI. THE LOADED WAGON                 188

   XVII. THE WHOLE CROWD                  199

  XVIII. ASKING QUESTIONS                 209

    XIX. BOB RIDES ALONE                  219

     XX. THE RANCH-HOUSE                  235

    XXI. LOST                             251

   XXII. A CRY FOR HELP                   262

  XXIII. BILLY ASHE IS DISAPPOINTED       270

   XXIV. THE PRISONER                     281

    XXV. EVERYBODY HAPPY                  299

   XXVI. FACING THE SERGEANT              303




Illustrations


          PAGE

  “SORRY YOU’RE GOING SO SOON, BOYS”        _Frontispiece_

  “HOW DO YOU DO?”                                      67

  “GOOD LUCK, OLD BOY”                                 147

  THE WHOLE CROWD WAS THERE                            203

  HE LOOKED UP AT THE MAN                              273




The Rambler Club Among the Northwest Mounted




CHAPTER I

AT THE BARRACKS


Sergeant Jarvis Erskine of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police,
stationed at a lonely outpost barracks, was hard at work on his
headquarters’ report. Occasionally the sergeant, a tall, spare man
with a military bearing, stopped to stroke his iron-gray moustache,
while a serious expression now and again seemed to creep into his keen,
deep-set eyes. He glanced toward his lone companion, Teddy Banes, a
half-breed, who sat so motionless in a shadowed corner of the room as
to give the impression that he was enjoying a doze.

Teddy Banes, often employed by the police as a trail-breaker and scout,
had on many occasions rendered valuable assistance to the “riders of
the plains.” And though his sullen, morose nature prevented him from
being a favorite, he possessed the confidence and esteem of the men at
the post.

“Banes,” exclaimed Sergeant Erskine, finally breaking the monotonous
silence which the ticking of the clock and the rustling of the breeze
had served to render oppressive, “I’m afraid this is bad business.”
With his pen half poised in the air, he turned once more to the
half-breed, his eyes running over the long, lean form huddled up in the
chair. “I say this is bad business,” repeated the sergeant, in a louder
key. “One of the most promising young men on the force! I don’t like to
think it, but----”

For the first time, Teddy Banes stirred, shifting his position so that
the light fell full across his swarthy, large-featured face and long
black hair.

“Yes, a bad business, sergeant,” he echoed. “He gone. No one ever see
him more. He--what you call him--deserter.”

The palm of the sergeant’s hand came down upon his desk with a bang.

“Aye! It looks that way, man. And a fine, well-built chap he was, too.”

“Bad man scare him, maybe,” said the half-breed, sinking back into his
former position.

“Jed Warren didn’t look like a chap who could be easily frightened,”
answered Erskine, with a negative shake of his head. “It’s a most
unfortunate affair--a mystery that the Northwest Mounted Police are
going to solve in mighty short order.”

The explosive force with which the sergeant uttered these words seemed
to have the effect of jerking Teddy Banes to his feet. He began to pace
slowly to and fro, his gaunt shadow trailing fantastically over the
floor and walls of the sturdy log cabin.

“He is not the first who has crossed the United States border and never
come back,” he exclaimed, “and----”

“Aye, that’s so,” agreed the military-looking sergeant, “but, somehow,
I can’t believe it of Warren. He should have reported here at least a
week ago.”

“For sure,” grunted Banes.

“Of course a good many things could happen to a trooper in a vast
country like this, but a man of his intelligence ought certainly to
have been able to get some word to the post.”

Teddy Banes came to a halt in front of one of the windows and gazed
reflectively out into the black, gloomy night. Borne over the air,
blending in with the sighing breeze and faint whisperings of grasses
and leaves, came the musical chirping of crickets, or the occasional
cry of some nocturnal bird.

“Guess we never know,” he said, laconically.

Sergeant Erskine made no reply, but an uplifting of his eyebrows and
a sudden tightening of his lips indicated that he did not agree with
Teddy Banes’ views.

For fully ten minutes neither man spoke. Then the sergeant looked
toward the half-breed, who had resumed his place in the chair. “Banes,”
he said, abruptly, “what in thunder is the matter with you?”

“Matter with me!” echoed Teddy. “What you mean?”

“Why don’t you say something, instead of sitting there like a bronze
statue?”

“Me?--I got nothings to say.”

“What are you thinking about, then?”

“What I think about?”

“Yes. I can’t stand a man sitting around looking into space. It gets on
my nerves. But if you’re trying to think out a solution of this little
affair I’ll forgive you.” The sergeant, having finished his report,
rose to his feet and strode across the floor, his tall, erect form
coming to a halt before the half-breed. “Teddy,” he said, “you’ve done
some pretty good work for the police, and in the job that’s ahead of us
you must do your share.”

“Why for you ask that, sergeant?” queried the other. The monotonous
tone of his voice rose slightly. “Always I work hard for the police. Me
the best frien’ they have; they the best frien’s I have.”

“Correct,” answered the sergeant, with a short laugh.

A strict disciplinarian, Sergeant Jarvis Erskine, a man whom all
his subordinates highly respected and liked, yet feared, had always
treated the scout with a consideration which often excited the envy and
wonder of the troopers at the post; and while his stern presence and
penetrating voice may have sometimes awed them it never seemed to have
that effect upon the imperturbable, sullen Teddy Banes.

The officer turned on his heel and opened the door, to let a flood of
light pour out for a short distance over the ground. To his left he saw
the men’s quarters, still illuminated, and faintly heard the sound of
their voices. A dim yellow beam shone from one of the stable windows,
but beyond and on all sides contours and forms were lost in the
darkness of the night. The pine-clad hill to the north might as well
have been a part of the sky for all that could be seen of its bold,
rugged sides, which dropped abruptly to the plain. Between the rifts of
cloud, now beginning to break away, a few stars beamed brightly upon
the earth.

To the grizzled and seasoned veteran of the Royal Mounted Police the
uninspiring sight made no impression, and the sudden and peculiar
manner with which he stepped outside the door was not caused by any
phenomenon of nature.

“Banes,” he called sharply, “come here!”

The lethargic movements of the scout seemed suddenly to desert him. A
few long strides took him to the officer’s side.

“Banes”--the sergeant spoke with curious intensity--“listen!”

“Ah, you have hear something, sergeant?”

“Yes--most assuredly,” answered Erskine. “All the men are at quarters,
yet that thick blackness out there hides either one man or several.
Perhaps Jed Warren is----”

“No, me think not,” interrupted Banes. “For sure he crossed the line.
No--never see him more.”

The half-breed paused, for his keen ears had suddenly detected the
sound of human voices. True they were so faint and partly swallowed
up in the breeze that only a man whose ears were trained by long
experience would have noticed them.

“They were louder than that before, Banes,” exclaimed the sergeant.

“Wonder who it be?”

“Evidently some one who isn’t afraid of traveling on a dark night.”

“They come this way, I think.”

“I only hope it’s Jed Warren, or some one with a message from him.
This is not quite the hour for receiving visitors.” Erskine chuckled
audibly. “Still, my suspicions are always roused when men pass by the
brightly-lighted barracks of the police without stopping in to say
howdy-do.”

“Yes; for they sure come this way,” said Teddy Banes. “One, two,
three--four, maybe.”

“Yes; and mounted, as every respectable man ought to be in a country
like this. I’ll stake my month’s pay I heard the neigh of a horse.”

“For sure. I hear him, too.”

Straining all their faculties the two stepped from the bright light
which issued from the open door and windows into the gloom beyond. For
some time neither uttered a sound. But, at length, as the voices which
had so aroused their curiosity were no longer heard, Sergeant Erskine
spoke up:

“I’ve a good mind to saddle my horse and take a run out on the prairie.”

The half-breed grunted a monosyllable.

“Since Jed Warren’s unaccountable disappearance,” went on the sergeant,
“I am more particular than ever to look over every one who passes this
way.”

“You take lantern then, I s’pose?” said Teddy Banes, a touch of sarcasm
in his tone.

The sergeant laughed dryly.

“Quite good, Banes,” he said. “Ah! Did you hear that?”

“Certain I hear him,” answered the half-breed.

“I reckon you are right, Banes. They seem to be headed this way. From
the prairie these barracks must shine like a constellation.”

“Nobody could miss him but one who wants to,” remarked Teddy, sagely.

“I’m still hoping Jed Warren may be among that party.”

“No--no!”

“What makes you so confounded sure about it, Banes? Why in thunder do
you always insist he’s a deserter?”

“Why?” echoed Teddy, sharply. “How many times you say same thing?”

“Well, suppose I have? I won’t believe it until it’s proved. Guess it
isn’t necessary to saddle up, Banes. That bunch out there is coming
nearer every minute.”

The sound of voices was certainly growing louder, while occasionally
the hoof-beats of horses easily overcame the whisperings and sighings
of nature.

For a long time no visitors had been at the post. Now and again a ranch
owner or some of his men stopped in to while away a few hours at the
barracks; and all received a generous welcome at the lonely outpost
station, where the police sometimes grew tired of always seeing only
one another’s faces.

Within a short time the noise made by the advancing riders grew to
such proportions that several troopers hurried out of the mess room
to join their commanding officer. And the rays of light which flashed
across their forms showed them to be strong, athletic-looking chaps who
carried themselves as erect as any soldiers in the Dominion.

It was quite evident that all were full of curiosity, even eagerness,
to let their eyes rest upon the newcomers; and the steady progress with
which the latter were now approaching made it quite certain that their
wishes would soon be gratified.

“It sounds like a pretty big crowd,” remarked Trooper Farr to Jack
Stanford.

“’Tain’t often around here that so many’s travelin’ together.”

“Maybe they’re from Cummin’s ranch, to tell us the cattle rustlers have
done a couple more jobs,” said Stanford.

“Or perhaps Jed Warren has rounded up that band of smugglers he was
after an’ is bringin’ ’em in single-handed,” laughed Phil Cole.

Several minutes passed while the men busily conjectured and theorized.
Then, from out of the shadows, there appeared a number of dusky patches
so blended and lost in the surrounding darkness that only the sharpest
eyes could have detected the forms of horses and riders.

“Stanford,” commanded Sergeant Erskine, “go back to the mess room, get
a lantern and hurry down to the gate. Those chaps are going to miss
it by more than a few yards; and we won’t ask ’em to hurdle over the
fence.”

“If Stanford isn’t quick they may ride into it and bump their noses,”
said Cole, pleasantly.

Stanford was quick, however. He almost immediately returned with a
lighted lantern, which sent curious streaks and dashes of yellow rays
darting in all directions, then, followed by Trooper Farr, walked
rapidly toward the gate.

Sergeant Erskine and the others waited and watched with the keenest
interest.

Suddenly they heard a loud hail from the distance and an answering
salutation from Stanford.

It was quite the most unusual event which had happened at the post for
several months; and those standing close to the barracks experienced a
feeling of satisfaction when they heard the gate beginning to creak.

And now from the direction of the swinging lantern came the sound
of clear, lusty voices, with the heavier tones of Stanford and Farr
joining in.

It soon became evident from bits of conversation which were carried
crisply over the air that the visitors had not stumbled accidentally
upon police headquarters. Even Sergeant Erskine, whose stern exterior
seldom reflected emotion of any sort, felt a rather curious thrill when
he heard Jed Warren’s name pronounced by various voices.

“Ah, Banes, I reckon we’re going to have some news from him after all,”
he remarked.

The half-breed made no answer. All the intensity of his small black
eyes was fixed in the direction of the gate, where the body of horsemen
were now filing in. On they came, galloping across the grounds with an
abandon that showed them to be skilful riders.

An instant later the friendly lights of the barracks plucked forms and
faces from the obscurity. And even Sergeant Erskine allowed a slight
gasp of surprise to escape him when he noted that the travelers,
instead of being the troop of hardy men he had expected to see, were
but a healthy-looking lot of lads.




CHAPTER II

“WHERE IS JED WARREN?”


“Is Sergeant Erskine of the Royal Mounted Police here?”

All the boys had swung from the saddle, and one of their number,
advancing toward the grinning and astonished members of the police, had
asked the question.

“Great Scott!” murmured Cole. “What does this mean?--a lot o’ kids!”

“I am Sergeant Erskine,” answered the officer. His eyes ran over his
questioner, taking in every detail of the well-set, sturdy figure which
stood before him. “Who are you, and where do you come from?”

A very tall lad, looming up behind the first speaker, took it upon
himself to answer.

“We’re the Rambler Club of Wisconsin,” he said, in a tone which seemed
to indicate that he felt this announcement ought to create an enormous
sensation.

“The Rambler Club of Wisconsin!” exclaimed Sergeant Erskine, while
several loud guffaws came from his men. “Who are they?”

“My name is Bob Somers,” began the lad who had spoken first, “and----”

“Bob Somers!” interrupted Sergeant Erskine. “Well--a light breaks in
upon me, as the fellow in the only play I ever saw remarked. If I
haven’t heard Jed Warren mention your name about fifty times I won’t
take the next furlough that’s coming to me.”

“What’s this we hear about Jed Warren having disappeared?” demanded the
tall lad, abruptly.

“Yes, I know all about you chaps now,” said Erskine, without heeding
this remark. “You boys exchanged a lot of letters with Jed. He told me
he’d asked you to come out.”

“And we’re here,” said the tall member of the group.

“Said you could have lots of fun in the Northwest Territories camping
out, hobnobbing with an occasional policeman or ranch owner.”

“And perhaps incidentally rounding up a bunch of smugglers or cattle
rustlers,” snickered Farr.

“Hey?” said the big boy, quite fiercely.

“Well, Ramblers,” continued the sergeant, “I’m sorry you came all this
way to meet with disappointment. Your friend is not here, and we don’t
know when he will be.”

A chorus of remarks and questions which immediately began to flow from
the lads was cut short by a wave of Sergeant Erskine’s big hand.

“Easy, boys, easy,” he counseled. Then, turning to Farr, he asked:
“Who’s on stable duty to-night?”

“Stephen Stevens, sir,” answered the trooper.

“Well, tell him to take charge of the horses. Now, boys,” he added,
“come inside. I suppose you must be pretty tired. How long have you
been in the saddle?”

“Ever since early this morning,” answered the tall Rambler. “Tired! Oh,
I guess not. I’m good for another twenty mile jaunt. You see we’re used
to this sort of thing, and----”

“Tom Clifton is the greatest fellow that ever happened outside the
covers of a story book,” came in a drawling voice from some one.
“Never gets tired; never gets sleepy. He could look a grizzly bear in
the face without even winking. It’s a wonder to me that----”

“Oh, cut it all out, Larry Burnham,” snapped the other. “I wasn’t born
lazy, for one thing. Are we coming in? Yes, sergeant; right away.”

As they fell in behind Erskine’s tall, erect figure the troopers led
their tired mounts toward the stables.

On two sides of the barracks were long benches, and upon these six lads
were soon seated comfortably.

“Sergeant Erskine,” began Bob Somers, “we’ve heard a good deal about
you from Jed. Now I’ll introduce the crowd.”

The “crowd” promptly stood up, while Bob Somers, with a wave of his
hand toward each, in a delightfully informal fashion, made known their
names.

“Dave Brandon,” he said, indicating a stout, round-faced lad; “Tom
Clifton”--his hand dropped on the tall boy’s wrist; “Sam Randall; Dick
Travers, and Larry Burnham.”

“Last and least,” murmured Tom, sotto voce.

“A most promising football player,” went on Bob, “who thought he’d like
to take a little jaunt out to the Northwest Territories with us.”

“That’s putting it pretty mild, Bob,” snickered Tom Clifton. “If Larry
didn’t coax and plead to come along I’ll----”

“Just listen to the little story-book hero!” growled Larry, in accents
of disgust. “It’s a wonder I ever got his permission, I’m sure.”

“See here, fellows,” interposed Bob Somers, “we haven’t found out yet
why Jed isn’t here.”

“That’s so,” cried Tom. “Those chaps who met us at the gate didn’t say
very much, but what they did say sounded kind of queer.”

“I should sort o’ think it did,” agreed Larry Burnham.

All the boys had reseated themselves except the latter; and, as the
sergeant’s eyes rested on his six feet of solid bone and muscle, he
thought to himself that, for physique, he had never seen a better
specimen than the blond youth before him. But he also noticed a
curious droop in Larry’s mouth and a generally dissatisfied expression
on his face which seemed to indicate that the “promising football
player” might not be a very pleasant companion to have around.

“I say, sergeant, where is Jed Warren?” inquired Tom Clifton, who
possessed a remarkably gruff voice.

“He gone, an’ no one ever see him more,” exclaimed Teddy Banes,
abruptly.

“Gone!--gone from the post?” gasped Tom Clifton. “What in thunder do
you mean? Why, we got a letter from Jed just a short time ago telling
us what a dandy time we could have out here!”

“Perhaps Sergeant Erskine will be willing to explain,” interposed
Dave Brandon, who, with his eyes half shut, was leaning in a most
comfortable position against the wall.

“Not the least objection, I’m sure,” answered Erskine, drawing a chair
up before the group and seating himself. “You see, quite recently
a slick band of smugglers has begun operations in this part of the
country, and though we’ve been pretty hot on their trail at times,
somehow they’ve always managed to elude us. Banes knows all about it,
don’t you, Banes?”

“Eh--what you mean?” demanded Banes, coming a step forward, his morose,
bronzed face turned full upon his questioner.

“What I say,” laughed Erskine. “I guess you’ll get mixed up in a tussle
with them yet, Banes. But I can see by your faces, boys, that you’re in
suspense. So here’s the story.”

“Please do let us have it fast,” said Tom.

“I will, son. Jed Warren was sent off on a special assignment to trace
up several clues which we felt certain would finally land the smugglers
in our net.”

“Well?” queried Tom.

“He had strict orders to report on a certain date. And that date was
passed more than a week ago.”

“Gee whiz!” exclaimed Tom.

“I suppose, sergeant, you’ve sent out men to look for him?” drawled
Dave Brandon.

“Your supposition is quite correct,” answered Erskine. “We have means
of tracing people, and our men kept on Warren’s trail until a certain
point was reached. Then--well--the man was nowhere to be found--he had
vanished.”

“Some accident must have happened to him,” exclaimed Sam Randall. “We
met Jed on the plains of Wyoming, and you couldn’t find a straighter,
squarer fellow than he.”

“I’ll subscribe to that,” put in Bob Somers.

“When anybody says anything good about Jed Warren I’ll agree to it,”
remarked Dick Travers.

“Never having seen the hero I can’t say,” drawled Larry Burnham, with
a sidelong glance at Tom. “But I’ve heard enough about him to make me
think he’s a wonder.”

“You’re as sour as you are big,” growled Tom.

“Go on, sergeant; please finish your story,” pleaded Dick Travers.

“I don’t know about any accident happening to Warren,” resumed the
sergeant, “for we pretty soon struck a clue which makes things look bad
for him.”

“What!--How?” cried Tom Clifton, springing to his feet.

A ripple of exclamations came from the others. Sergeant Erskine
surveyed them gravely.

“Just this: his horse was recovered on the other side of the
international border. It had evidently been turned loose. What do you
make out of that?”

“Never see him more,” exclaimed Teddy Banes.

“You mean to say that Jed--Jed Warren--is a deserter?” demanded Bob
Somers, incredulously.

“We let the facts speak for themselves,” answered Erskine. “If you were
not such particular friends of his I might tell you that the Mounted
Police are not accustomed to discuss their affairs with strangers,
but----”

“Of course we understand,” said Dave Brandon.

“What are the facts? Just these: It takes a man of resourcefulness
and iron nerve to work on the kind of a case we put into Jed Warren’s
hands.”

“Jed has both,” broke in Tom Clifton.

The sergeant inclined his head, then resumed:

“At any rate, we have reliable evidence that your friend was last seen
near the international boundary line. The next piece of information
which came to us is the declaration of a border patrol who says Warren
told him he was disgusted with the job.”

“I can’t believe Jed Warren is a deserter!” fairly exploded Tom
Clifton. His eyes were flashing. “It’s all ridiculous!”

“Don’t get excited, Tom,” counseled Larry Burnham.

“Why do you think for an instant he’d have asked us to come out here if
he intended to desert?”

“Perhaps you will give us your views on the subject,” said Sergeant
Erskine, with a quizzical light in his eye.

“Do, Tom; let’s have ’em,” drawled Larry.

“All I’ve got to say is this,” declared Tom, hotly: “that no one could
ever get me to believe Jed Warren is that sort of a chap--no sir!”

“You wrong, then,” interrupted Teddy Banes. “Bah! You know nothings.”

The tall lad turned upon him wrathfully.

“And what do you know?” he demanded.

“What I know? You ask him.” The half-breed’s bony finger was pointed
directly at Erskine.

“Teddy Banes is one of the best scouts the police ever employed,”
explained the sergeant. “The coyote hasn’t much on him when it comes
to following trails. When he thinks a man has crossed the border
line I’m pretty well satisfied he has; and Banes”--Erskine paused
impressively--“says he doesn’t see how the evidence could mean anything
else.”

“Goodness gracious! It seems to me we’re always running into some sort
of a mystery,” sighed the stout boy, whose eyes were now wide open.

“That’s so. When we’re around something is always happening,” said Dick
Travers.

“And, from what Tom Clifton says, I should judge the Rambler Club is
one of the greatest mystery-solving organizations in America,” gurgled
Larry Burnham.

“Oh, but you do make me tired, Larry,” burst out Tom, darting an angry
look at the big blond boy. “But I can tell you this”--he stopped an
instant to give his words added effect--“we came up in Canada to camp
out, and to see the country; but I vote that we get busy on this case,
and--and--help to solve it.”

To Tom’s intense indignation, the usually quiet and undemonstrative
Larry began to roar with laughter. He slapped his knees, poked Dave
Brandon violently in the ribs, and ended up his outburst by slapping
Dick Travers on the shoulder.

“I thought so; I thought so!” he cried. “Think of his nerve,
fellows--talking that way before an officer of the Royal Mounted
Police! If they can’t solve the mystery Tom’ll do it for ’em. Now I
sort o’ think the sergeant ought to be pleased.”

“Oh, get out!” scoffed Tom, a trifle disconcerted to find the stern,
deep-set eyes of Sergeant Erskine leveled full upon him. “Do you
suppose we’re going to sit around and do nothing while Jed is suspected
of being a deserter? Well, I guess not!”

“What you do?” demanded Banes, with a guttural laugh.

“You’ll find out one of these days,” answered Tom.

The sergeant’s eyes were beginning to twinkle.

“I had no idea we were to receive a visit from so highly trained a
body,” he remarked, with a tinge of sarcasm in his tones. “Candidly, my
curiosity’s aroused: tell me something about yourselves, and how you
were able to find your way to our barracks on a dark night like this.”

“Dave Brandon is our historian,” laughed Bob. “Speak up, Dave, and
oblige the sergeant.”

Dave protested; he tried to pass along the honor. But, by unanimous
vote, the others overruled him. So the “historian,” with a sigh, began.

It was quite a long story that Sergeant Erskine heard, and frequently a
slight smile played about his mouth. At times he asked questions, too,
which brought a snapping light into Tom Clifton’s eyes, for they seemed
to indicate doubt on the part of the speaker.

“Well, well,” he exclaimed finally, leaning back in his chair and
fumbling a heavy watch fob which hung from his pocket. “’Pon my word,
it’s quite remarkable! What do you think of it, Banes?”

“Not much. I think nothings of it,” answered the half-breed, surlily.
“It is like the big wind in the trees which makes a noise and nothing
more.”

Erskine came as near to laughing as he ever did, while Larry Burnham
immediately went into another paroxysm of mirth.

“A corking good simile,” he exclaimed. “How about it, Tom? For
goodness’ sake, don’t look so mad.”

“Who’s mad?” sneered Tom.

“You mustn’t mind Teddy Banes,” said Sergeant Erskine. “He generally
speaks his mind pretty freely. So you steered your way here by the aid
of maps and a compass, eh?”

“But it was only by good luck that we managed to hit it right,”
remarked Dave, modestly.

“Our field-glass helped some, too,” supplemented Bob. “You see, we
reached the summit of a hill--it was a mighty long way from here, too;
but the instrument obligingly picked out these lights.”

“So we guessed they must come from either a ranch-house or a barracks,”
finished Tom.

“An’ it wasn’t any easy job to keep steerin’ in the right direction,”
interposed Larry Burnham. “We got mixed up so often that I began to
think we were in for another little snooze under the stars.”

“Well, boys, you’re all right,” said Erskine, heartily. “I can see that
your outdoor life has made you self-reliant, anyway. There’s plenty of
room for you over in the men’s quarters, so I invite the crowd to stay.”

“An’ I sort o’ think we’ll accept,” drawled Larry. “Outdoor life may
make a chap self-reliant, but it can also give him a confounded lot of
aches an’ pains.”

“Humph!” sniffed Tom, “you’re not seasoned yet.”

“I’m seasoned enough to get pretty hot at times,” growled Larry.

“How long you stay here?” demanded Teddy Banes, suddenly.

“We won’t get back over the boundary line until this Jed Warren affair
is settled,” answered Tom, firmly.

“Bah! You can do nothings. It makes me laugh.”

“Well, laugh, then,” retorted Tom. “I guess we won’t mind.”

“It seems pretty certain that I shall have to do some more writing in
that book of mine,” Dave Brandon was saying to Bob Somers.

“And I guess that means another serial for the Kingswood High School
‘Reflector,’” said Larry Burnham. “What’s that, sergeant--do we want
a bite to eat? No, thanks. We’ve had our canned goods, salt pork and
other delicacies.”

“And I’m uncommonly glad to have found a good place to rest,” said
Dave. “A thousand thanks, sergeant.”

Erskine nodded.

“You’re more than welcome,” he said. He turned toward Sam Randall, who
had asked a question in regard to the duties and work of the Royal
Northwest Mounted Police. “Yes; I don’t mind telling you something
about it,” he answered.

Erskine was so disarmed by the liveliness and hearty good spirits of
the crowd that his usually severe and frigid demeanor unconsciously
slipped away.

So the boys soon learned many interesting things about the hardships
and dangers which often confront the police. As Dave said, it was
very delightful to sit in the comfortable barracks and listen to tales
which often thrilled. Each member of the group, however, would have
felt a great deal more lighthearted but for their disappointment at
not meeting Jed Warren and the added feeling of apprehension which his
strange absence caused.




CHAPTER III

TEDDY BANES


After their many hours in the saddle the lads spent a comfortable
night in the men’s quarters. True, Dave Brandon and Larry Burnham were
the only ones fortunate enough to have bunks; but the other “seasoned
veterans of mountains and plains,” as Larry facetiously dubbed them,
rolled themselves up in blankets and slept as soundly as though in
their own bedrooms at home.

On the following morning all were astir soon after the beams of light
from the rising sun began to trace their cheerful course over the
somber walls. They met two other troopers besides Stanford, Farr and
Cole, and each declared himself heartily pleased to see the visitors.

“I hope to thunder you’re going to hang around here for a while, boys,”
said Stanford, as they all sat at a long table in the mess room eating
breakfast.

“Can’t,” answered Tom Clifton, laconically.

“Why not?”

“Well, you see, we’ve got to hunt for Jed Warren.”

“Tom is bound to give some pointers to the Mounted Police,” remarked
Larry, with his usual drawl.

“Don’t try to be funny,” snapped Tom.

“You’re the only one around here that’s funny,” said the “promising
football player,” with conviction.

“It’s too early in the morning to start scrapping, fellows,” laughed
Dave. “What’s the program for to-day, Bob?”

“Of course I agree with Larry that it’s all nonsense for us to expect
to beat the police at their own game,” began Bob. “Still----”

“Still what?” interposed Tom, with a toss of his head.

“Sergeant Erskine was good enough to tell me the direction in which Jed
was going. He gave me a lot of other clues, too, which may help us to
follow him up.”

“I knew you’d agree with my plan!” cried Tom, enthusiastically.

“His plan!” snickered Larry.

“Well, I’ll leave it to the crowd: didn’t I tell Sergeant Erskine last
night----”

“Oh, yes--that the bunch was going to solve the mystery,” jeered Larry.

“Wouldn’t make us jealous a bit if you did, I’m sure,” said Stephen
Stevens, with a hearty laugh. “Poor old Jed! He seemed to be a pretty
good sort. For my part, I don’t believe a word of all this yawp about
his deserting.”

“Can’t say I like the way his nag was found, though,” said Cole,
shaking his head.

“Nor me, either,” admitted Farr.

“And Warren was certainly too good a rider to get thrown,” came from
Stanford.

“I’m afraid Jed may have met with some serious accident,” said Sam
Randall, thoughtfully. “I do wish to thunder all this hadn’t happened.
We were going to have such dandy fun camping out.”

“I’ve got an idea that Jed’s all right,” insisted Tom, stoutly. “Say,
fellows, what do you think? The sarge told me last night----”

From the tone of his voice one might have supposed that Tom and the
sergeant had become the greatest of cronies.

“What?” asked Dick Travers.

“Jed’s a Canadian.”

“Get out!” cried Sam Randall.

“It’s a fact. Any of you chaps ever ask him where he came from?”

The noes had it unanimously.

“I knew it,” grinned Tom. “When we met Jed at Circle T Ranch in Wyoming
I always thought he was an out and out bona fide American cowboy. Gee!
A chap can’t be sure about anything--can he?”

“You seem to be sure about everything,” chirped Larry.

“I certainly am sure about your being the laziest fellow who ever
traveled with our crowd,” retorted Tom, witheringly. “Say, Bob, let’s
hurry up. You see, if----”

Tom suddenly stopped, for the faint sound of a footstep just outside
reached his ears; and, on looking up, he saw a lean, muscular form
suddenly appear in the doorway, a proceeding which threw a long, gaunt
shadow over the floor.

As the rosy morning light played across it, Teddy Banes’ swarthy face
suggested a head of bronze.

Tom Clifton was not at all pleased. He had taken a great dislike to
the half-breed, and, somehow, felt it was cordially returned. The
man’s sullen demeanor, a peculiar glint in his eyes, and his apparent
contempt for the club inspired Tom with indignation.

“Good-morning,” saluted Bob Somers.

“Mornin’,” responded Teddy Banes, slipping upon his seat by the table.
“How soon you go away?”

“Right after breakfast,” answered Bob.

“Back to States, eh?”

“Back to the States nothing,” sniffed Tom.

“Why? What you do, then?” inquired Banes, fixing his dark eyes intently
upon him.

“Don’t you worry.”

“What you mean?”

“That our crowd doesn’t intend to get away from Canada until we’ve
learned what happened to Jed Warren--that’s what I mean.”

“I certainly shouldn’t like to,” said Bob, thoughtfully.

“Shouldn’t like to! Well, for my part, I won’t!” cried Tom,
emphatically.

His hand came down on the table with sufficient force to rattle the
dishes.

“If necessary I suppose you’ll clear it all up alone,” teased Larry,
winking in the direction of Farr.

The opportune appearance of the cook to serve the half-breed probably
prevented a lively wrangle between the two, for the crushing retort
which Tom was about to utter remained unspoken.

“One thing I tells you,” remarked Banes; “in a big country like this
you boys get lost--starve, maybe.”

“Just listen to him,” said Tom, disgustedly. “Lost!--Starve! It shows
just how much you know about us, Mr. Teddy Banes. Our crowd has
traveled a lot and been in some pretty tight places--yes, sir. We know
enough to keep out of any very bad mess.”

“Many bad mens around here--smugglers--cattle rustlers,” continued
Banes. “They shoot, maybe--shoot to kill. You laugh! Ah! You think it
is nothings! Ask Stanford; ask Cole. Listen!”--The half-breed raised
a large brown finger in the air. “Much dangerous, I tell you again.
Warren a brave man, yet he get scared; yes--so scared he desert.”

“No such thing!” stormed Tom.

“An’ I say yes. Better go, or maybe you never see home again.”

“That sounds interesting,” exclaimed Larry Burnham. “But in this
confounded big country it wouldn’t be such a hard matter to get lost,
as he says, Tom. An’ who knows but some of the chaps we’d meet might be
pretty rough characters?”

“Oh, if you’re getting frightened,” began Tom.

“No, I’m not getting frightened, but talking common sense. Suppose we
couldn’t find water? Or suppose, for instance----”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t suppose any more. Fellows, let’s escort
Larry over to the nearest railroad station and see him safely aboard,”
said Tom, so disgusted that a hot flush mantled his cheek. “We don’t
want any pullbacks or kickers in this crowd.”

“What’s the use of jawing so much?” put in Sam Randall. “Larry doesn’t
want to back out.”

“You chaps look as if you were able to take care of yourselves,” said
Farr, “and there isn’t much danger as long as you don’t wander too far
away from the settlements or Indian villages. But as for your finding
out anything about Jed Warren!”--he laughed--“sounds rather like a joke
to me.”

“I sort o’ think it does,” drawled Larry.

“Your sort of thinks make me smile,” grumbled Tom.

“I believe in action--not words,” laughed Dave Brandon. “Wake me up,
fellows, when it’s time to start.”

“It’s time now,” cried Dick Travers, jumping to his feet. “Let’s saddle
up, boys, and hit the trail.”

“Where for?” asked one of the troopers.

“Sergeant Erskine told me there is a Cree village a good many miles to
the northwest of here,” answered Bob Somers, “and as he said Jed Warren
passed that way we thought we’d take it in and interview the chief.”

“Indians!” mused Larry, reflectively.

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid, son,” laughed Cole. “There isn’t anything
fierce or warlike about ’em; though years ago, before the herds of
buffalo had given place to long-horned cattle, they used to have some
fierce mix-ups with the Sioux and Blackfeet.”

“I’ll be little Fear-not, with Tom Clifton along,” laughed Larry.

“In a couple of days you no more talk like that,” grumbled Teddy Banes.
“I start for village this morning. We go together.”

This information had the effect of putting Tom in a very bad humor
indeed. He wanted to get away from the sight of Teddy Banes’ sullen
face; and to feel that he was going to have his company all day put
a very frowning expression on his face. He was almost on the point
of objecting, but, seeing that the announcement had no effect on his
companions, refrained.

By the time the crowd had bidden Sergeant Erskine good-bye Stephen
Stevens had the horses saddled and bridled. He saw to it, too, that the
saddle bags were well filled.

The men who wore the scarlet jackets gathered around, as the horses,
refreshed by rest and food, impatiently pawed the ground, or sought to
pull away from restraining hands.

“Sorry you’re going so soon, boys,” said Farr. “Before leaving the
country be sure to drop in and see us again.”

“You can just bet we will--and perhaps we’ll bring some news, too,”
cried Tom, swinging into the saddle. “So-long, sergeant!” He waved his
hand as the commanding figure of Erskine appeared at the headquarters
door. “Whoop! Come on, fellows. The search begins.”

With farewells flung over their shoulders, the six riders galloped
away, leaving the sullen, morose-looking Teddy Banes to follow at his
leisure.

“Bah!” exclaimed the latter to Cole. “Make me sick. Why for you not
tell them to go away?”

“Because I didn’t choose to,” laughed the other. “Besides, I reckon a
few days traveling about with not a soul in sight but themselves will
cure ’em of any hankerin’ to stay.”

“For sure. They go, an’ never come back,” agreed Banes.

And, with a surly nod which took in the entire group, he gave his reins
a jerk, in obedience to which his brown and white-patched horse began
to pound swiftly toward the gate.




CHAPTER IV

IN THE SADDLE


Once out of sight of the police barracks Larry Burnham began to
question the wisdom of his course in accompanying the Ramblers to the
Northwest Territories. It was a very different matter, he reflected, to
sit in an easy chair and read about the kind of experiences they were
having than it was to be an actual participant in them. Every bone and
muscle in his big frame voiced a protest to the strain he had put on
them the day before. Then, too, they had had so many difficulties in
finding the way that the warnings of Teddy Banes began to be forced
unpleasantly on his mind.

Suppose they did get lost? Suppose their canteens were emptied while
they were in the midst of a wild and trackless country far from any
streams or lakes?--what then? And, worst of all, suppose ill-fortune
did throw them in the path of smugglers or other dangerous characters?

The big blond football player didn’t like to think about these things.
But, in spite of his efforts, he often found his mind going over and
over such unpleasant possibilities.

“It strikes me as foolish business,” he murmured. “Then, Tom Clifton
always jumping on me is a trifle more’n I care to stand.”

The sound of a horse’s hoofs rising above the steady patter of the
cavalcade caused him to look around.

Teddy Banes was rapidly overtaking them. With a six-shooter at his
belt, a rifle resting across the pommel of his saddle, and the fringe
of his buckskin coat flapping about, he seemed, in Larry Burnham’s eyes
at least, to typify the country.

His gaze followed the half-breed as he swung toward the head of the
column, and he could not help admiring the superb horsemanship which
every movement of his lithe body expressed.

Although it was still early the day gave an indication of the heat that
was yet to come. Not a cloud flecked the surface of the sky, which
at the horizon became enveloped in a scintillating whitish haze that
almost dazzled the eye.

“It certainly is a vast country,” thought Larry. He raised himself in
his stirrups to gaze in all directions.

On every side it wore the same appearance--waving yellow bunch grass
covering an undulating prairie, with here and there a low line of hills
to break its monotonous uniformity.

And as he gazed upon this immensity of space it seemed to forcibly
impress upon his mind the insignificance of all living things. How
small the horsemen just ahead appeared!

“Great Scott!” he remarked, half aloud. “And yet Tom Clifton has an
idea we may be able to strike that policeman’s trail.”

It all seemed so preposterous--so utterly without reason--that Larry
burst into a peal of laughter, somewhat to the astonishment of Dick
Travers who was cantering several yards in advance. Larry, however,
without offering an explanation, spurred up his horse, soon overtaking
Bob Somers and the half-breed at the head of the column.

“We’re forging ahead, Bob,” he said. “And gee, I certainly do hope
we find some sort of shade by the time the mercury climbs up in the
hundreds.”

“It’s going to be a scorcher, all right,” said Bob, cheerfully.

“What time ought we to reach this Cree village?”

“Late in the afternoon.”

Larry groaned.

“Gee whiz, Bob, I call this pretty hard work,” he groaned. “Yet I
s’pose Tom Clifton’s thinkin’ he’s having the grandest time of his
life.”

“You bet I am,” sang out Tom, who had overheard. “There’s nothing like
having a good horse under you and plenty of space to gallop in, eh,
Bob? Besides, there’s always a chance for adventure.”

“And if we really don’t run into a lot I’ll be surprised,” said Dave
Brandon.

“So will I,” laughed Sam Randall.

“Most likely there are some ranch-houses not so very far from here,”
said Tom; “and if so it means we’re likely to see big bunches of
longhorns roaming over the prairie before very long. Then, perhaps, a
smuggler or two may bob up to help make things interesting.”

Tom glared sternly toward the half-breed, who seemed to be totally
oblivious of their presence.

This remark, however, had the effect of bringing his head sharply
around, to reveal a curious light in his black, snappy eyes.

“Ah, you make fun of Teddy Banes,” he growled. “But you see! How long
you been here?--few days, eh? Me lived here always; yet you know more
already.”

“How could you expect it otherwise?” grinned Larry Burnham. “I sort o’
think it’s Tom Clifton’s privilege to know more’n anybody else.”

A long, low line of hills was looming up before the travelers. Here and
there a dark, scraggly tree spotted their surface, while mingling in
with the soft billowing folds of grass, which, under the effects of the
faint breeze, seemed to ripple like waves of the sea, were stretches of
purplish earth.

“An’ beyond them I suppose it looks just like this; an’ beyond some
other hills just like this again,” grumbled Larry. “Whew, but it’s
gettin’ hot! If there’s any shade on the other side, for goodness’ sake
let’s take a rest. How do you know we’re goin’ in the right direction,
Bob Somers?”

“By the aid of map and compass,” answered Bob. “Of course, though,
Teddy Banes knows the easiest route; so I’m leaving it to him.”

“How far is he going with us?”

“To the Cree village.”

“Then me leave,” grunted the half-breed.

As the seven horsemen cantered swiftly through the tall grass, beating
it under foot, the crest of the hills rose higher and sharper against
the sky. Instead of making directly toward them, as Larry expected,
Teddy Banes soon swerved to the left, and the blond lad finally
discovered that he was leading them toward a point where gray masses of
shadow indicated a deep cleft in the slopes.

Eagerly he kept his eyes on the grateful shade, watching it growing
stronger with a feeling of intense satisfaction; and when at last his
sorrel picked its way into a pass cluttered with underbrush and stones
he gave a shout of approval.

By the side of an overhanging slope the half-breed drew rein.

“Much hot,” he said, using a gorgeously red handkerchief to mop his
perspiring face. “But this is nothings. In a few days you see.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll wait to see,” growled Larry.

“This isn’t anything,” said Tom Clifton. “And I’ll bet it isn’t going
to be a bit hotter. Besides, when a chap’s on a roughing-it expedition
he’s got to expect all sorts of things.”

“Another lecture from the scout-master,” grinned Larry.

“And if he can’t stand ’em, and gets grumpy and sour-faced he ought to
stay at his own cozy little home.”

“Mercy! I suppose a broadside like that ought to bowl me right over,”
said Larry. “When you get to be a doctor, Tom, you’re likely to scare
your patients into recovering fast.”

Tom, with a shrug of his shoulders, turned toward Dave Brandon, the
first to tether his horse and find a comfortable resting place. “Why so
quiet, Dave? What are you thinking about?” he inquired.

The chronicler of the Rambler Club’s adventures made no reply until the
others were sprawling in various attitudes in the most inviting places
they could find. Then he said, slowly:

“Thinking about something serious, Tom.”

“Do let your musings find expression in words,” grinned Clifton.

“Well, you know, we graduated at the Kingswood High School last
term----”

“Gracious sakes, I’ve been trying to forget school,” interrupted the
tall boy.

“I can’t,” said Dave, solemnly. “Every once in a while it persists in
bobbing up in my mind with fearful force.”

“Poor chap--but what’s the use of it now?”

“Well, isn’t the crowd going to enter the Wentworth Preparatory School
next fall?”

“Of course.”

“And that means more hard study--athletics, perhaps, and----”

“Athletics! That’s so!” broke in Tom, his expression undergoing a
wonderful change. “If I don’t become a candidate for a freshman team
Larry isn’t a tenderfoot.”

“My foot isn’t very tender when it comes to kicking a pigskin,”
laughed Larry. “By the way, fellows, I haven’t thought much about it,
but I’d like to enter that school myself.”

“Bully idea! Why don’t you?” asked Sam Randall.

“Well, the fact is, my people aren’t very well fixed.”

“Work your way through school, then. Lots of chaps do it.”

“By George, I sort o’ think it would be a good plan,” said Larry,
forgetting for an instant his usual drawl. “Honest--I’m just aching to
tumble into football togs.”

“And with twelve feet of Clifton and Burnham any eleven ought to be a
winner,” laughed Bob.

Larry was so pleased with the idea that he very nearly forgot the heat
and clouds of insects which persisted in buzzing around his head.

All the discomforts, however, which nature held in store for him were
forcibly recalled to his mind when the half-breed, with a sullen grunt,
commanded them to mount.

The shade did not extend far. Soon, leaving the miniature canyon, they
came out upon the yellow plain once more, to see shimmering heat waves
between them and a hazy distance. The only living object was a flock of
birds, but so far off that none could recognize their species.

Then followed a ride which Larry Burnham never forgot, and which, for
the time being, completely effaced from his mind any pleasing thoughts
of Freshfield Prep School or football.

At his home near Kingswood, Wisconsin, he had considered himself a
pretty good rider. But an occasional jog to town or about the farm was
not at all like spending entire days in the saddle. He looked curiously
at his companions to see if they seemed to be affected in any way by
the ordeal. But all appeared exasperatingly fresh and unconcerned.

Tom Clifton, indeed, wore such an air of joy that Larry felt positively
aggrieved.

“This isn’t quite the thing I bargained for,” he reflected, grimly.
“I imagined a nice camp in a patch of woods, an’ a bit of huntin’
an’ fishin’--not a crazy search after a policeman who has done the
disappearin’ act. Of course he deserted--the chump! Everything points
that way. Gee whiz! Another day o’ this, an’ I think I’ll get out.”

An hour later they reached the bed of a dried up creek fringed on
either side by bushes and scrawny willows. And here Teddy Banes forgot
his usual surly manner long enough to show them many evidences of
ancient buffalo trails.

“Too bad they nearly wiped the poor creatures out,” said Tom.

“I guess you mean it’s too bad they didn’t let a few herds remain to be
targets for the rifles of the Rambler Club,” said Larry, sourly. “How
much further have we to go, Banes?”

“Many miles,” responded the half-breed. “We have just begin.”

“This is certainly the country of long distances,” said Sam Randall,
smiling in spite of himself as he noticed the unhappy expression which
flitted across Larry’s face.

The creek bottom, often overgrown with sage-brush, wound its tortuous
course in a westerly direction toward another line of hills. From the
nostrils and shaggy coats of the horses rose clouds of steam; and,
as they did not wish to push the animals too hard, the aspect of the
ridges changed with exasperating slowness.

Finally, however, they entered another gap, through which the former
water route became strewn with rocks, decaying branches and other
obstructions. All this necessitated slow traveling--a slowness which
sorely taxed Larry Burnham’s patience. And every now and then a rather
indiscreet remark of Tom’s served to further add to his troubled
feelings.

“Yes, sir, I’ve had enough of this,” he muttered, disgustedly. “The
first chance I get I’ll clear out an’ leave this bunch to keep up the
chase all by themselves.”

And Bob, who surmised from Larry’s expression the state of his
feelings, thought to console him.

“It isn’t going to be as bad as this always,” he said.

“I’m quite certain of that,” responded Larry, meaningly.

And nothing occurred during the afternoon’s ride to change a resolution
he had made on a certain point.

It was decided not to halt for lunch, the travelers contenting
themselves with crackers, dried beef, and a drink of water from their
canteens.

At last the half-breed leader left the creek bottom and struck off once
more through the bunch grass toward a third range of thickly-timbered
hills.

On reaching them the boys this time found no convenient pass through
which they might file. The odor of the fragrant balsam and fir filling
the air, with other sweet scents from leaves and grass, was very
delightful to inhale, and the cool bluish shadows trailing over the
ground an agreeable change from the glare of the open spaces.

For the last hour the boys had carried on very little conversation.
Larry himself felt too hot and miserable to utter a word. He was,
therefore, totally unprepared for the view which met his eye upon
reaching the top of the hills.

Down in a basin, or, rather, amphitheater, enclosed on three sides by
the tree-grown slopes, he saw a large collection of Indian teepees. It
was a sight which almost made him join in the exultant shout which came
from Tom Clifton’s lips.




CHAPTER V

THE INDIAN VILLAGE


“Hooray--Cree village!” cried Tom.

“Yes,” assented the half-breed. “Soon you see Wandering Bear, much big
chief, old as a withered tree, but strong.”

Dave Brandon looked earnestly at the picturesque circle of teepees,
one in the center dominating all the rest, and at the red men he could
see on every side. Many, attracted by their appearance, were stalking
solemnly forward.

“Oh, ho, this is mighty interesting,” he murmured. “What a nice
sheltered retreat.” His eyes wandered from the teepees to the break in
the hills beyond, where a silvery streak of white indicated a water
course. “Guess I’ll have to devote a whole chapter in my book to this,
eh, Bob?”

“At least two or three,” laughed Bob.

“Hello,” cried Sam Randall, “what’s that scarlet spot down there? See
it, fellows?”

He pointed toward a group in the furthest part of the encampment.
Strikingly prominent in the midst of the dusky mass was a spot of color.

“Him a policeman,” answered Teddy Banes.

“Great Scott!” cried Dick Travers. “Wouldn’t it be the jolliest luck if
it should prove to be Jed Warren?”

The half-breed sniffed contemptuously.

“He gone, I tell you--never come back.”

“Oh, forget it,” scoffed Tom. “Sail ahead, fellows. Bet I’ll get there
first.”

His challenge was not accepted, mainly on account of the hot and tired
ponies, which, as though anxious to remain under the cooling shadows,
picked their way but slowly down the incline.

The nearer they approached the village the greater became the curiosity
and interest in the picturesque scene before them. The wide basin was
becoming filled with tribesmen; thin, bluish columns of smoke from
various fires ascended almost vertically in the air, while further
afield, cropping the grass, sheltered from the blazing sun by the
hills, were Indian ponies tethered in a long line.

“The real thing beats a moving picture show all hollow,” exclaimed Tom
Clifton, his face glowing with pleasurable anticipation. “Gee! That
redcoat is coming nearer. He’s on foot, too.”

“I wonder what a member of the Northwest Mounted is doing in this
Indian lodge?” drawled Dave.

“Perhaps he will be kind enough to explain,” grinned Sam Randall.

“And if his reasons aren’t mighty good Tom’ll most likely jump on him
hard,” remarked Larry. “Say, fellows, what wouldn’t I give for a nice,
large ice-cream soda!”

Tom laughed uproariously.

“Now I know what’s the matter with you, Larry,” he cried. “If we could
only find a confectionery shop at every corner I reckon that glum
expression would flit away from your face.”

As the last stretch was almost level the horses took it at a good pace;
and, somehow, the boys could not resist sending off on the air a series
of wild whoops, which, in volume of sound, might have rivaled those of
the Crees when they fought against their old-time enemies.

At the base of the hill they were so quickly surrounded that Larry
Burnham began to feel a trifle apprehensive lest such an unceremonious
entrance into the village had offended these descendants of a warlike
race.

In their fringed garments, quaint ornaments, and necklaces made of
gaudily-colored beads or animals’ teeth, with a brave here and there
wearing a feather in his hair, they presented a most picturesque
sight. Grizzled old warriors, young men lithe and sinewy, and squaws
crowding about regarded these white invaders of their domain intently.
But on none of the coppery-colored faces turned toward them could any
expression of surprise be detected.

The jabbering which commenced immediately had not the slightest meaning
to any of the boys, though it served to show them the evident mastery
of Teddy Banes over the Cree dialect. And it was not until a tall,
good-looking youth forced his way to the front that their own voices
became of use.

“Me glad to see you,” exclaimed the Indian, in very good English. “My
name Thunderbolt.”

“Very happy to meet you, Mr. Thunderbolt,” drawled Larry.

“Just the same for me. My grandfather great chief. Him called Wandering
Bear. You come with me. He see you.”

“Yes, we’ll be mighty glad to meet the chief,” said Bob Somers,
smilingly. “How did you learn to speak English?”

“Oh, I have many fren’s. What you call him?--cowpunchers and Billy
Ashe--he teach me lots of things.”

“Who’s Billy Ashe?”

The intelligent-looking brown-skinned lad, at this question,
immediately swung himself around, looking earnestly toward a certain
point, and evidently having seen what he wanted, uttered a grunt of
satisfaction.

“Him,” he said, indicating the trooper in the scarlet jacket, now
approaching with long strides.

“So that’s Billy Ashe, is it?” remarked Dave Brandon.

[Illustration: “HOW DO YOU DO?”]

“Say, Thunderbolt,” broke in Tom Clifton, eagerly, “do you know Jed
Warren?”

“Sure I know him. Why for you ask?”

“Because we’re going to try to find him. You see”--Tom’s hand made a
sweep so wide as to include the entire crowd of lads--“we’re great
friends of his. Came a mighty long distance to see him, too, only to
discover that----”

“Well, well--what does all this mean?”

A voice which showed the possessor to enjoy unusual lung power brought
Tom Clifton’s sentence to a sudden close.

The man who wore the uniform of the Northwest Mounted was surveying the
boys with unfeigned astonishment. His expression of wonderment seemed
to increase each instant, as his eyes traveled from one to another.

“How do you do, Mr. Policeman?” greeted Larry, pleasantly.

“Great Scott--nothing but kids! Search me if I ever saw anything to
beat it. Where on earth did you drop from?” asked the other.

“We rolled down the hill,” answered Tom Clifton, upon whose
sensibilities the word “kids,” and, especially, uttered by one who
did not appear to be so very much older than themselves, had a most
irritating effect.

“Lost--probably!”

This incautious remark further increased Tom’s poor impression of
Trooper Billy Ashe.

“Lost?” he snorted, his eyes flashing with indignation. “Well, I rather
guess not.”

“What in the world are you doing here, then? How did you happen to run
into Teddy Banes?”

In a few words Bob Somers enlightened the surprised trooper of the
Northwest Mounted Police; and Tom obligingly added a few words to the
effect that the crowd had no intention of leaving the country until Jed
Warren was found.

“Jed Warren!” exclaimed Billy Ashe. “You won’t find him in the
Northwest Territories.”

“Why not?” asked Bob Somers.

“Because he’s deserted--that’s why,” answered Ashe, bluntly.

“Just the same thing me told ’em,” put in Teddy Banes. “For sure he
gone.”

Tom bristled up; his color heightened.

“And you could say it a hundred times more, and still I wouldn’t
believe such a thing,” he stormed.

“Oh, go on!” said the trooper, with an impatient shrug of his
shoulders. He was plainly not prepossessed in Tom’s favor. “What do you
know about it, I’d like to ask?”

“And what do you know about it?” retorted Tom.

Billy Ashe’s sun-browned face took on a peculiar expression. He felt
that the uniform he wore should entitle him to a great deal more
deference than was shown by the six-foot lad’s manner.

A loud argument, which the others vainly tried to stop, ensued; and
during this several cowpunchers were observed to come up and mingle
with the Indians. Tom’s eyes flashed as he told in a most emphatic
manner of their hope to aid the missing trooper.

A word from Thunderbolt at last attracted sufficient attention to
change the trend of the conversation.

“You come with me,” invited the young Indian again. “You see my
grandfather--much great chief.”

Turning to the surrounding Indians he addressed them in a sharp,
incisive fashion. Then the groups began to slowly scatter.

Riding closely behind their guide, who led the way in and around the
numerous teepees, the lads finally reached the center of the village.

“It’s a mighty good thing Indians are tame nowadays,” remarked Larry to
Dave Brandon, the nearest to him. “I can kind o’ imagine how prisoners
must have felt when----”

“My grandfather, Wandering Bear,” came in the clear, musical voice of
Thunderbolt.

Before the largest and most imposing teepee the ancient chief, a
striking figure in the full glare of sunlight, stood waiting to receive
them. Wandering Bear, though the oldest Indian in the lodge, held his
herculean proportions as erect as ever.

The chief’s long black hair was plentifully sprinkled with gray, while
myriads of wrinkles seamed his bronze-colored face. A head-dress of
gaudily-colored feathers and various ornaments served to add to the
stern dignity of his presence.

Never before in the history of the Cree lodge had the Indians
received a visit from a party of boys. But Chief Wandering Bear, like
his tribesmen, did not seem in the least surprised. Imperturbably,
he continued smoking a long-stemmed sandstone pipe, listened with
attention to Thunderbolt’s explanations, then inclined his head, saying
in grave tones: “Howdy!”

“Most delighted to meet you, Mr. Wandering Bear, I’m sure!” exclaimed
Larry.

The others responded to his salutation heartily, though in a more
serious fashion, and promptly accepted Thunderbolt’s invitation to
dismount. The horses were then given in charge of several young
Indians, who led them into the pasture-land by the hills.

The chief shook each of his visitors by the hand.

“Yes, I speak the tongue of the white man,” he said, in answer to a
question from Bob Somers. “Not many year from now the Indian tongue
shall have passed away. This year, so many less braves; next year,
so many less.” He shook his head sadly. “The white man always
bigger--stronger. But soon the Indian he see no more.”

All felt impressed by the pathos of the old warrior’s words and manner.

“Come inside teepee,” commanded Thunderbolt. “Outside too hot.”

The interior they found a great deal more commodious than any had
expected. None of the Indians attempted to follow the party, which
included the half-breed and Billy Ashe, though several of the younger
braves lingered near the entrance.

“This is certainly great,” pronounced Dave Brandon, promptly seating
himself upon the ground.

“You bet,” agreed Larry, wiping his perspiring face.

The yellowish, translucent sides of the teepee allowed a soft dim light
to pervade their surroundings, while through the partly-open flap came
a glistening ray from out-of-doors.

Wandering Bear drew up a low stool in the center, the group forming
a semicircle about him. Even Larry Burnham began to enjoy the novel
experience. From the outside came a murmur of guttural voices, or the
occasional sound of moccasined feet passing to and fro.

Although Thunderbolt displayed the usual stolidity of his race he
nevertheless began to ply the boys with questions.

“Ah, you come here to hunt and fish,” he exclaimed. “Fine! You take me
for guide, maybe. Me good guide; know all country. You shoot big game;
catch plenty fish--what you say?”

“I should say it’s a capital idea,” said Dave, stifling a yawn; “eh,
Larry?”

“Yes; it may save you chaps a heap o’ trouble,” drawled the blond lad,
with a peculiar grin.

“But we don’t intend to do any hunting or fishing, Thunderbolt, until
this Jed Warren affair is cleared up,” put in Tom.

“Then you might as well pack up and go home,” declared Billy Ashe,
bluntly. “Jed Warren is gone. He won’t come back, either--depend upon
that. I’ve been working on the case, and am in a good position to know.
Did Sergeant Erskine tell you what we’ve learned?”

“Yes,” answered Tom, shortly.

“And still you don’t believe it?”

“No!” cried Tom, with almost a touch of anger in his voice. “Jed Warren
wouldn’t have deserted if a whole army of smugglers and cattle rustlers
had been hot on his trail.”

“I like to see a fellow stick up for his friends,” commented the
trooper. “But there’s no sense in dodging facts.”

“For sure,” put in Teddy Banes. “Him one big fool to think he find
Warren. Many times I tell him so; but always he shakes his head.”

“And I’ll shake it some more,” cried Tom, highly indignant.

“Don’t carry your quarrels into Indian teepees, Tom,” advised Larry.
“You mustn’t mislay your manners.”

“White boys look strong as Indian brave,” remarked Wandering Bear.
“Plenty big, you,” he added, turning toward Larry Burnham, whose huge
form seemed to appear even larger in the dim light.

“Yes,” grinned Larry. “An’ a ‘promising football player’ ought to be, I
s’pose; but not quite so large as you, Mr. Wandering Bear.”

The chief nodded gravely.

“I am old now,” he said--“very old. But at your age no one so strong as
I; no one so quick, or shoot so straight.” He sighed. “Now the muscle
is weak; the eye is dim; the hand trembles.”

“Git out! You’re more active than many a man of half your age,”
laughed Billy Ashe. He turned toward the boys. “Take my advice: hire
Thunderbolt as a guide. Have a good time, and forget a fellow who once
wore a scarlet coat and was cowardly enough to desert.”

Tom jumped to his feet, his face flushed and excited.

“I’ll bet there never was a braver policeman among the Northwest
Mounted!” he exclaimed, in a voice which fairly rang through the
teepee. “Jed a coward! Well, I guess you haven’t anything on him when
it comes to courage, Mr. Billy Ashe.”

“Cut it out, Tom,” advised Bob Somers.

“Too much excitement is bad for the nerves,” grinned Larry.

Ashe rose to face the angry Rambler.

“It strikes me you’ve got a pretty flip tongue for a youngster,” he
said, slowly. “Better learn to curb it before you get in a mix-up with
some one who is liable to mislay his manners.”

Larry Burnham’s loud chuckle added to Tom’s feelings of hot resentment,
although a glance from Dave Brandon was sufficient to check an angry
reply.

“Are you going to stay in the village long?” asked Sam Randall.

“No; I’m on a ‘special,’” answered Ashe. And being a young trooper he
spoke with an air of some importance.

“Hope you’ll succeed,” said Dick Travers, “and won’t get mixed up with
any of those dangerous characters Teddy Banes has been telling us
about.”

“Smugglers,” laughed Tom--“those awful chaps who scared Jed Warren
away!”

“Many time Warren come here,” said Thunderbolt. “Much good man.”

Chief Wandering Bear, puffing away on his pipe with mechanical
precision, nodded assent.

“Yes--a strong man,” he said. “He rides like Indian; Indian likes him.”

“Sure,” agreed Thunderbolt. “Last time me see him he say:
‘Thunderbolt, I go to Fool’s Castle, and----’”

“Sergeant Erskine told me something about Fool’s Castle,” broke in Bob.
“In which direction is it?”

“Fool’s Castle!” echoed Tom Clifton. “What in thunder is that?”




CHAPTER VI

BILLY ASHE


“It’s an old deserted ranch-house,” explained Ashe, “close to a ridge
of hills. A good many years ago a man named Walt Allen and his two sons
built it. He was a man with plenty of money--had traveled all over the
continent, and picked up a whole lot of queer ideas--at least everybody
around here thought so.”

“What like?” asked Dave, interestedly.

“Oh, artistic. Wanted style to his ranch-house, he said; and, would you
believe it, he stuck up a lot of columns in front of the door. They
make you think of an entrance to some old Greek temple.”

“He must have been odd,” murmured Larry Burnham.

“Yes,” added Thunderbolt. “Cost much money. No good. Peoples laugh.”

“Ah, much laugh!” supplemented Wandering Bear, slowly nodding his head.

“A man often has to pay a big price for being a little out of the
ordinary,” sighed Dave Brandon. “What else did Mr. Allen do to make
people give his place such a curious name?”

“Put ribbons around the cattle’s necks, I s’pose,” grinned Larry.

“Or maybe had an ice-cream soda factory in his yard,” chuckled Tom.

“Something pretty near as bad,” laughed Billy Ashe. “He built a high
stockade around his ranch-house, and stuck up inside a lot of old
statues he’d brought over from Italy.”

“I’d like to have known him,” said Dave, reflectively.

“Most of ’em looked as if they’d been in an awful scrimmage with cattle
rustlers, for either an arm or a leg was missing, or perhaps a nose or
an ear busted.”

“He no have sense,” grumbled the half-breed.

“Ah! Much queer,” said Wandering Bear.

“Then he planted fir and cedars about, and, in one corner, built the
prettiest little temple you ever saw.”

“Any more counts in the indictment?” laughed Bob.

“Yes,” answered the trooper. “He got some artist to come all the way
from Winnipeg to paint pictures on his ceilings and walls.”

“He must have been a very delightful person,” said Dave.

“What became of this ‘delightful person’?” drawled Larry.

“In those days there was a great deal more lawlessness than now,”
answered the trooper. “The cattle rustlers evidently thought Allen must
be an easy mark, so they paid particular attention to his stock. This
kept on until the Allens got so disgusted they took everything of value
from the ranch-house and left. So, ever since, the place has been known
as Fool’s Castle.”

“Anybody else ever live there afterward?” asked Sam Randall.

“No. One wing of the building was struck by lightning and partly
burned.”

“Lots of history for one house,” remarked Dick Travers.

“Some of the cowpunchers”--Billy Ashe sniffed contemptuously--“got an
idea there’s something queer about the old place.”

“Gee!” exclaimed Tom.

“Yes, it’s a fact; an’ most of ’em are wary of stoppin’ there.”

“Me no afraid,” said Thunderbolt. He turned to Bob Somers. “You go
there?”

“Yes,” answered Bob, “with you as guide.”

“Thunderbolt much good guide,” said Wandering Bear, his stern
eyes resting fondly on his grandson. “Always he fear nothing.
See?”--he pointed to the massive antlers of a moose resting close
by--“Thunderbolt kill him.”

“Ah! The Rambler Club has a rival!” laughed Larry.

“I’ll be leaving in about an hour or two,” Ashe was saying, “so it
isn’t likely I’ll see you chaps again unless you find your way back to
the post.”

“We’ll get there all right,” said Tom Clifton, confidently.

“About how many men are there in the service of the Northwest Mounted?”
inquired Dave.

“Not far from seven hundred,” answered Ashe. “Saskatchewan has the
most; Alberta comes second, while the rest are divided between
Manitoba, Yukon and the Territories.”

“Have lots of work to do?”

“We always manage to earn our pay. The boys even patrol mining camps;
and, believe me, some of ’em are in pretty out-of-the-way places.”

“The work must be awful in winter,” remarked Larry Burnham.

“It’s no easy snap,” admitted Ashe. “With a blizzard howling about you,
and perhaps a pack of fierce, hungry coyotes on your trail, only a man
with a good stout heart could stand it.”

“I’d rather brave the dangers of a football game,” said Dave.

“Or umpire a series of rushes between freshmen and sophomores,” grinned
Tom.

“Maybe, after a while, I be scout for policeman like Teddy Banes,” said
Thunderbolt. “You like work for the police, Banes?”

“Sure,” answered the half-breed, surlily.

“And Teddy is a mighty good hand at the business,” commented Ashe.

“You stay--eat with Indian?” asked Wandering Bear, suddenly.

The crowd accepted the invitation with enthusiasm, and heartily thanked
the aged chief.

They asked many questions concerning the life of the tribesmen, and
learned interesting details about their mode of hunting and fishing.
Some of the tales were quite thrilling, too. The tragic end of the old
bull moose whose antlers lay in the teepee was related by Thunderbolt
in his quaint English with pleasing effect.

Then the Ramblers told of their own experiences, Tom Clifton having a
great deal to say, while a rather sarcastic smile played about Larry
Burnham’s mouth.

When the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, leaving as a reminder of its
presence flashes of gold and purple on the few clouds which hovered
lazily above, preparations for supper were made.

The cooking was done on a bed of live coals in front of the wigwam.
Even Larry thoroughly enjoyed the fried pork, roast potatoes and baked
fish. And, besides all this, Thunderbolt passed around corn cakes and
plenty of tea.

As the grayness of dusk deepened the lights of the various fires threw
a rosy glow over the teepees and redskins. The forms of the hills
slowly became lost, until only the topmost branches of the trees,
outlining themselves weirdly against the sky, could be distinguished
in the black, somber masses. Finally they, too, disappeared in an
impenetrable darkness which settled over the great basin.

The guttural voices of unseen Indians came over the air; sometimes a
horse whinnied, or a bird flying overhead, or in the timbered reaches,
uttered a note which seemed to carry with remarkable clearness.

“Gee! I never knew it could be so black out-of-doors,” said Larry.

“I’ve seen it blacker than this,” returned Tom Clifton.

“Oh, of course we know that,” drawled Larry. “But I’ll bet a white
horse would look like a spot of ink to-night.”

Soon after supper was over Billy Ashe rose to his feet.

“I must be off, boys,” he said.

“What! Going to police barracks now?” asked Larry, in astonishment.
“How can you find your way?”

“No; I’m not bound in that direction,” answered the trooper, with a
returning touch of importance. “I can steer myself well enough by the
stars and compass--eh, Wandering Bear?”

The chief, whose shadow was thrown fantastically over the sides of the
wigwam, nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “The white man much good. But never so good as Indian,
who has the eyes of the eagle, the scent of the coyote, and the hearing
of the hare.”

“I sort o’ think they must have it down pretty fine,” said Larry.

Billy Ashe shook hands all around; he even slapped Tom Clifton on the
shoulder, although still a trifle nettled at some of his remarks.

“I guess, son, by this time,” he said, “you’ve got rid of that foolish
notion about Jed Warren, eh?”

“Foolish notion!” cried Tom, indignantly. “I never had any.”

“Of course he hadn’t,” said Larry, satirically. “If he doesn’t discover
that missing trooper by the aid of the sun, the moon and the twinkling
stars, I won’t get an ice-cream soda at the very first town I reach.”

With a merry laugh, Billy Ashe strode away.

“So-long, fellows,” he called. “Hope you’ll have a good time.”

“Some chaps are awful stubborn,” complained Tom. “Honest--I don’t
believe they’d change their ideas even if you could prove ’em to be in
the wrong.”

The fit of laughter which seized Larry at this statement made Wandering
Bear and his grandson regard him with mild surprise.

“Come,” invited Thunderbolt. “I show you village.”

Leaving Wandering Bear calmly puffing away on his long-stemmed pipe
and Teddy Banes sitting motionless with his back resting against the
teepee, the lads promptly followed the young Indian.

It was a very novel sensation to the big blond lad to find himself
wandering about a real Indian village. And the picturesque groups
of red men sitting around the fires, with the ruddy glow over their
blanketed forms, or moving here and there, now caught by the beams of
light, then disappearing in the shadows, interested him about as much
as anything could, considering his state of mind and aching bones.

Before one teepee Thunderbolt stopped to introduce the boys to Sulking
Wolf, whose stock of English consisted of three words: “How you do!”

“Very well, thank you,” said Larry. “It’s an awful dark night, isn’t
it?”

“How you do!” answered Sulking Wolf, gravely.

“Listen!” cried Tom.

The sound of hoof-beats coming from their left had attracted his
attention.

“Billy Ashe go now,” exclaimed Thunderbolt.

“He seems to have plenty of nerve,” remarked Larry, reflectively. A
rather shivery sensation stole through him as he thought of the lonely
ride which must be before the trooper in the gloom and silence of the
prairie.

“Oh, it’s all in getting used to it,” said Tom.

“Of course,” returned Larry, wearily.

“I’d like to stay here for a week,” remarked Dave Brandon. “There is
something so cozy about these Indian teepees. And to sit beside a bed
of glowing coals and look at the starry sky----”

“Help!” laughed Larry. “It’s been too much for him.”

“And to feel an inspiration for a poem steadily growing is
certainly----”

“Delightful--if it never appears in the Kingswood High School
‘Reflector.’”

“I can sympathize with Mr. Walt Allen,” sighed Dave, somewhat
irrelevantly.

At the extreme edge of the village, not far from the break in the
hills, the party encountered several dogs whose vociferous barking
and angry snarls made Larry Burnham step back in alarm. The dim forms
whisking around so close at hand caused him to fear that at any moment
the brutes might spring upon him.

“Great Scott; they seem to be as big as wolves, and as dangerous!” he
cried.

“Oh, if you’d ever seen the real articles you wouldn’t talk that way,”
exclaimed Tom.

“Dog no hurt,” said Thunderbolt, reassuringly.

He spoke sharply to the skulking animals, and by a threatening
movement of his foot caused them to retire.

At last, beyond the confines of the village, the lads turned to look
back at the collection of wigwams. Here and there some were brought out
clearly by the flickering campfires; others rose spectrally, scarcely
seen amidst their surroundings, while many were completely enveloped in
the gloom.

Above the forbidding amphitheater of hills the stars and constellations
shone with singular brilliancy.

“Hold a match for me, Bob,” cried Dave, suddenly. “I’ve got that
inspiration for a poem. I’ll scribble it off in a jiffy.”

Amid the laughter of the others, Bob obligingly complied.

“Are we ever going to read it?” asked Larry.

“That remains to be seen,” answered Dave.

“It never will be, I reckon,” returned Larry, with a laugh.

Having visited all the points of interest they sauntered slowly back to
the chief’s teepee, where they found Wandering Bear and the half-breed
sitting in exactly the same positions.




CHAPTER VII

THE FIRST CAMP


“White man and Indian are brothers,” remarked Wandering Bear, solemnly,
on the following morning. “Indian always friend of white man. White man
give him much presents; Indian show him big game; where fish is plenty.
Yes, always much friend now.”

Breakfast was over. The crowd, with the exception of Larry, to whom the
situation was so novel as to prevent him from sleeping with any degree
of soundness, had spent a comfortable night.

To Tom Clifton’s great satisfaction, Teddy Banes announced his
intention of remaining at the Cree village.

“Good! That old sour-face would be enough to take all the fun out of
the trip,” said the aspirant for football honors. “Acts awful queer,
doesn’t he?”

“At times he did hand out a few awful knocks, if that’s what you
mean,” grinned Larry.

He glanced at the sky, in the vast expanse of which not a fleck of
cloud could be seen. Every indication pointed to another sunny,
sizzling day; and, anticipating the discomfort before him, the lad made
a wry face.

“What’s up?” demanded Tom.

“I am,” responded Larry, rising to his feet. “Isn’t it time to skip?”

“Yes! Fool’s Castle is a long way from here,” said Bob. “We shan’t
reach it even to-night, eh, Thunderbolt?”

“To-morrow,” answered the young Indian.

“But for stern duty,” remarked Dave, “I’d refuse to leave the
delightful shade of these hills.”

At Thunderbolt’s direction several young braves departed for the
horses, soon leading them up to the teepee. They had been well fed and
cared for, so were in a mettlesome mood. A mass of tribesmen gathered
around as Wandering Bear bade them a stately adieu.

“White man come again,” he invited. “Always welcome.”

“How you do,” said Sulking Wolf, shaking hands with each. And, as they
sprang into the saddle and started off, they heard him utter the same
words as a parting salutation.

Thunderbolt, mounted on a brown-patched nag, led the advance.

Soon after passing the break in the rugged hills they reached a narrow
stream which rippled and bubbled and sang its way over a rocky bed.

“We go across,” announced the Indian.

“It looks jolly inviting,” said Larry. “If I could find any excuse I’d
fall off my horse and take a swim.”

“Did you ever think how curious a fish’s life must be?” began Dave.

“No! But I’ve often thought how curious the Rambler Club’s life must
be,” grinned Larry.

The cool, clear water splashed over stirrup leathers, while the hoofs
of the ponies scattered showers of shining drops.

Crossing the marshy strip of shore, with the imprints of many
longhorns’ hoofs upon it, they struck off in a westerly direction.

The further they progressed the more Larry Burnham became convinced of
the silliness of the whole proceeding. Frequently, when the pace was
not too great, he was observed to take a folder from his pocket and
scan it intently.

“Wonder what that chap’s doing?” remarked Tom Clifton to Dick Travers
on one occasion.

“Ask him,” laughed Dick.

“And get some kind of mean answer?” snapped Tom. “No--I don’t think.
But I’ll find out, just the same.”

At noon a halt for lunch was made in a little patch of timber, and
upon resuming the march the seven lads pushed steadily ahead, at long
intervals skirting around or crossing ranges of hills, and seeing on
many occasions great herds of grazing cattle.

“Where are we going to stop, Thunderbolt?” asked Dave, when it came
time to look for another camping ground.

The young Indian pointed to a patch of woods in the distance.

“Good place,” he announced. “Water. White boys much pleased.
Thunderbolt know all good places.”

“Well, there’s one lucky thing,” mused Larry to himself. “As far as
I can make out, this jaunt has taken me in just the right direction.
I wonder if the fellows will be mad? But what in thunder do I care if
they are?”

As their guide had said the timber seemed to be a most excellent place
for a camp. There were plenty of fragrant balsam boughs for couches,
all the fire-wood necessary, and a tiny creeklet flowing through the
center.

“Simply jim dandy!” cried Tom, enthusiastically. “Everything we
need--except ice-cream sodas. How about it, little ‘Fear-not’?”

Larry, feeling that his tribulations were almost over, grinned.

“It’s perfectly lovely, Tom,” he said. “I don’t know what kind of
an insect bit me on the cheek just now, but I’ll bet they have an
enthusiastic reception committee waiting to receive us.”

“Don’t forget I carry with me all sorts of medical stuff,” said Tom.

“For instance?”

“The first aid to the injured kind.”

“Try to use any o’ it on me, an’ there’ll be a scrap,” snickered Larry.

Dismounting, the boys led their ponies through the woods, coming to a
stop in a small, grassy clearing.

“Couldn’t be better,” exclaimed Bob. “Pitch in, fellows; we’ll have a
camp made in a jiffy.”

Setting the example, he quickly unsaddled his tired horse, whose shaggy
sides were flecked with foam. Then, tethering the animal to a near-by
sapling, he drew a hatchet from his belt.

“We’ll need lots of fire-wood,” he said.

“I’ll help you cut some,” announced Tom.

“Me too,” said Thunderbolt.

“My job will be getting the water, and things ready to cook,” declared
Dick Travers. “It’s your turn to-night, Tom, to play chef.”

“Guess I’ll gather a whole lot of balsam boughs for beds,” supplemented
Sam Randall.

After the horses had been cared for Dave Brandon, on looking around,
discovered a spot which promised to afford a delightful resting place;
and, in order to see if his ideas were correct, promptly tested it.

The result proved highly satisfactory.

Seeing this, the tired, hot and dusty Larry Burnham, after washing
his face and hands in the creek, and satisfying his thirst with the
fresh, cool water, sauntered back to the glade and imitated Dave with
considerable success.

There was no doubt that the blond lad, as Tom often declared, lacked
get up and go. He had everything in him to make a great success but the
willingness to hustle. His laziness differed from Dave’s; for while the
former editor of the High School “Reflector” often indulged in periods
of rest, it was more in order to allow his mental faculties full play.
Then, too, Dave could be very strenuous and determined when anything
called for such an effort.

And no one had ever seen Larry Burnham either active or strenuous,
although he was generally known to be determined--to exert himself as
little as possible on all occasions.

Presently the noise of the hatchets stopped, and Tom Clifton,
bearing in his arms an enormous quantity of brush and wood, was seen
approaching. He threw his burden down on the grass, then began to eye
Larry sternly.

“What are you sitting there for?” he demanded.

“Resting, thank you, Mr. Clifton,” responded Larry, sweetly.

“You’re a nice one, I must say.”

“Yes, as fellows go, I suppose I must be pretty nice,” chirped Larry.

“Why in thunder don’t you get up and hustle like the rest of us?”

“There’s no use in everybody working.”

“Oh, there isn’t, eh? Well, that’s a good one! There’s plenty for a
chap to do if he only wants to look for it. Come--get up, Larry. Start
the fire going.”

“No, thanks,” drawled Larry, with a shake of his head. “Don’t think
Dick Travers’d like it.” His eyes began to twinkle. “When Dick gets all
the kindlings together I won’t mind puttin’ a match to ’em.”

“You haven’t done a blessed thing since you’ve been with us,” stormed
Tom. “You’re always sitting around waiting for grub to be served.”

“Mercy! Just listen to the boss!”

“It makes me tired. On a camping-out trip the work ought to be divided
equally. Be sensible, Larry. I’m willing to do my share, but I want to
see every other chap do his.”

“Don’t waste so much time, Tom. Talk to Dave. He’s loafin’.”

“Aren’t you going to give us a hand then?”

“I sort o’ think it isn’t worth while.”

“You’re lazy, Larry Burnham!” cried Tom, hotly. “A fine football player
you’ll make if you don’t wake up and put a little ginger into that big
form of yours.”

“Softly--softly, Tom!” laughed Dave.

“I’ve been talking to a big softy, I know,” growled Tom, thoroughly
disgusted, “and----”

“Hold on!” interrupted Larry. His anger began to rise. “Fire off a
little more talk like that, an’ I’ll tell you what I think of you.”

“Go ahead, then!” snapped Tom.

“For goodness’ sake, fellows, cut it all out,” put in Dave. “I’ll
prescribe a good supper and a couple of hours rest----”

“Don’t be afraid, Larry,” persisted Tom.

“Afraid of what?” jeered Larry--“you? See here, Tom Clifton”--the big
fellow rose to his feet--“believe me, I’m tired of your always pitchin’
into me. Do you understand?”

“I should worry,” said Tom. “The idea of your talking like that after
all the mean things you’ve said about the Rambler Club! Didn’t you
nearly die with laughter when that idiot of a Teddy Banes made silly
remarks? Oh, no!” The color mounted to his face. “I’ve been thinking
about it ever since.”

“I don’t sport a chip on my shoulder, but I’ll take just so much an’ no
more!” exclaimed the blond lad.

His belligerent attitude and the look which came into his mild blue
eyes quite astounded Tom Clifton. Here was a chap whom he sometimes
thought belonged in the overgrown baby class actually threatening a
member of the Rambler Club. To retreat would never do.

“Are you going to start a scrap?”

For a few seconds the two tall boys, but a few paces apart, eyed each
other so angrily that the “historian” felt compelled to literally step
into the breach.

“That will do, fellows,” he said, quietly.

“He needn’t think I’m afraid of him!” cried Tom.

Dave gently urged him away.

Thereupon Clifton, with a snort of disgust, seized a water pail and
went off toward the creek. Larry then resumed his former position.

“A conceited dub!” he remarked, kicking lazily at the turf.

“No,” answered Dave; “Tom really isn’t conceited. He’s simply terribly
in earnest.”

“Oh, I don’t know!” growled Larry.

The stout boy smiled.

“I’ll admit that sometimes he’s a little too free in expressing his
opinions; but he’s fair and square as a chap can be. You’re lazy,
Larry--so am I.” He ended the sentence with a good-natured laugh.

By this time the workers were coming back. Enough wood had been
gathered for the entire night, and a sufficient quantity of balsam
boughs for the beds was only waiting to be dragged into the glade.

Whistling cheerily, Dick Travers returned with pails of water, closely
followed by Tom.

“Say, Dave, would you believe it,” remarked the former, “there’s a big
bunch of longhorns grazing on the other side of these woods. Some of
them have just crossed the creek a bit further down.”

“Gee!” exclaimed Larry. “Suppose they should come upon us while we’re
asleep!”

Feeling sorry he had given way to his temper, he addressed this remark
to Tom. Tom, however, preserved an icy silence.

“Cattle no hurt,” said Thunderbolt, reassuringly.

The meal was prepared in a surprisingly short time. Luscious slices of
bacon sizzled away in the frying-pan; potatoes were baking on red-hot
embers; while coffee-pots sent up clouds of hissing steam. Then there
were crackers and cheese and preserves.

Any boy who could not have enjoyed the “spread” which Chef Tom Clifton
prepared would have been in a pretty poor condition.

But every boy did enjoy it, even though the insects, both flying and
crawling, persisted in making themselves unduly conspicuous.

Thunderbolt proved a most agreeable guide and companion. He related
stories, told them secrets of woodcraft which even Tom admitted he had
not heard before, and helped to drag the balsam boughs into the glade
and arrange them in neat, smooth piles.

“He’s a crackerjack,” laughed Sam Randall. “After this, don’t let
anybody talk to me about lazy Indians.”

“Thunderbolt certainly isn’t one,” said Tom, with strong emphasis.

When preparations for the night’s rest were finished the fire was
sending a wide circle of dancing light over the darkening woods. And in
this little oasis of light amidst a vast desert of gloom the boys sat,
often conjecturing about Jed Warren’s strange disappearance.

“I’m going to turn in,” remarked Dave, finally.

“I think we’d better all do the same,” said Bob. “We want to make an
early start for Fool’s Castle to-morrow morning.”

Thereupon the crowd unstrapped their blankets and betook themselves to
the fragrant balsam boughs--that is, all except Sam Randall, whose duty
it was to stand first watch.

“And don’t you dare to wake me up a minute before time, Sam,” warned
Dave, laughingly.

So the lone sentinel began pacing to and fro. The occasional comments
from the recumbent forms ceased, and the soft pat, pat of Sam Randall’s
feet, the never-ceasing rustling of grass and leaves, and the noises
made by the horses moving about were the sounds which reigned supreme.

Sam was too “seasoned a veteran” to have his emotions stirred.
Mechanically, he watched the light flashing over tree trunks, tinging
deep recesses with its ruddy glow, and the smoke rising high and
drifting slowly out of view.

Every now and again he replenished the fire, until the flames shot up,
and crackling sparks, like a miniature fire display, dropped about him.

His lonely vigil neared an end.

“Poor old Dave,” he reflected, glancing at the round face of the
sleeping “historian.” “I almost hate to do it.”

He was about stepping over to awaken him when a series of
blood-curdling yells from a point not far distant, followed by the
sharp cracking of pistol shots, gave him the start of his life.

Then came the neighs of frightened horses, the stamping of hoofs, and
the sound of a heavy crashing through the underbrush.

Before the astounded Sam Randall had time to even voice a warning the
camp was astir.




CHAPTER VIII

THE STAMPEDE


Bob Somers was the first to spring to his feet.

“Good gracious! What’s the matter?” he yelled.

“What--what--what----” began Larry Burnham, frantically throwing aside
his enfolding blanket.

“Who’s that shooting?” cried Tom.

Thunderbolt alone made no comment, but sprang toward the darkness,
while the others, with wide, staring eyes, sought to penetrate its
mysteries. And as they stood there, with every feeling of sleepiness
entirely gone, the same awe-inspiring cries and cracking of a pistol
began again.

“Fall flat on your faces! Get back of a tree!” yelled Larry, in terror.
“It must be cattle rustlers or smugglers.”

He was about to follow his own advice when the heavy crashing in the
woods, which at no time had ceased, broke forth with renewed violence.

Several huge, indistinct forms were seen making toward the fire. Larry,
for an instant too startled to move, uttered a piercing yell.

“Save yourselves!” he called out frantically.

Then, breaking the spell which had seemed to hold him fast, he made a
wild dash for safety.

“The cattle are stampeding, fellows!” shouted Bob Somers.

There was no time, in that moment of confusion and alarm, for any
concerted action. Each lad was compelled to depend entirely upon
himself.

As a herd of terrified longhorns bore directly down upon them the
alarmed campers flew in all directions. The sound of pounding hoofs,
carrying to their senses the imminence of the peril, made them put
forth every exertion to get beyond the animals’ path.

“Great Scott!” breathed Bob Somers.

He had crossed the glade and become entangled in a thick mass of
underbrush on the opposite side.

Several of the fleeing longhorns were almost upon him. Desperately he
shot a glance over his shoulder, to see the ponderous bodies faintly
brought into view by the firelight.

A hoarse bellow seemed to sound almost in his very ears. He heard
several of his companions utter wild yells; but he himself, even in the
excitement of the moment, remained silent, using every faculty at his
command to escape the danger.

Now it was impossible to see a yard in advance. He was in the woods,
groping, blindly pushing through, stumbling and tripping; now bringing
up against a tree; then impeded by the brush. And at every step of the
way he appeared to be directly in the track of the stampeding cattle.

Bob Somers’ heart was beating fast. Every moment he expected to feel
the impact of a frightened steer, and every moment he realized the
hopelessness of getting outside the zone of the animals’ flight.

Suddenly a low-hanging branch swept him off his feet. Sprawling on the
ground he felt a thrill like an electric shock. Then, with a supreme
effort, he dragged himself behind the trunk, stood erect, and pressed
his form hard--painfully hard--against it.

The heavy hoof-beats were crashing by on either side. Trembling with
excitement, and breathing hard, he passed a few tense moments, in the
midst of which the fierce yells and pistol shots sounded for a third
time.

Almost surprised to find himself unharmed, the Rambler listened, first
with added fear--then thankfulness, as they abruptly ended, and the
last steer floundered by.

For a moment he remained motionless. Now that danger was over the
adventure left a curious feeling of unreality. The camp-fire had
entirely disappeared; the darkness was so intense as to make it
impossible to determine in which direction he had come. Both hands and
face were smarting. Then, as a reminder of the violent impact of the
branch, his shoulder ached dully.

Bob Somers’ thoughts, however, were too busy to pay any attention to
these annoyances. Were his companions safe? What had become of the
cattle rustlers who had apparently started the stampede?

Putting his hands to his mouth he uttered a cry which sounded shrilly
through the woods.

In a second a response came, then another, until five had sounded from
widely separated points.

“Hooray! What a relief!” cried Bob. He felt like uttering shouts of
joy. “Hello, Dave, hello!” he called. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know where I am, but I’m here,” came back his friend’s
familiar voice.

“Has anybody been hurt?” came a demand, in quavering tones.

It was Larry Burnham; and his tremolo was loud enough to bring forth a
number of negative responses.

“Gee, isn’t that great!” cried Bob. “I had dreadful visions of Tom’s
supply of medical stuffs giving out before the whole crowd could be
treated. Whew! A mighty close shave, eh?”

“I’m lost!” yelled Dave, cheerily; “I’m floundering! Where’s
Thunderbolt?”

A peculiar call, like a war-whoop, suddenly trilled through the
darkness.

“Me by the fire,” yelled Thunderbolt. “You come.”

Guided by a frequent repetition of his shouts, the lads were soon able
to steer themselves in the proper direction.

Bob Somers was the first to reach the fire, whose embers had been
scattered by the cattle. Thunderbolt, busily replenishing it, looked up.

“Anybody hurt?” he demanded, anxiously.

“None of us; not a bit,” laughed Bob. “Here come the fellows now.”

Dusky forms were pushing their way toward them as fast as circumstances
would allow. And it was a highly mystified and still excited crowd
which, a moment later, were gathered together once more.

“Goodness gracious, Bob!” began Tom. “Talk about narrow escapes! Maybe
I’m not glad everybody’s safe and sound. Honest--one of those hulking
big brutes grazed me. Come anywhere near you, Dave?”

“Just a few yards away,” answered the stout boy. “I kept on running as
hard as I could until something tripped me, and I fell flat on my face.
Fortunately the cattle missed me.”

Thunderbolt remained impassive--silent, during a series of thrilling
recitals. Larry Burnham told of having been struck a heavy, glancing
blow by one of the animals. From the expression on his face it was very
evident the experience had greatly terrified him.

“Who do you suppose could have fired those pistol shots and made such
awful yells?” cried Tom. “It sounded like a dozen men, at least, eh,
fellows?”

“Cattle rustlers, of course,” snapped Larry, his voice still unsteady.
“Now maybe you won’t believe what Teddy Banes told us!”

Bob Somers stared at the depths of the fire thoughtfully.

“Cattle rustlers usually follow up the steers, don’t they?” he asked.
“Yet it’s mighty certain no horsemen came through that woods.”

“One of the strangest mysteries we ever ran into!” said Dick.

“What nearly ran into me was no mystery,” commented Larry, decidedly.

“But why are we standing around doing nothing?” cried Sam. “Let’s
reconnoiter.”

“Of course,” agreed Tom. “Come ahead, fellows; hustle for torches.”

“Much queer,” interrupted Thunderbolt. “Never me see anything like it.
I run into woods; I see flash of pistol many times. Then I make big
jump. Four--five cow come straight. I say: ‘Thunderbolt, you gone!’ I
make another jump. I say: ‘You killed, Thunderbolt!’ Ugh! Him pass me
this close.”

The young Indian, holding his hands up, indicated a space of about a
foot.

“What’s your idea, Thunderbolt?” asked Dave.

“Me not know. Much queer. Cattle rustlers no drive steers in woods.
Never I see anything like it.”

“Or I either,” said Bob. “The only thing we’re certain of is that some
one was hanging around this camp.”

“Makes a fellow feel kind of shivery to think of it, too,” admitted
Larry.

“And that either he or they started a stampede.”

“And just made a botch of it,” suggested Tom Clifton. “They wanted to
drive the plagued brutes one way, and, instead, they beat it right for
our camp. Then the rustlers, afraid of being seen, gave us a mighty
wide berth, but caught up with ’em outside the woods.”

“Not bad deduction, Tom,” commented Sam Randall, who had gathered
together a collection of pine-knots for torches.

“It hardly seems worth while to make a search now,” remarked Dave.
“I’ll bet by this time those chaps are a mighty long distance off.”

Larry Burnham devoutly wished himself back in his Wisconsin home.
After all, the half-breed had uttered no idle warning. Here they
were, miles and miles from any settlement, at the mercy of the
first band of marauders who should choose to attack them. It was a
very unpleasant thought. When he looked beyond the rosy glow of the
firelight into the thick, awesome blackness, which might be concealing
some of the dangerous characters his mind pictured, his nerves tingled
unpleasantly. Little sounds before scarcely noticed assumed a deep
significance. To his imagination, fired by the unexpected event, it
seemed as though footsteps were not far away.

“Come on, Larry,” sang out Tom. “Don’t let’s all keep together,
fellows. I’m going this way.”

Tom was already holding aloft a blazing pine-knot. And, to Larry’s
amazement, without waiting for any one to join him, he started off in
the direction from whence the sounds had come.

“He’s certainly got a lot of nerve,” mused the blond lad. Then, turning
toward Dave, he added, “I’ll go with you.”

And presently seven pine-knots were sending weird shoots of light into
the depths of the woods. Trees sprang into view, and flashed out; great
masses of underbrush caught the glow, held it for an instant, then
dropped from sight.

Thunderbolt, eager as a coyote, with Sam Randall at his side,
frequently stooped over to examine the ground. Bushes and grass had
been trampled almost flat by the cattle. Down by the dark, silent water
of the creek the Indian’s eye scanned a muddy strip of shore for signs
of men or horses.

He saw plenty of signs, but even he, with all his cunning and sagacity,
was unable to determine whether any of them had been made by strangers
or not.

“We can’t find a single clue,” remarked Sam, disappointedly.

“Men all gone now,” said Thunderbolt. “Much queer. I no understand.
Maybe cattle rustlers; maybe not.”

“It’s as deep a mystery as the Jed Warren affair,” murmured Sam.

Following the bank they explored every foot of the way. But no
discoveries of any kind rewarded their eager search.

“We find nothings,” said Thunderbolt, disconsolately.

“Perhaps when daylight comes it may be easier,” commented Sam.
“Certainly no use in keeping this up any longer.”

As the two slowly returned toward the camp they could see torches
moving erratically about, and hear the various searchers occasionally
calling to one another. Dave and Larry were discovered seated before
the fire.

“Oh, ho!” yawned Dave, “didn’t find a thing, eh? Well, neither did
we--didn’t expect to, either.”

“I reckon we won’t do any more sleeping to-night,” suggested Larry.

“If any one is willing to take my turn on guard,” laughed Dave, “I’ll
guarantee to be in the land of unrealities within ten minutes. Really,
I’m uncommonly tired.”

Loud tramping in the underbrush soon announced the return of the others.

“No luck at all!” exclaimed Bob, cheerfully.

“It beats me all hollow,” said Dick Travers. “Guess Tom must have
struck it about right.”

“It’s another mystery for you chaps to solve, Clifton,” said Larry,
managing to grin for the first time since his scare.

Tom tossed the remains of his torch into the fire.

“Yes, it is,” he answered, grimly. “And, by Jove, if we leave the
Northwest Territories without doing it I’ll be ashamed of the crowd.”




CHAPTER IX

LARRY HAS A PLAN


Larry Burnham didn’t get any more sleep that night. And, as he lay with
eyes half closed, gazing at one “sentinel” after another, he often
reflected that a country in which such startling things could happen
was no place for him.

“These adventures are all right in books, or when some chap tells about
’em,” he murmured; “but when it comes to the real thing--excuse me!”

The boys were up with the twittering birds, and after breakfast a
thorough investigation was made.

Daylight, however, did not aid them.

“I suppose,” drawled Dave, “that in my history of the Rambler Club
this particular incident must be told with the explanation that no
explanation could ever be found.”

“Saddle up, fellows,” laughed Bob. “En route to Fool’s Castle!”

Larry Burnham listened with a grim smile. This was the day he
intended to carry out a certain resolution. With a perseverance quite
extraordinary for him, the “promising football player,” by the aid of
a small compass, had kept a pretty accurate record of their travels.
Directly to the south, on the line of the railroad, was a settlement.

“No one could possibly miss it,” he reflected. And to keep going in
a straight line would require no great skill. “If it wasn’t for Tom
Clifton’s tongue, an’ that look he can put on his face, I’d come right
out an’ tell ’em what I intend to do.”

Canteens were filled at the creek, and saddle bags repacked. The horses
seemed fresh and mettlesome--quite ready for the journey before them.

“No good, hurry too fast,” remarked Thunderbolt. “Reach Castle this
afternoon.”

“I’ll be mighty glad to see it,” commented Dave. “All men who have
ideas above the ordinary should be respected.”

“They certainly made Walt Allen pay a jolly dear price for his
originality,” remarked Sam Randall, leaping into the saddle.

With Tom Clifton at the head the seven riders picked their way through
the woods, which were sweetly scented with nature’s perfumes. The dew
of early morning glistened like diamonds on leaves and grasses, and
through the openings in the trees came bright shafts of sunlight.

At a convenient place the creek was forded; then, sweeping out into the
open, they saw before them once more vast monotonous stretches covered
with waving bunch grass.

“If it was only a bit cooler I’d like to race the crowd,” said Tom.
“Slow traveling never suited me.”

“White boy ride well,” commented Thunderbolt--“just like Indian brave.”

“A chap who has been in the saddle as much as I have couldn’t help
riding well,” said Tom, modestly. “There’s nothing like a life in the
open to bring out what’s in a fellow. A little later, Larry, you’ll
thank us for letting you come along.”

“Will I?” said Larry.

“Of course you will,” laughed Tom, who had magnanimously decided to
forgive the other for his impolite conduct on the night before. “I’ll
bet you’ll even be glad to do your share of the work.”

“How joyful!” jeered Larry.

“Seem to be lots of cattle around,” interposed Sam Randall.

“I guess the rustlers were considerate enough to leave a few behind as
souvenirs,” grinned Dick.

Soon they were riding in the midst of a great herd of browsing
longhorns.

“Whoppers, all right,” said Larry, surveying the animals with much
interest. “Chirping crickets! Think of what they almost did to us last
night!”

“I shall always feel grateful to that patch of woods,” said Dave. “It
probably helped to save us.”

“Stampede much queer,” put in Thunderbolt, shaking his head gravely. “I
no understand.”

“It shows, for one thing, that Teddy Banes knew exactly what he was
talking about,” said Larry, decisively.

When the crowd finally halted for lunch in the shadow of a barren ridge
of hills Larry Burnham began to feel nervous. The time had come to
act. Somehow twinges of conscience, which before had not troubled the
lad, assailed him fiercely. Was it right to desert the crowd in such a
manner?

Of course Larry knew the answer, and all his efforts to convince
himself of the soundness of his position were unavailing.

“I don’t care; I’ll do it anyway,” he muttered savagely.

Luck, however, was against him. Many times he had let opportunities
slip when he could have cantered away without attracting especial
attention. But to-day the crowd seemed to hang around him with
exasperating persistence. Always one or another was close at his elbow.

“Confound it!” he muttered angrily. “If I don’t get off within a couple
of hours it’ll be too late. I don’t want to do any traveling in the
dark.”

When they were again in the saddle, cantering leisurely over the
prairie, a suspicion suddenly entered his mind.

Could the boys have suspected his scheme?

Larry reflected that on several occasions he had made pretty broad
hints, not expecting, however, to be taken seriously.

“What a silly idiot I was,” he murmured, in great disgust. “I’ll find
out mighty soon if it’s so.”

He immediately tested his theory by riding a considerable distance in
advance; and, upon glancing over his shoulder, saw a Rambler cantering
not far behind. In fact, their every act showed them to be clearly on
the watch.

In proportion as Larry’s anger increased, so his scruples vanished. It
was now a question of either declaring himself boldly or pitting his
wits against the others’. He rebelled at the idea of the former. Wasn’t
he his own master? Should he be forced to submit to Tom Clifton’s
sarcasm, or the loud protestations and arguments which were sure to
come from all?

No! In spite of everything he would choose the easiest way out.

And noting a peculiar grin on Tom Clifton’s face, whenever the tall lad
glanced toward him, he often muttered: “I’ll fool ’em yet.”

A pleasant breeze sweeping for miles and miles over the vast expanse
proved a great relief to the hot and perspiring boys. It enabled them
to make better progress, too; for their mounts did not show the same
traces of fatigue as before.

“I reckon, at this rate, we ought to reach Fool’s Castle late in the
afternoon,” remarked Bob Somers.

“Yes,” affirmed the guide.

“And I’ll be uncommonly glad to see the place,” said Dave. “Can we go
inside, Thunderbolt?”

“Sure thing. No door; no window,” answered the young Indian.

“I’ll bet Larry is just aching to make a tour of investigation,”
grinned Tom.

“I’m simply hilarious about it,” snapped Larry. “I should think you
chaps ought to fit pretty well in a castle of that name.”

“I’ll feel perfectly at home, anyway,” laughed Dave, gazing into Tom’s
snapping eyes with a twinkle of amusement.

The blond lad, thoroughly disgusted at the failure of his plans,
sometimes left the main body, feeling in no mood to take part in the
merry conversation.

“He’s just as sore as can be,” confided Tom to Bob Somers.

It was, indeed, Tom who had first discovered what Larry had in mind. Of
a very inquisitive nature, his curiosity was not satisfied until he had
discovered the nature of the paper which appeared to interest Larry so
greatly. This feat he succeeded in accomplishing by lagging behind and
viewing the unsuspecting lad through a field-glass.

Tom, of course, immediately made a number of deductions and explained
them to his companions, who were soon convinced of the correctness of
his views.

“And to think of his wanting to sneak away!” went on Tom. “It’s a
mighty poor way of treating us, I’m sure.”

“And I’ll bet Larry would always regret it,” said Bob.

“Sure thing! The funny part is, that I don’t think he suspects us of
knowing anything about it.”

A long time after, the travelers, hot, dusty and tired, reached the
top of an eminence which brought into view a vast stretch of country,
broken here and there by low ridges of hills.

Thunderbolt halted. He turned toward the horsemen crowding closely
behind him, his manner showing them that he had something interesting
to communicate. The brown, muscular arm of the young Cree was extended
in the direction of the now declining sun.

“Well?” cried Tom, his eyes wide open.

In a sort of bowl-shaped valley which nestled snugly at the base of the
encircling hills a purplish spot formed against a shadowed background
the outlines of a ranch-house.

“Fool’s Castle!” said Thunderbolt, impressively.




CHAPTER X

FOOL’S CASTLE


The former ranch-house of Walt Allen could only be reached with any
degree of ease from the open country. The hills were rocky, rather
barren, with treacherous declivities and steep descents.

The thought of an old deserted ranch-house with so much history
clinging about it appealed strongly to Tom Clifton’s imagination. His
curiosity and impatience increased as the distance which lay between
them was gradually cut down, and only compassion for the pony prevented
him from taking the last stretch on a fast gallop.

The upper portion of Fool’s Castle, rising high above the stockade,
rapidly became stronger. The tall Rambler kept well in the lead,
arriving at the entrance yards ahead of his companions. The great iron
gate which once guarded it no longer barred the way. So, with a loud
“Come on, fellows!” he clattered by.

All that Billy Ashe had told them was true. The glowing light of
the afternoon sun shed a poetic luster over Fool’s Castle and its
picturesque surroundings. The columns at the entrance, stained and
broken, gave to it the appearance of some ancient temple of the old
world. Here and there, amidst a setting of cedars and firs, all sending
long purplish shadows over the turf, were the mutilated statues and
busts; and at the farther end a little Greek temple revealed its form
in delicate touches of orange and blue.

“Hooray!” cried Tom. “It’s worth paying an admission to see all this.”
He swung around in his saddle. “Hurry up, Dave. Isn’t it fine?”

“We owe Walt Allen a vote of thanks,” cried the “historian,” his eyes
shining. “It’s just as though we were dropped from the prairie into an
old Italian garden. Splendid!”

Urged on by Tom, they pounded over the hard ground, not slackening
speed until the Greek columns at the entrance were towering high above
them.

Quickly dismounting, picket pins were driven into the ground and horses
tethered. Then, free to do as they pleased, the boys began to examine
the structure which had earned Walt Allen so much notoriety.

The western end of the building plainly showed the effects of the bolt
of lightning. Just outside the wide, sashless windows smoke and flame
had discolored the walls.

“Much rain and cowboys help put fire out,” explained Thunderbolt.

“It’s a wonder it didn’t sweep through the whole place,” said Dick
Travers.

“I’m mighty glad it didn’t,” remarked Bob.

“This is simply grand!” cried the “poet.”

“Come on, fellows; let’s take a look at some of these ‘treasures’ Mr.
Allen was kind enough to leave behind.”

“So poor old Jed Warren was here, too,” murmured Tom. “Doesn’t it seem
odd?”

But he found himself speaking to the empty air, for the others, too
eager to wait, were already some distance off.

Dave Brandon’s face was glowing as he walked from place to place. Now
he stopped before a statue so stained and discolored by its long vigil
in the open air as to make it almost as ancient in appearance as the
original from which it had been copied. Then the “editor” passed on to
a high pedestal surmounted by a bust of some stern-visaged old Roman.

“Delightful!” he exclaimed. “And look at these cedars and firs! In the
golden effulgence of----”

“Mercy!” snickered Larry. “What’s that?”

“A word,” answered Dave. “But I suppose I must drag myself down from
the heights of Parnassus----”

“Oh--oh! Stop him, fellows!”

“To the commonplace level of----”

“The prairie,” supplemented Sam, laughingly.

Thunderbolt listened to the various comments with an expression which
appeared to indicate that the armor of his stoical Indian nature was
penetrated by a feeling of amusement.

“You no think him one crazy man, then?” he inquired.

“Certainly not!” laughed Dave. “He was a credit to himself and the
country.”

“Let’s go into the house, fellows. There isn’t any door to stop us,”
suggested Tom.

“I’ll bet it’s full of rats,” said Larry.

“Or bats,” grinned Sam.

Stepping upon the porch, in the shadow of the columns, the group paused
at the entrance, to gaze into a grim, dark passageway.

“Awful black!” commented Larry.

“Real awe-inspiring,” laughed Tom.

“Don’t be afraid, little ‘Fear-not.’ I’ll lead the way.”

The tall lad started briskly ahead, the others crowding at his heels.

It was very dark, indeed, at first; but a warm, mellow light entered
through the windows of a room just beyond and served as a guiding star.
The sound of voices and footsteps reverberated strangely. The boards
creaked a dismal protest to the unusual treatment accorded them, while
dust rose up in clouds.

“Hope to thunder we don’t fall into the cellar or some hole in the
floor,” said Larry, who was not at all enjoying the experience.

“Floor plenty strong,” assured the young Cree.

The investigators soon found that the first floor of the ranch-house
consisted of three large rooms and a kitchen. The rays of the sun
streaking over the walls revealed the barrenness of their dingy
surroundings and brought out strongly the thick festoons of cobwebs
which hung from the ceiling. In places the plaster had fallen, exposing
the laths.

To Larry Burnham the old, deserted place, so far away from
civilization, possessed as uninviting an aspect as any house he had
ever seen. The traces of ornamentation, too, which still remained
served only to add to the dreary appearance.

“For goodness’ sake, let’s get outside,” he said.

“Not until we’ve visited every room,” said Tom.

Following the active, tireless Rambler, they trooped up-stairs. Here
they found more to show what the ranch-house must have been in its
prime. In the largest room, probably once occupied by the owner, were
figure decorations painted on the plaster of the ceiling, but now so
faded and otherwise marred by age and dampness as to show only a few
traces of their original design.

From here the lads wandered to the apartment where the fire had
occurred, examining the charred beams, the smoke-begrimed walls, the
plaster lying in heaps on the floor, and other damage wrought by
lightning and fire.

“Must have been a pretty hot time in lots o’ ways,” commented Larry.

“Very interesting,” said Dave; “but that view outside the window
interests me more. Mark the contrast between the rich, deep green of
the firs and cedars and the delicate tones of the temple.”

“He’s getting worse and worse,” said Larry.

“Your description, at least, fits my hunger,” laughed Dave. “Who’s cook
to-night?”

“From the sublime to the ridiculous!” laughed Bob.

“Larry, of course,” said Tom.

“I’m neither sublime, ridiculous nor a cook,” grinned Larry.

The blond lad, the first one down-stairs, breathed a sigh of great
relief.

“Whew! This place certainly gives me the creeps,” he murmured, with a
shiver.

The meal was soon prepared, and eaten with great relish. Then the crowd
wandered about the stockade, or explored the hills, until darkness came
and the firelight danced and flickered over the walls of Fool’s Castle.

“At any rate we’ll have a nice, quiet night, with a roof over our
heads,” said Bob, at length.

“I’m going to enjoy it,” said Dave, “especially after that
extraordinary rumpus of last evening.”

“Say, Bob, I’ve been thinking an awful lot about Jed Warren,” remarked
Tom, abruptly.

“Forget it!” snapped Larry.

“Go on, go on!” scoffed Tom.

“I will--to the States,” murmured the big lad under his breath.

“Our job is to hunt up the border patrol who saw him last,” put in Bob.
“His name is Phil Hughes. Sergeant Erskine said that by keeping due
south from here we could easily find his post near the international
boundary line. He ought to be able to give us a lot of information.”

“I never heard of such a bunch,” sniffed Larry.

“Oh, ho,” broke in Dave, with a yawn, “I’m going to lie down. There’s
no earthly use for any one standing guard to-night, fellows, so nobody
need wake me up.”

“All right--it’s understood,” laughed Bob.

The stout boy, with a blanket tucked under his arm, presently mounted
the steps; then, one by one, the others followed.

The fire, piled high with wood, sent a flaring yellow glow through
the windows of the room in which they intended to spend the night.
The corners, however, were very dark and mysterious; and the shadows
flitting about assumed curious, uncanny shapes.

The Ramblers, long accustomed to roughing it, promptly rolled
themselves in blankets and lay down. Larry did the same. To his tired,
aching body the floor seemed very hard and uncomfortable. He was rather
fearful, too, that wandering rats or spiders might make a voyage of
discovery over his recumbent form.

“I guess the five husky little travelers will have a surprise in the
morning,” he reflected. “The crowd may be smart, all right, but I sort
o’ think they’ll have to be a bit smarter to outwit little ‘Fear-not.’”

“We want to make an awful early start, Bob,” Tom was saying; “so we’d
better not do any talking. Pleasant dreams, fellows!”

Long after the others were enjoying blissful slumber Larry was still
awake. The windows appeared as two glowing parallelograms amidst a
field of darkness. The forms of the sleepers were partially lost in
obscurity. Occasionally one of them stirred; but, apart from this, the
silence was dense--oppressive.

At last Larry began to slumber, and really being much wearied, was
in a profound sleep when a frightful series of yells and pistol
shots, apparently just outside the windows, brought him to his feet,
white-faced and trembling.




CHAPTER XI

THE RIDER


The confusion which instantly reigned in that particular room of
Fool’s Castle far outdid the same kind of performance enacted on the
previous night. The boys, springing up, bumped into each other, wildly
scrambling for points of safety, and by every action indicating that
the night surprise had acted with terrific force on their nerves.

“Help, help!” yelled Larry.

The pistol shots and yells were ringing out again. Momentarily he
expected to hear the whirr of bullets flying through the open windows.

What did it mean?

Bob Somers was the first to regain control of his faculties. Regardless
of the threatened danger, he dashed out of the room. Stout Dave Brandon
followed but a few feet behind.

Fairly leaping from the porch to the ground, the two, with muscles
still twitching from the excitement, gazed about them. The appearance
of nature had changed. The moon was sending a soft silvery light over
the landscape. It flooded the walls of Fool’s Castle, which rose white
and ghost-like. The “Italian garden,” looking like some spot fit for
the tread of fairies’ feet, seemed as deserted and quiet as a place
could be.

“Nothing,” said Bob--“not a sign of any one!”

“Nothing!” echoed Dave.

A crowd of wildly-excited boys was now fairly tumbling out of the
ranch-house.

“Who in the world could it have been, Bob?” cried Tom Clifton, striving
hard to appear calm and collected.

“It was exactly like the rumpus we heard last night,” came from Dick
Travers.

“And, by Jove, the same person or persons certainly made it!” exclaimed
Sam Randall.

“Much queer--no understand!” said Thunderbolt. His bronze face showed
unmistakable evidence of great bewilderment.

And every one of the group was as bewildered as he--astounded at an
event which had happened two nights in succession. Tongues fairly
hurled questions and answers. The cattle rustler theory seemed to be
exploded.

Standing in plain view, easily exposed to attack, Larry Burnham’s
nerves began to shake so violently as to interfere with his
articulation.

“Come on, fellows!” cried Bob, suddenly. “They can’t be very far away.”

“H-h-hold on!” stuttered Larry. “Do you w-w-want to get shot?
S-s-somebody may be h-h-hiding among those trees!”

“Then let’s find ’em!” yelled Tom, valiantly.

The lads, their eyes sparkling with excitement, dashed from point to
point of the big enclosure, Larry dragging along unwillingly at the
rear. Now they were by the deep shadows of the cedars; then close to
the graceful columns of the little Greek temple, only halting a moment
at a time to satisfy themselves that no other human beings were near.

“And yet,” said Bob Somers, voicing the thoughts of all, “those sounds
were right close to the house.”

“They certainly were,” stammered Larry.

“I think men have time to get out of stockade,” declared Thunderbolt.

This reasoning seemed to be correct. The search was carried on with
unabated vigor. But their eager eyes, now turned toward the immediate
surroundings of the enclosure, failed to detect any signs of life.

“What--what’s to be done?” cried Larry.

“Let’s try to think it out,” suggested Tom.

“We’ve gone over almost every possible theory,” said Dave, wearily.
“It’s uncommonly exasperating.”

“We never know,” murmured Thunderbolt.

“Confound it all--we will know!” shouted Tom. “Some kind of a crowd is
following us.”

“Either cattle rustlers or smugglers,” declared Larry, positively. “You
heard what Teddy Banes said about ’em.”

“But what object would they have in so rudely disturbing our slumber?”
asked Dave, with a negative shake of his head.

“Just now we don’t know, and can’t know,” said Bob. “Let’s make another
search.”

Fully an hour was spent before the boys were reluctantly obliged to
confess their failure; and, more and more mystified, they finally
reëntered Fool’s Castle.

“This ought to be a lesson to us, fellows,” announced Bob Somers. “We
must never miss taking turns on guard.”

“It was my fault, Bob,” said Dave, magnanimously.

“And as a penalty I suppose you’ll take the first watch?” grinned Dick.

“A confession generally means a mitigation of sentence,” laughed Dave.

It was the stout boy, however, who presently left the room, rifle in
hand, to begin his two hour stretch.

Larry Burnham was quite amazed to find the others lying down again as
though nothing had happened. But sleep for him was utterly impossible.
So, miserable in mind and weary in body, he lay listening to the soft
footsteps of the sentinel outside, or gazing abstractedly at the moon,
which sent its searching rays through the open windows.

About the time the sun rose the last sentinel ruthlessly disturbed
those still asleep.

“Peach of a night, wasn’t it!” exclaimed Tom Clifton.

“The two nights made a fine pair,” grinned Sam.

“Ho for breakfast!” cried Dave.

“Well, well,” murmured the blond lad to himself, when he discovered
that no attention was paid to him. “Looks to me as if so much
excitement has put it all out of their minds.”

And in this he was quite correct.

“Ha, ha! I’ll be deserter number two,” he murmured, “What a peach o’ a
little ‘Fear-not’ I am. Maybe I was a bit scared last night. But the
idea of gettin’ a chunk o’ lead is enough to scare any one.”

After breakfast the crowd followed Dave Brandon into the ranch-house.

“I have some notes to make,” explained the “historian.”

“That settles it,” said Tom. “We’ve got to stay here until after
dinner.”

Larry anxiously waited and watched. But no opportunity to slip away
presented itself.

The lads, still full of the mystery, continued to speculate upon it
as they walked briskly around the stockade, or wandered over the
surrounding hills and prairie.

To the blond lad’s extreme annoyance, lunch was late. He began to fear
again that the fates were against him. He didn’t enjoy the meal. And
the way the others lingered over it tried his patience almost to the
limit.

Hope, however, asserted itself while the dishes were being cleared away.

“It’s never good to travel right after a big meal,” declared Dave; “so
we’d better remain as guests of Fool’s Castle for another hour or two.”

“Well, it’s a nice cool place, anyway,” said Dick Travers. “Who wants
to do a bit more exploring--you, Tom?--Good! Come along then.”

Larry sauntered leisurely toward the door.

Twenty minutes had passed, when a “Hello, Bob; hello!” in Tom
Clifton’s voice brought the Rambler, who was talking to Dave, Sam, and
Thunderbolt, to his feet.

“What is it, Tom?” he called.

“We can see a chap riding in the distance!” cried Tom, excitedly.

“Gee whiz! That’s interesting!” exclaimed Sam Randall. “Maybe it’s one
of those fellows who serenaded us last night.”

To Sam’s great astonishment, Bob Somers, without replying, made a wild
dash for the door. His eyes quickly ran over the tethered horses.

“Just what I was afraid of!” he cried, breathlessly.

Larry Burnham’s mount was missing.

“Suffering grasshoppers!” burst out Sam, staring with wide-open eyes.
“He--he--has actually skipped!”

“Hurry up, Bob,” came from Tom. “Get your field-glass on him. He’s only
a tiny speck now.”

“Outwitted!” grumbled Sam.

Bob Somers did not wait to listen. Leaping up the steps which led
to the second floor he rushed into the room where the two lads were
standing by the open window.

“Only wish he was coming this way,” began Tom. “Quick, Bob. I want a
squint. We may learn something.”

“We have already!” cried Bob.

“What--what?”

Then, as Sam Randall and Thunderbolt burst in upon them, a belated
suspicion of the truth flashed into Tom Clifton’s mind. His mouth
opened; a deep scowl settled on his features; his fists were clenched.

“Oh--oh! What a dub I was, never to think of it! Oh--oh! It’s
Larry--Larry Burnham; I know it is!”

Forgetting politeness in his eagerness Tom seized the field-glass from
Bob Somers’ hands and leveled it hastily upon the tiny figure of horse
and rider.

His fears were realized. There, in a bright circle of light, the
high-power glass showed the image of Larry Burnham and his horse.




CHAPTER XII

TOM FOLLOWS


“The meanest thing I ever heard of!” cried Tom, handing back the
binocular.

“A silly chump, all right; but he got ahead of us this time,” exclaimed
Sam Randall.

“Me no understand why he do it,” came from Thunderbolt.

“It means that some one will have to ride after him,” remarked Bob,
quietly. “Larry may miss his way.”

“And get into all sorts of trouble, besides,” said Dick.

“Fellows,” cried Tom, “I’ll chase him. There isn’t a bit of use in the
whole bunch going.”

In a fever of impatience he sprang toward the door.

“Hold on, Tom,” called Sam. “Suppose Larry refuses to come back?--What
then?”

Tom found a ready answer to this question. Even if the blond lad
should, indeed, decline to listen to persuasion, arguments, or shafts
of sarcasm, his mission would not be a failure.

“I’ll see him safely aboard a train,” he said. “Then we won’t be
worrying our heads off for fear he’s either lost or starving.”

“Or done up by those gentlemen who fired off pistols, and uttered such
riotous yells,” laughed Sam Randall.

Down-stairs, a brief consultation was held. The opinion that Tom should
go alone was not unanimous.

Tom, however, determined to show his mettle, resourcefulness and
courage, stoutly insisted.

Then, to end the argument, he ran briskly from the room; and, once
outside, dashed toward the horses at a rate which set them all to
prancing wildly about.

The tall boy made it a point to be always in a state of preparedness.
His saddle bags and canteens were already filled. What little work
remained to be done he accomplished quickly, and just as the reins
snapped into place sang out:

[Illustration: “GOOD LUCK, OLD BOY”]

“Now I’m off, fellows, in search of Larry--and adventure!”

His companions, standing near the imposing columns of Fool’s Castle,
were waving farewells.

“Good luck, old boy!” shouted Bob Somers.

“Don’t worry about me,” yelled Tom, leaping on the pony’s back. “I’m
too old a hand at this game to get into any trouble. So-long!”

His hand came down sharply on the animal’s flank. Then the interested
onlookers saw their chum galloping swiftly toward the gate, leaving
behind him clouds of yellowish dust.

Tom’s chagrin had given place to a feeling of elation. Now there was
no one to hold him in check. He was his own master, to ride the great
reaches before him as fast or as slowly as he pleased. Cattle rustlers!
Smugglers!--Bah! He’d like to see any who could frighten him!

“I know the settlement Larry is bound for,” he reflected--“found it on
Bob Somers’ map. Ha, ha--won’t little ‘Fear-not’ be surprised to see me
flying up behind him?”

Fool’s Castle soon became but a spot of light in the far-away distance.
Before him was the undulating prairie, the grass and earth sometimes
glowing with color, then shadowed by passing clouds. Although Tom rode
fast, he eagerly kept his eyes open for evidences of the “fugitive.”

“This isn’t like a paper chase,” he muttered. “Guess even Thunderbolt
wouldn’t find it so easy.”

Then, for the first time, the lad noted a sense of loneliness beginning
to steal over him. Before, his thoughts had been so busily occupied
that he had scarcely considered anything but duty. Now, however,
without the cheery voices of his companions, or the sight of them
galloping close by, the prairie, vast and almost unbroken, took on a
strangely desolate appearance.

Not a living thing was in sight; not even a bird. He reflected how
easy it might be for an inexperienced traveler like Larry to lose his
bearings.

After several hours’ traveling Tom reached a range of hills over which
it was extremely difficult to find a route. Steep and rocky slopes
turned him aside, or thickly-timbered stretches filled with underbrush
made progress very slow.

“Gee whiz! There wasn’t anything on Bob Somers’ map that looked
like this,” soliloquized the lad. “I wonder how in the world little
‘Fear-not’ managed?”

As the horse struggled up a steep incline, every impact of its hoofs
sending down showers of turf and stones, Tom’s face reflected his
worried feelings. Long before this he had expected to overtake the
“deserter.” His pride rebelled at the thought of returning to the camp
without him, or not being able to greet his friends with the triumphant
shout:

“Hello, boys; I saw Larry off on the train, all right!”

But here was nature conspiring against him--a very unkind proceeding,
he thought. Tom’s lips tightened. A scowl of determination appeared on
his forehead.

“I’ll find that fellow if it takes a week,” he growled savagely. “The
chaps back there’ll know I’m safe.”

In spite of his impatience, however, he felt obliged to give his horse
a rest at the top of the hill. Below him was a valley; directly
across, another range of hills, their tree-covered tops showing sharply
against the sky. It all looked very wild--desolate. But for his long
experience in camping out and roughing it his task of finding Larry
would have seemed a hopeless one.

The Rambler gazed at the cool shadow of the hill already beginning to
climb the side of its neighbor.

“I declare, this is exasperating!” he said, aloud. “By George, I’ll
give a yell. Maybe the big dunce is near enough to hear me. Hello,
Larry; hello!” he shouted.

His gruff, deep voice was taken up by the surrounding hills and hurled
back in a series of weird echoes. He waited expectantly. But no answer
was returned.

“Get up, old boy,” commanded Tom. “Sorry, but you’ve got more hard
traveling before you.”

The descent was difficult--even dangerous. Frequently his horse’s legs
slid on slippery turf, or were caught in the tenacious grip of tangled
vines.

Tom’s indignation against Larry returned, and grew in proportion to
the difficulties encountered.

“Oh, I do wonder why we ever let that big tenderfoot come along,” he
grumbled. “Honest, I don’t believe I was ever more disgusted in my
life. I’d certainly like to take a punch at him.”

Down in the valley traveling became easier. So Tom urged his horse into
a gallop, keeping up a good pace until the opposite range of hills rose
before him. Here, again, the same difficulties were encountered.

“All the same, it isn’t going to stop little Stick-at-it,” mused Tom,
determinedly. “If a Northwest Mounted Policeman can ride alone through
places like this I guess I can.”

After another long, toilsome climb the traveler saw extending before
him a great reach of undulating prairie--a sight which was, indeed,
refreshing.

“Hooray!” he shouted.

Pulling up, he critically surveyed the topography of the land somewhat
after the fashion of a general about to plan a strategic move.

Fully two miles away a river cut across the plain in a northwesterly
direction.

“It may mean a swim,” he thought. “Come on, old boy.”

He began to thread his way down the hill, occasionally taking portions
at a rattling pace.

At the base he stopped to give his horse a good rest and refresh
himself with a few crackers and a drink of water from his canteen.

One thing greatly puzzled Tom Clifton: had Larry Burnham been left in
the rear, or was his start sufficient to enable him to cross the hills
in advance?

In view of Larry’s general character the former theory seemed the more
probable. He was not one to conquer difficulties with ease; nor did he
possess any great amount of resourcefulness. The most courageous thing
he had ever done was, probably, actually to undertake this long journey
alone.

“It shows that being with us has done Larry a whole lot of good,” he
said, aloud. “Why, I believe at first he’d have been scared enough to
blubber if the crowd had ever got out of his sight.”

He remounted, and, riding at a good clip, soon saw the hills dropping
low behind him, while the line of scrubby trees by the river assumed
strength and color with each passing minute.

Every now and again he called with all his force, hoping that in a
place where sounds carry such astonishing distances, his cries might
possibly reach the other’s ears.

No responses, however, were carried back on the breeze.

Now he could see the river plainly, tinted by the hues of the sky
overhead.

He quickly cantered across the space which lay between, and on drawing
rein upon the grass-covered bank gave vent to an exclamation of
surprise. The river was far wider than he had expected.

“Huh! I’ll bet Larry Burnham never crossed this,” he cried, decisively;
“no, sir--never in the world. He can’t swim. This is certainly a pretty
how-de-do.”

His investigations in either direction did not reveal enough change in
the width of the stream to cause him to alter his opinion.

“Of course there isn’t a bit of use in crossing,” he exclaimed aloud.
“What’s to be done? By Jove, I’ll camp right here.”

The lad, thoroughly disgusted, looked around for a suitable place. Some
distance back from the stream a hollow fringed by a growth of scrubby
trees and bushes was discovered.

“Just as good as though it had been made to order,” he murmured, when
he presently dismounted and picketed his horse.

Now hunger, thirst and weary bones were beginning to occupy a prominent
place in his thoughts. Working hard, he built a fire and cooked supper.

By the time it was eaten the sky was already growing gray and somber.
Watching the slow approach of night alone wasn’t half so much fun as
when his friends surrounded him. Perhaps never before had he felt quite
so lonely, or been so much impressed by the solemnity of nature.

“I won’t be sorry when the moon shows its face,” he reflected. “Gee
whiz--I wonder how poor old Larry feels!”

Before it became too dark he watered his horse; then returning to the
hollow piled on wood until the tongues of fiercely shooting flames
sent a ruddy illumination far beyond the camp.

For a while he walked up and down some distance out on the prairie.
The stars were shining brightly, but the intense blackness finally
drove the Rambler back to the little hollow, the only spot in the great
expanse which seemed to hold a ray of cheer.

At last Tom spread his blanket over the ground and lay down. He began
to think of the splendid account of his experiences he could give his
school-fellows.

Then the hush of the night, the playful gleams of the fire, combined
with his own fatigue, made a drowsy feeling steal over him; and, on the
border line between sleeping and waking, he lay, scarcely stirring as
time passed on.

Dimly it began to be impressed upon his mind that the moon was rising.
He could see a glow over the hills which vaguely suggested a far-off
conflagration. A bright rim presently crept over the brow. He was glad.
The awesome darkness would fly.

Lazily he watched the satellite; then fell into a doze. And when his
eyes opened again, after what seemed to be but a moment’s interval,
he was surprised to see how far it had climbed in the sky. The fire
had died away, leaving a crumbling mass of red-hot coals. It was too
cheerful a companion to be lost.

So Tom, with a yawn, raised himself on his elbow, intent upon
replenishing it.

At this instant his ears caught a slight sound which did not seem to be
made by his horse or the breeze. Something impelled him to jump hastily
to his feet--to swing around and face the clump of trees over whose
stunted forms the moonbeams were playing.

A thrill that was almost a shock suddenly gripped him. He staggered
back. He had made an astounding discovery.

Sitting silent and motionless in the shadow was a man. His face could
be scarcely seen; but the barrel of a rifle resting across his knees
threw out gleams of light.

The momentary shock having passed, Tom Clifton was about to speak,
when, to his amazement and alarm, the man sprang to his feet and darted
toward him.




CHAPTER XIII

SMUGGLERS


Yes, Larry Burnham had outwitted the Ramblers. Smart as they thought
themselves it proved a very easy matter to lead his horse outside the
stockade, mount and gallop away.

So long as he kept within sight of Fool’s Castle he kept turning
in the saddle; and each time, discovering no pursuers, his grin of
satisfaction increased.

“I can just imagine how Tom Clifton’ll stamp around and roar,” he
chuckled. “Here’s where little ‘Fear-not’ scores.”

There was nothing to disturb Larry Burnham’s peace of mind. He just had
to keep riding straight ahead until the settlement was reached; then a
train would speedily carry him back to the States and civilization.

“But for this miserable Jed Warren business I’d probably have stuck it
out,” he soliloquized. “But such a long wild goose chase!”

What to do with his horse had at first bothered the boy; but he finally
concluded to have the animal shipped to his father’s Wisconsin farm.

“All serene,” he laughed. “Even if the bunch are angry I’ll fix it up
with them when they get back to Kingswood.”

Some hours later Larry’s troubles began. They loomed up in the shape of
hills. He surveyed with dismay the barrier which nature had set against
him. Accustomed to put responsibilities upon others wherever possible,
he was at a disadvantage when compelled to depend entirely upon himself.

The long detours, the difficulties which beset him on all sides, were
eating up precious time. Often he became confused, lost his bearings,
and, in his impatience plunged blindly ahead, many times forced by
steep declivities or obstructions to retrace his way.

A troubled look came into his eyes. It was exasperating to be so
balked--to have his well-laid plans threatened with failure. The
thought of Tom Clifton’s laughter, and the sarcastic remarks he would
be certain to make caused Larry’s lips to tighten.

“Get up, get up!” he growled. “We’ll reach that railroad or leave our
bones on the plain. Ha, ha, ha--that’s a good one! This situation is
makin’ me feel dramatic.”

Before he at last managed to reach the river the rider had passed a
most unpleasant period. His face was scratched and bruised; while the
jolting and tossing about in the saddle added considerably to the
soreness of his bones and muscles.

The lad, however, managed to stand all these things with some degree
of patience until he found himself facing a stretch of water far wider
than he had ever expected.

“Now what am I to do?” he cried, in utter disgust. “By Jingo, I’m
blocked--blocked for fair. Horses are mighty good swimmers, I know; but
trustin’ my safety to a nag when there’s no one around to give me a
hand if anything happens doesn’t suit me.”

Larry’s impatience soon began to change into genuine alarm. He could
discover no place, either up or down the river, where he dared to ford.
At last, completely at a loss to know what to do, he sprang to the
ground.

The thought of being obliged to pass the night alone filled him with
dread. For the first time he began bitterly to regret his course.

“From the map I judged this river to be a small affair like some of the
others the crowd crossed,” he grumbled. “But, hang it all, this might
as well be the Atlantic Ocean.”

It was a long time before Larry’s unhappy frame of mind permitted
him to get up sufficient energy to search for a camping place. About
a hundred feet from the river a thick clump of bushes spotted the
prairie; and their shelter, he decided, was more inviting than the
broad open stretches.

After unsaddling and picketing his horse, he drew a hatchet from his
belt and sallied out in search of wood. It seemed as though the irony
of fate was plunging him right into the kind of work he so cordially
detested.

“I reckon this would make Tom Clifton laugh,” he thought, with a smile
which had little mirth in it.

The necessity for swift work if he wished to have supper before dark
put some action into his big frame; so, in a comparatively short time,
an armful of wood was carried over to the camp. Larry was doubtful
about his ability as chef, never having prepared a meal in his life.
Still, he reflected, cooking bacon and potatoes requires but little
skill. The quantity of coffee to use, however, puzzled him.

“I guess it isn’t more’n a cupful, anyway,” he remarked, aloud.

A roaring fire was immediately kindled and saddle bags unpacked. Larry,
as might have been expected, soon succeeded in burning his fingers, as
well as the bacon. The gravy caught fire, and in attempting to put it
out he knocked several of the largest slices into the flames, thereby
adding for a few seconds a furious sputtering and hissing.

The coffee had a strangely unfamiliar taste; nor were the potatoes any
better, being burnt almost black on one side and nearly raw on the
other. He was, therefore, obliged to depend almost entirely on the
canned goods and crackers.

The ill success which attended his efforts served to relieve Larry’s
mind, for a short time, from his greater troubles. They returned,
however, with added force when the tin dishes were cleared away. The
light was fast fading; the hills had become dark and somber. Sounds
of chirping insects, or an occasional cry from some far-away bird,
increased the sense of utter desolation. How heartily glad he would
have been to see the Ramblers about the fire. Even Tom Clifton’s
oddities and annoying ways appeared to him in a different light at this
particular moment.

While the landscape was in the full glare of sunlight no feelings of
possible danger had worried him. But now his mind began to be occupied
with thoughts of smugglers and cattle rustlers--men whom Teddy Banes
denounced as rough and dangerous characters. And the two mysterious
alarms in the night certainly proved that the half-breed had good
reasons for his warning.

“Oh, I do wish I had stuck to the crowd!” exclaimed Larry, attempting
to master a nervous feeling which now and again came upon him. “If I
can’t get across this river somewhere it means a jaunt back to Fool’s
Castle. And--and--suppose I can’t find the place?--or the fellows have
gone?”

He abruptly paused. Such an eventuality quite staggered him. His stock
of provisions would last only a few days. He possessed no knowledge
of woodcraft, or of the ability to keep oneself alive, in case of
emergency, by such edibles as might be found in the woods and fields.
True, Larry carried a rifle; but he suspected, not without good reason,
that any animal would have to be either very large or very close to
stand in danger.

“Hang it all, I’m in a pretty mess!” he said, disgustedly.

It was the inaction--the impossibility of making any move for
hours--which drove the usually indolent Larry to pacing up and down
at a furious rate. As the dusk gathered around him he kept closer and
closer to the fire, then, oppressed by the darkness, took a seat close
beside it.

“Oh, how delightful life in the open is!” he thought. “To hear Tom
Clifton chirp about it a chap might think it was one of the most
glorious things in the world. I’m going to dream about this experience
for a month.”

At last, hoping he might be able to forget his troubles in sleep, Larry
spread a blanket on the ground and lay down. The long journey had
fatigued him; and this, together with the softly-stirring air, brought
on a condition which soon resulted in deep, heavy slumber.

Some hours afterward Larry Burnham suddenly awoke. The fire was
practically out. A very faint light came from the rising moon. Vaguely
uneasy, he raised himself to an upright position.

A sound had aroused him. It came again--a creak, as though made by
wagon wheels. Then, following this, the faint thud of horses’ hoofs was
clearly perceptible.

With a gasp of surprise, Larry looked eagerly about.

Over the top of the bushes, scarcely more than a darkish blur against
the landscape, he detected an object moving slowly along. And in
advance, and following, were several horsemen.

“Great Scott!” he muttered, breathlessly.

At first a thrill of joy ran through him. Here was relief--men,
undoubtedly, who could put him on the right track. But the impulse to
make his presence known suddenly disappeared.

Who were they?

Wasn’t there something queer about a wagon and a silent body of
horsemen passing across the prairie at such an hour?

Cautiously, Larry dragged himself nearer the bushes. He now began to
feel thankful for having chosen such a secluded retreat, and that the
smouldering remains of his fire were not bright enough to betray his
presence. The horse, too, was lying down.

The words of Teddy Banes rang in his ears. He strained his eyes to
make out the form of the vehicle. Its blurred outlines, now almost
abreast the bushes, were sufficiently strong to enable him to see its
canvas-covered sides and top.

“Judgin’ by the speed they’re makin’ it must be pretty heavily loaded,”
thought Larry.

He listened intently, hoping to catch some stray bits of conversation
which might give him some idea of the character of the men. Not a word,
however, came from the little procession moving so methodically and
steadily by. This curious silence had a peculiar effect on Larry’s
nerves. He felt convinced that he was seeing something entirely out of
the ordinary.

Time seemed to pass with almost unendurable slowness. He longed to
rise, to stretch his legs--but did not dare to do so until the wagon
and its accompanying horsemen were almost indistinguishable in the
distance. Then Larry Burnham rose to his feet.

“Score another one for Teddy Banes,” he said, softly. “Sure as I live
it’s a band of smugglers!”




CHAPTER XIV

LARRY’S COURAGE


“Smugglers!” The word had a very unpleasant sound to Larry Burnham’s
ears. He was sure he had been an actual witness of one of those
expeditions for which the Northwest Mounted Police are continually on
the lookout.

The blond lad scanned the landscape earnestly. How he longed for
daylight! How slowly the hours would pass! It was bad enough to be
alone in that great wilderness; but it seemed infinitely worse to know
that other human beings were near.

“Yes, I’ll just go back and take my medicine,” grunted Larry, “and let
Tom do the last laugh business. Why, that big, barren room at Fool’s
Castle would look like a palace to-night. Here’s where I get to work!”

Larry’s work consisted of walking to and fro, at the same time allowing
his mind to dwell on all the stories he had ever heard concerning
dreadful things which had happened to travelers out in the open. That
same old moon he now saw had looked down upon some mighty strange
scenes. He was quite sure he would never forget how the orb appeared on
this occasion--its shape was so odd, its rays so weird.

At length he stopped pacing and looked with a searching gaze at the
point in the landscape where the wagon had last been seen.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, softly; “don’t I see something?”

His interest became so great that, forgetting caution, he walked beyond
the shelter of the bushes.

“Great Scott--horsemen again,” he murmured. “Why, the prairie must be
full o’ ’em.”

Three faint spots not far apart seemed to be moving along at an
extraordinary pace.

“What in the world can that mean?” thought Larry, becoming excited
again.

Retreating behind the shelter of the bushes he kept his eyes on the
approaching riders as though fascinated by the spectacle. The three
specks were increasing in size with remarkable rapidity.

“It looks as though somebody is getting chased,” thought Larry. “That
chap in the lead certainly seems to be doing all he can to get away.
Whew--what a night it has been!”

At first he was fearful that the horsemen might descend directly upon
his camp. A little study, however, convinced him that unless they
swerved considerably from their course the riders would pass some
distance away.

There was something so mysterious, so unusual in the scene being
enacted before his eyes that his mind became filled with the most
dreadful misgivings. Now there came to his ears a faint sound of voices
and the rapid hoof-beats of the racing horses.

“Oh, wouldn’t I give a lot if I had Bob Somers’ field-glass,” he
muttered. “Gee! They’re gainin’ on that chap. In a few minutes more
they’ll have him.”

Larry’s prediction was quickly verified. He saw the three horses swing
together and form one confused patch of dark against the silvery sheen
of the plain. Almost instantly they came to a standstill. Then, once
more, he heard the sound of voices--angry voices, too.

“There’s some fellow out there in a whole lot of trouble!” exclaimed
the watcher, half aloud.

Though with eyes opened to their widest extent and ears primed to catch
the faintest sound, Larry sought vainly to gain some idea of what was
taking place. Curiosity began to get the better of his fears.

“It surely has something to do with that band of smugglers,” he
thought. “By Jove--look!”

The three men had wheeled about and were returning in the direction
from whence they had come. All were riding almost as furiously as
before.

“I’ll bet he’s been taken prisoner!” cried Larry, excitedly, jumping to
his feet. “Gee whiz! Teddy Banes was certainly right!”

Then he began to experience an uncomfortable feeling that if any
one was in trouble a stern duty lay before him: he must, at least,
investigate.

“Suppose I got in a fix like that! What should I think of a chap who
stood by and did nothing?” he growled, striking his big chest a blow
with his fist. “By Jove, I’d put him down as a pretty poor specimen!”

When Larry’s thoughts began to be taken off himself and his own
troubles his courage rapidly rose.

“Maybe little ‘Fear-not’ will score in this game!” he cried. “And if he
does I’ll make it a point to let Tom Clifton hear all about it.”

He strode over to the horse.

“Get up, you lazy creature, get up!” he cried.

And putting his big hands upon the “lazy creature’s” shoulder he gave
it a violent shove which speedily brought the animal to its feet.

The change which had come over the “promising football player” within a
few moments was quite remarkable. All his timidity and fear seemed to
have disappeared. Now no one would have recognized in him the lad who
had sheltered himself behind a fringe of bushes.

For the first time a little get up and go seemed to have crept into his
nature. Faster than he had ever done so before, he saddled the horse.
Then, vaulting upon its back, he rode away at a swift pace.

The gleams of the rifle barrel resting across the pommel served to give
him a sense of security. Larry actually felt surprised at himself. He
also began to feel a trifle ashamed. Viewing matters from a different
standpoint, he suddenly began to wonder what the boys in Kingswood
would think of his “desertion.”

“Thunderation!” he growled, angrily. “Maybe they’ll call me a
‘quitter.’ I was sort o’ thinkin’ the joke would be on the other
side; but I guess I’ll be the one that’s going to catch it!” Growing
reckless, he urged his horse into a faster gallop. “Tom Clifton was
right. I’ve been a little ‘Fear-not’ who feared everything.”

Having come to this unpleasant conclusion, Larry appeared to lose all
caution and restraint. His horse was fresh, the air cool, and almost as
fast as he had seen the mysterious riders dash over the plain, so he
rode in pursuit of them, with the breeze blowing his sandy hair wildly
against his face.

And all the time he kept an eager lookout for the riders somewhere
ahead. Unless they were making for some pass in the hills he felt sure
his scrutiny would soon be rewarded. The blond lad regarded himself as
quite a hero.

“By Jinks, I can understand now how the Ramblers feel about these
trips,” he soliloquized. “I must have been asleep all the time.”

His fiery pony was pounding over the plain at a reckless rate, and the
faster he went the faster he wanted to go. In the exhilaration he felt
almost like shouting. With the bunch grass on every side, it seemed as
though he was plunging into a waste of silvery waves.

Suddenly a reddish gleam in the midst of a patch of timber caught
his eye; then, as intervening trees came between, flashed out; then
reappeared once more.

“Whoa--whoa!” whispered Larry, softly. “Here’s a development I wasn’t
expectin’. Where there’s a camp-fire there must be men.”

Pulling up his steaming horse, some of his old feelings of nervousness
returned.

“It may be dangerous,” he reflected. “Oh, thunder! Wonder what I’d
better do?”

For several moments he debated the question; then, making up his mind,
rode to a tree close by, and, dismounting, tied his horse.

“By George, I’ll sneak up,” he muttered, determinedly. “Little
‘Fear-not’ is going to see this business through to the end.”

Unslinging his rifle, and using the utmost care, Larry crept slowly
toward the light, which was more often out of sight than in. There
was no sound of voices or anything else to indicate the presence of
campers. This, however, he argued, was not to be wondered at, as the
hour was very late.

No Indian stealing upon an unwary foe could have used greater care than
he. But not possessing the Indian’s skill the sharp cracking of twigs,
or other noises made by his advance, often caused him to stop, his
heart beating fast.

“Suppose some one should suddenly pop out from those bushes and draw a
bead on me!” he muttered, shiveringly.

Several times he was on the point of giving up, but on each occasion
shook his head.

“If anything happens, it happens!” he said grimly.

Now came the step which called for all his courage. He could see the
embers, down in a little hollow, glowing brightly. The dark trees rose
before him--ominously dark--their scraggly branches assuming in the
whitish light of the moon a weird and sinister aspect.

Within their shadows, Larry Burnham, crouching behind a bush, looked
and listened with painful intensity. His mind continually pictured
menacing figures but a few yards away waiting for his appearance. A
crackling of the embers filled him with sudden terror. Only a powerful
effort prevented him from fleeing in mad panic.

Finally he quelled his shaking nerves, and worked his way to a point
where a clear view of the hollow was before him. The tension leaped
away. He uttered a sigh of heartfelt relief.

The camp was deserted.

The instant this discovery was made, Larry, with a boldness in great
contrast to his former stealth, rose to his feet and walked directly
toward the fire.

The first thing which struck his attention was the appearance of the
ground and grass. The latter in many places was beaten down, while
deep imprints and clods of torn-up earth gave every indication that
some terrific struggle had taken place. And, to add to these evidences,
his eye lighted on a bush, partially flattened, its branches and leaves
scattered about. “By whom?--how?”

The astounded Larry Burnham asked himself these questions over and over
again.

The silence, the peace of the enclosure appeared in such striking
contrast to something which he could see only too clearly had taken
place. And the impression on his mind was tremendous.

“By Jingo!” he murmured, breathlessly, “those shouts and pistol shots
seem tame alongside of this. Believe me, it’s enough to give a chap the
creeps.”

Bending over, he followed the tracks with the minutest care, then
suddenly straightened up with an exclamation.

A bit further along, partly hidden by tall grass, he saw several dark
objects. In his eagerness he almost leaped toward them.

“Great Scott--a bridle an’ saddle!” he exclaimed. “But where is the
horse they belong to? This is another mystery. And, by George, it’s a
hummer!”

Dragging the saddle to a smoother piece of ground, he began to examine
it. Then, as though something had struck him a blow, he straightened up
and almost staggered back.

He had seen that particular saddle before.

“It can’t be possible,” he gasped--“it can’t be!”

Eager and with trembling hands he looked it over again. Now, all doubts
were stilled. It belonged to a Rambler,--and that Rambler was Tom
Clifton.




CHAPTER XV

CAPTURED


When Tom Clifton realized the danger that confronted him he was so
taken by surprise that it was several seconds before he had recovered
sufficient presence of mind to leap aside.

“Hold on--hold on!” he yelled. “Who are you?”

The other threw aside his rifle, but made no reply. Tom Clifton saw a
pair of long arms outstretched; muscular fingers were ready to grip him.

Despite the rapidity of the attack, Tom, by an adroit movement, eluded
his assailant. The bewilderment which at first had threatened seriously
to interfere with him was gone. Cool-headed and steady of nerve, he
attempted to leap toward his horse.

Before he could reach the animal, however, his mysterious adversary was
upon him.

Desperately Tom Clifton strove to tear away from the arms which
encircled his waist. At the high school gymnasium he had learned a few
tricks in wrestling. One of these broke the hold.

Then two wildly-struggling figures swayed back and forth in the hollow,
now illuminated by the faint light which came from the fire, then, once
again, beyond its range, with the pale rays of the moon sending their
shadows weirdly over the uneven ground.

What was the object of the attack? Who could this man be who had
crawled up to his camp and sprung upon him as fiercely as a wolf? He
could find no answer.

All his strength, skill and cunning responded to his call. He was
outmatched in strength but not in generalship. His rapid movements made
firelight, horse and trees appear to be whirling around and around.
Again and again he tore away; again and again, with the skill of a
boxer, he blocked the hands which attempted to seize him. Once he was
down, sprawling on hands and knees.

His game defense seemed destined to end in failure; for, as rapidly as
an eagle darts upon its prey, so did the other follow up his advantage.
Tom Clifton gritted his teeth. He heard a cry of exultation. Out of
the corner of his eye he saw the dark figure towering above him.

Then, with extraordinary swiftness, he twisted around and gripped his
opponent’s leg just in time to prevent himself from being crushed to
earth.

Involuntarily, the enemy straightened up to keep his balance. And in
that instant the nimble Tom had sprung to his feet.

“See here,” he managed to gasp between his labored breathing, “let up!
You must have taken me for some one else.”

There was no reply.

“If I could only get to that horse!” thought Tom.

He sprang away, with the other lunging heavily at his heels.

Dashing madly toward the frightened animal he loosened the picket pin
with a lusty kick. Then, driven to close quarters, faced about.

The fierce struggle was renewed. The shadows danced faster. The hard,
deep breathing of both grew louder. Only the Rambler’s speed kept
him out of the other’s clutches. The realization that once in his
enemy’s grip he would be rendered helpless nerved him to continue the
resistance with all his strength and resourcefulness.

The man’s silence, the broad-brimmed hat pulled low, so as to conceal
his features, and his evident determination to win at all hazards
filled him with an alarm he had never felt before.

An idea had occurred to Tom; and, putting it into execution, he managed
to work his way out of the hollow, at length reaching a point many
yards distant from the camp.

And now he felt that the instant to make his decisive stroke had
arrived. It was a stroke which would mean either victory or defeat.
With an abruptness which took his adversary completely by surprise, the
lad swung to one side; then, with head lowered, made a mad dash for the
camp.

Never, even in his base stealing for the “Kingswood High,” had Tom’s
legs moved with such extraordinary rapidity. In his ears were ringing
the heavier footfalls of the pursuer, who was putting forth every
effort to overtake him.

A last desperate spurt, and Tom was swinging wildly toward the fire,
his eyes fixed on the horse, which at this abrupt and startling
reappearance of its owner began prancing about. This still further
loosened the picket pin, and a blow from Tom’s foot as he passed sent
it spinning over the ground.

A wild leap astride the back of the bridleless and saddleless horse
was made just as the animal realized its freedom. It was a thrilling
moment, in which a second’s time played a most important part.

Gripping the pony’s halter with all his force, Tom’s free hand came
down hard on its flank. He saw the dark figure almost within reach, the
muscular arm again extended. He heard a loud: “Whoa--whoa!” come from
the man’s lips.

But the horse’s legs were already in motion. It plunged headlong
through the underbrush, grazing a tree and causing the rider narrowly
to escape being swept from its back. Only Tom’s long apprenticeship
in the saddle saved him. Away he went over the prairie at a furious
gallop, leaving the hollow and his assailant far in the rear.

Breathless with fatigue and excitement, Tom Clifton made no attempt
to stop the furious dash of the frightened horse. The cool night air
fanned his cheeks; he felt a sense of wild exhilaration. The victory
was his. Even in those moments, with the ground slipping beneath him at
terrific speed, he thought of the sensation his story would create.

“Get up, old boy, get up!” he yelled. “Hello--hello!”

On throwing a glance over his shoulder he had made an unpleasant
discovery--the man was pursuing him on horseback.

Tom uttered a shrill whistle.

“He must have had his nag hidden somewhere among the trees,” he cried.
“Well, well, this is an adventure, all right! But he’ll never get
within ten yards of me.”

In the soft light of the moon the prairie presented a picture of the
most poetic charm. It seemed as though he was plunging ahead into a
land of dreams and unrealities. On one side the distant hills cut in
a broken line against a sky of bluish green; shadows wrapped their
base in mystery; and on the other the silent river glimmered faintly
between the trees or lost its placid surface in somber grays.

“Great Cæsar!” muttered the lad, suddenly. “What’s that?”

His eye, once more turning far to the rear, had caught sight of several
specks. One seemed to be a wagon; the others horsemen; and all were
moving slowly in the opposite direction to which he was going.

Tom Clifton’s mind immediately became busy with conjectures.

“There’s surely something doing out here to-night,” he thought. “I
wonder if that fellow chasing me doesn’t belong to that party yonder.
Gee whiz! I guess Teddy Banes was right.”

When he looked around again a wave of relief shot through him. The man
had evidently given up the pursuit, for the forms of horse and rider
now appeared considerably smaller than before.

“Thank goodness!” exclaimed Tom, fervently.

The nerve-racking pace, the jolting and bumping could come to an end.
He tugged and sawed on the bridle; he yelled sharp commands, or
uttered soothing words. But a spirit of madness seemed to have gripped
the horse. With eyes distended, and snorting from fear, the animal was
beyond all control.

“Running away!” cried Tom. “Great Scott!”

His nerves, already wrought to a high pitch of tension, tingled anew.
The objects moving so rapidly past were making a sense of dizziness
come over him. A fear, too, that his horse might stumble and he be
thrown headlong set him to work desperately on the halter again.

And while he was doing this with every ounce of strength at his command
two horsemen suddenly rode into view from a patch of timber only a
short distance to the right.

Tom was now too much occupied, too shaken up and jolted about to have
left any room for surprise. He heard, sounding above the clatter of his
horse’s hoofs, a cry, loud and peremptory--a ringing command to halt.

At the risk of being thrown, he managed to look behind.

The newcomers had spurred up their mounts and were racing toward him
at a whirlwind pace. Visions of falling into the hands of a band of
desperate men flashed into his mind. The stern order to stop came again
and again.

The Rambler made no reply. He no longer sought to control his horse;
but, bending far over on its neck, and, riding with the skill of a
cowboy, awaited developments with a fast-beating heart.

And developments speedily came. The two horsemen were thundering nearer.

“Stop--stop, I say!” yelled one.

“Hold on, or it will be the worse for you!” cried the other.

What could it mean? Were his adventures never to end? No matter how
hard Tom tried he was helpless to shape events. He realized, too, with
a sinking heart, that the exertions of his horse were fast telling on
him; he was slackening speed. The furious race must soon end.

One backward glance showed him the foremost of the horsemen almost
upon him. From out of the corner of his eye he could see the blurred
outlines of a man leaning forward with arm outstretched ready to grasp
the halter of his flying steed. His gray shadow shot in advance; then,
neck and neck, the animals tore across the prairie, leaving a wake of
trampled grass and sometimes a flattened bush behind them.

“I’ve got you, feller!” exclaimed a voice. “You wouldn’t stop, eh?”

His hand shot across the few inches necessary, gripping the halter with
a strength that could not be shaken.

As the horses slackened speed the second rider swung around to Tom’s
left. He, too, in another instant, placed his hand on the leather
straps. Aching in every joint, with the breath nearly shaken out of his
body, Tom Clifton felt unable to utter a word when muscular arms, with
a final tug, brought the animal to a full stop.

“Now I reckon you’ll come to your senses!” exclaimed the man who had
spoken before.

Tom Clifton straightened up to glance into his captor’s face, which was
clearly revealed by the light of the moon.

For a second he seemed dumfounded into silence; then a cry of
astonishment came from his lips.




CHAPTER XVI

THE LOADED WAGON


“Billy Ashe!” exclaimed Tom Clifton, in the greatest amazement, when
his breath and the excited state of his feelings permitted him to speak.

The trooper seemed to be fully as astonished as the Rambler.

“You--you!” he cried. “What in thunder are you doing out on the plains
at this time of night? And riding a horse without saddle or bridle?”
His voice became sharp and angry. “Confound it, fellow, you’ve spoilt
the whole business!”

“What do you mean?” demanded Tom.

“You’ve made us lose valuable time, besides yelling our heads off to
get you to stop. Don’t you know how far such sounds travel in the
night?”

“My horse was running away,” snapped Tom. “Didn’t you have sense enough
to know it?”

“Ah! That was the trouble, eh?” exclaimed the other policeman. “We’ve
been stalking big game, an’ took you to be one of ’em.”

“Smugglers?” queried Tom, excitedly.

“Where’s the rest of your crowd?” queried Ashe, abruptly. “Give an
account of yourself--fast, too. We haven’t an instant to spare.”

His peremptory tone jarred harshly on Tom Clifton’s sensibilities,
especially after all the excitement he had gone through. But, excusing
it on the ground of the urgency of the policeman’s business, the lad,
in brief sentences, told his story.

“I knew it!” exclaimed Billy Ashe, almost violently, as the last words
fell from his lips. “One of the nicest bits of police work that’s been
done for months all gone for nothing because a nervy kid just bobs up
in time to spoil it.”

“How have I done anything to hinder you?” demanded Tom, as angrily as
the trooper.

“But for you we could have tracked the slickest band of smugglers in
Canada to their destination. We’ve been on their trail for hours.”

“You haven’t lost much time on me.”

“That isn’t the point. That fellow back there who was watching you
didn’t intend to take any chances of your prying into their game. Now,
you may be sure, he’s put the others on their guard.”

“Aye, aye!” agreed the other trooper.

Billy Ashe, a very ambitious young officer, was becoming even more
angry and disgusted. After much patient work, he saw all his efforts
threatened with failure. Since entering the service he had always
kept in mind the idea of some day wearing a sergeant’s stripes on the
sleeves of his scarlet coat. And on this particular job the trooper had
visions of receiving warm commendations from his superior officers.
Tom Clifton had never impressed him favorably; and now, although the
tall lad could not be directly blamed, his presence at a critical time
irritated him, driving away for the moment the natural sympathy he
should have felt.

Tom, however, was not looking for any. But he didn’t propose to
shoulder undeserved blame.

“If you’ve made a fluke on the job,” he exclaimed, hotly, “it’s just
exactly as you said yourself: your own shouting must have done it.”

“I’ll put it all up to Sergeant Erskine,” exclaimed Billy Ashe. “And
when he gets my report I’d advise you to keep far away from the
barracks.”

“Aye, aye!” said the other trooper.

“Oh, that doesn’t scare me a little bit,” jeered Tom. “I’ll make a
report to Sergeant Erskine myself.”

With a sharp command to his horse, Ashe galloped off.

“Come on, Witmar!” he yelled. “We’ll get the wagon, anyway.”

“Aye, aye!” answered his companion.

“Guess I’ll follow this thing up myself,” muttered Tom. “Great Scott!
Just think--I’m going to take part in a chase after smugglers!”

This thought was enough to stifle his angry feelings, and make him
disregard the shooting pains which were now becoming stronger.

“Get up!” he yelled; “get up!”

Although being without saddle or bridle placed him at a great
disadvantage, his horse was a swift, fiery creature--a bundle of
high-strung nerves, ready to dash off at headlong pace upon the
slightest provocation.

“They won’t leave me very far behind,” muttered Tom, grimly. “I can
guide this nag by knee-pressure as well as any cowboy.”

The Northwest Mounted policemen, who seemed to have given up hope of
capturing the smugglers, rode furiously. At the pace they set there was
great danger of Tom’s horse running away again. The Rambler knew this,
and though in a reckless and determined spirit, kept all his faculties
alert. The wind was rushing by him once more. An occasional bush seemed
to spring up before his path and be sent flying behind. He saw his
shadow slipping over the ground, waving and wobbling curiously as it
passed over the inequalities.

And presently a tiny glow showed him his own camp-fire.

“Wish I had time to skip over for my saddle and bridle,” he thought;
“but business just now is too pressing.”

The light of his fire quickly faded from view; new scenes sprang up
before him. The hills approached a little nearer to the river. Steep
and precipitous they were at this point, and grimly dark, sending a
delicate shadow over the silvery gray of the prairie.

The policemen had, naturally, increased their lead, although Tom strove
hard to close up the gap between them. From the shaggy sides of his
horse rose clouds of steam; the pony’s eyes were distended, his ears
thrown back. He seemed to be on the point of bolting again, when the
lad, eagerly gazing over the landscape, saw a dark spot coming into
view.

“The wagon!” he exclaimed.

Billy Ashe and his companions were thundering over the prairie as fast
as their horses could take them. And now, as the distance was being cut
down with remarkable rapidity, the canvas-covered wagon began to show
clearly in the moonlight. But there were no indications of horsemen
near.

Billy Ashe was evidently right. Tom’s appearance on the scene had
resulted in the men’s becoming alarmed and abandoning the vehicle. The
two policemen soon covered the last stretch, and jumped from the saddle.

Scarcely had their investigations been begun when Tom Clifton clattered
up, sawing away on the halter and yelling sharp commands to his horse.

“Well, if this chap hasn’t the biggest nerve I ever heard of!” cried
Ashe.

“They have flown, eh?” exclaimed Tom, when at length he managed to
conquer his fractious steed.

“I should think they have flown!” growled the trooper, his eyes
flashing angrily. “When a man wants a nice piece of beefsteak he isn’t
satisfied with gravy. We were after the men--not a wagon-load of
contraband stuff, eh, Witmar?”

“Aye, aye!” said his companion.

“You can’t put the blame on me,” cried Tom, hotly.

“I do--and so will the sergeant.”

“Get out! This is a free country, isn’t it?”

“It’s not free for any one to interfere with the business of the
Northwest Mounted.”

“What’s in that old chuck wagon?” demanded Tom, impatiently.

Witmar had pulled open the flap, and, by the aid of a pocket
search-light, was examining some of the contents.

“We are not supposed to answer questions put to us by strangers,”
interposed Ashe, who was in such a disappointed frame of mind that he
found it hard to speak with civility. “Come--get out. What do you want
to do--take charge of the wagon--and us besides?”

“Aye, aye! I reckon he’d like to,” said Witmar.

“Is this a private park?” demanded Tom. “Where are the ‘keep off the
grass’ signs? Have you any authority over me?”

“I have authority to arrest any one who interferes with us,” returned
Ashe, threateningly. “There’s many an old stager on the force who might
run you over to the barracks if you didn’t light out the moment he said
the word.”

“Aye, aye! I’ve seen it done,” said Witmar.

“Well, you won’t see it done in this case!” cried Tom, wrathfully.
“You’re supposed to protect people. How do I know that the fellow who
pitched into me isn’t lying around somewhere ready to tackle the job
again just as soon as I stray far enough away from the Mounted Police,
eh?”

“There’s reason in that,” said Witmar.

Billy Ashe did not reply. Although the smugglers had escaped there
was still much work to be done. The contraband goods would have to be
conveyed to the settlement, where a police post was located; and that
meant one of them would have to remain on guard while the other went in
search of a team.

“Where do you suppose this wagon was bound?” asked Tom.

“That’s what we should have found out but for you,” growled Ashe. “Once
these chaps know we’re hot on their trail they’ll keep under cover,
maybe for months.”

The two troopers climbed into the wagon, and from bits of conversation
which Tom now and then overheard he felt sure they had made a valuable
find of contraband goods.

The canvas-covered vehicle, resting motionless upon the prairie,
with its deep shadow cutting over the ground, produced a singularly
picturesque effect. The soft moonlight, too, added an impressive
appearance of size. To Tom Clifton’s mind it vaguely suggested some
huge monster brought to bay and rendered helpless.

He wondered in which direction the men and horses had gone. He
carefully studied the landscape, the hills, the obscure distance
touched with faint lights and delicate shades. Somewhere in that great
expanse were concealed the forms so eagerly sought.

Then, in another moment, the channel of his thoughts was rudely
changed. A horseman, galloping hard, suddenly appeared. He was headed
directly for the wagon.

At the same instant the troopers also discovered him.

“Well, did you ever!” cried Tom, excitedly. “What in thunder----”

Ashe and Witmar sprang to the ground.

“He’ll have to give a good account of himself!” cried the former.
“After him, Witmar!”

Their precaution, however, was unnecessary, for the oncoming rider made
no effort to change his course.

Not a sound came from the three as they watched him coming nearer and
nearer, until at length his figure was clearly in view. Then Tom
Clifton uttered a shout of surprise and exultation.

“By George--if this isn’t the greatest piece of luck I ever heard
of!” he yelled, almost wildly. “By all that’s wonderful, it’s Larry
Burnham!”




CHAPTER XVII

THE WHOLE CROWD


It was, indeed, the big Wisconsin lad. And although Larry felt almost
staggered by surprise he overcame it by a tremendous effort.

“Good-evening, Tom,” he exclaimed, pulling up his horse with a jerk; “I
thought I’d run over with these things. They seem to belong to you.”
Whereupon he lowered to the ground Tom Clifton’s property.

Tom, not to be outdone, controlled his own astonishment.

“Thanks, Larry,” he said. “I was in a bit of a hurry, and so left ’em
behind.”

“Why, these chaps seem to be spread out all over the prairie,”
exclaimed Ashe.

“Aye, aye!” laughed Witmar.

Of course neither of the boys could restrain their impatience long.
Larry simply burned with curiosity to learn what had taken place, and
Tom was equally anxious to hear about “Little Fear-not’s” adventures.
He even forgot to be disgusted with the big lad; while Larry, in his
excitement and jubilation, entirely lost sight of his previous chagrin
and disappointment.

The boys’ tongues flew rapidly. Larry touched but lightly upon his
dismay at finding himself cut off from the settlement by the river; nor
did he mention the dreadful moments passed behind the shelter of the
bushes. Indeed one might have supposed that observing the movements of
smugglers on a moonlight night was quite the most enjoyable thing in
the world.

And at any other time he would have burst into peals of laughter
at Tom’s thrilling description of his struggle with the mysterious
assailant. But, under the circumstances, he was tremendously impressed
with the seriousness of the encounter. In fact the two big lads seemed
to have reached a better understanding of one another than they had
ever had before.

“I was a dub to want to leave you chaps,” said Larry, candidly. “Jolly
fine for you to come after me, Tom, an’ I won’t forget it.”

“We couldn’t think of losing such good company,” laughed the Rambler.

“Well, fellows,” put in Billy Ashe, “you’ve had a pretty lively night
of it. Now I’m going to skip.”

“Where to?” asked Tom, interestedly.

“Over to the settlement. Witmar’ll stay here to guard the wagon.”

“Aye, aye!” said Witmar. “And a tiresome job, I call it.”

“Oh, we’ll stick by you,” said Tom. “Good company always seems to make
the time pass faster.”

“How are you going to get across the river, Mr. Ashe?” asked Larry.

“Easy enough. The horse can wade. It isn’t over a man’s waist line.”

“Goodness gracious,” muttered Larry.

He felt half ashamed and half amused when he reflected how completely
he had allowed the stream to block his plans.

“Still, it may be for the best,” he thought. “Honestly, I believe this
experience has done me a pile of good. Besides, I’ve learned what a
fine chap Tom Clifton really is.”

Billy Ashe, who had been conversing earnestly with Witmar, suddenly
sang out: “So-long, fellows! Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“You certainly will,” laughed Tom. “Good-bye, and good luck!”

“Exactly my sentiments, too,” cried Larry.

The lads eyed the form of the trooper, rapidly growing smaller in the
distance; then, when a patch of timber finally hid him from view,
dismounted and picketed their horses.

“It’s a long time before daylight,” said Witmar. “I’d advise you to
take a snooze.”

At first neither of the boys felt disposed to accept his suggestion.
The excitement of the night had affected their nerves to too great an
extent. But finally tiring of walking up and down, or endeavoring to
draw the silent policeman into conversation, they spread out their
blankets and lay down.

Tom was continually finding something new to relate about his
adventures, and Larry, also, discovered several points he had omitted.
Gradually, however, under the influence of the silent, peaceful night,
their lively tongues began to be heard less and less, and in another
hour Witmar alone was awake.

[Illustration: THE WHOLE CROWD WAS THERE]

To Tom Clifton it seemed but an instant when his slumber was broken
by the sound of voices and pounding of horses’ hoofs. He had a dim
consciousness that this was but the part of a dream, until Witmar’s
voice, raised as though in a loud hail, effectually startled sleep from
his heavy eyes.

Tossing aside the blanket, he rose to a sitting position, then uttered
a loud exclamation.

Several horsemen, riding at a good pace, were bearing down directly
upon the wagon, and, to his unbounded amazement and delight, he
recognized in the foremost the sturdy, athletic form of Bob Somers.

With a yell as loud as any Indian war-whoop the Rambler sprang to his
feet, in his haste almost sprawling over the prostrate form of Larry
Burnham, who, aroused in this startling fashion, added a weird cry to
the din. This was about the last thing in the world the blond lad had
expected.

He rubbed his eyes. Could it be possible? Yes, the whole crowd was
there. The early morning sunlight bathed them in a rosy glow, while
from revolvers and horses’ trappings came flashes and streaks of
gleaming light.

“Bob Somers!” cried the delighted Tom, darting forward. “Great Scott,
but this is jolly--a glorious surprise!”

“Aye, aye! It certainly is,” admitted Witmar.

“I’m nearly bowled over!” cried Larry.

A chorus of salutations came from the newcomers. They were all in
a hilarious frame of mind. Thunderbolt’s coppery-hued visage, too,
expressed the pleasure he felt.

“Didn’t expect us, eh?” laughed Bob. “Mighty glad to see you, Larry.”

Larry Burnham felt decidedly sheepish, for he realized that he had put
the crowd to a great deal of trouble.

“They must think I played a mighty mean trick on ’em,” he mentally
concluded. “Hang it all, I don’t see why I ever did such a thing!”

He waited in anticipation of either complaint or sarcastic remarks,
but, to his surprise and gratitude, none came.

Of course it was some time before the excitement quieted down, and the
Ramblers, on foot, gathered by the side of the wagon. Trooper Witmar
surveyed the crowd with a quizzical smile.

“One might think,” he remarked, “that you chaps hadn’t seen each other
for a month.”

“I guess it does look that way,” laughed Dave. He glanced at Tom. “I
guess you’ve had a rather quiet time of it, eh?”

“Quiet time!” cried Tom. “Well, I rather think not! I had the fight of
my life.”

This startling announcement immediately brought to a stop a volley of
inquiries relative to the wagon and the presence of the trooper. Dick
Travers, who had just uttered the word “Smugglers!” echoing a terse
observation of the policeman, turned to stare at Tom in the utmost
amazement.

“A scrap--a real scrap?” he cried, wonderingly.

“It certainly was a real scrap!” And Tom, who hugely enjoyed the
sensation he had created, launched forth.

His tale held his listeners spellbound; and this time the Rambler did
not forget a single point.

Numerous were the exclamations which punctuated his remarks.

“Well, that’s certainly a story with a punch to it!” cried Dick Travers.

Tom was bombarded with questions. The minutest particulars were
insistently demanded. Like a lawyer cross-examining a witness, Sam
Randall drew from him all the particulars he could in regard to his
mysterious assailant.

“My, what a pity you didn’t get a good view of the fellow’s face,” he
exclaimed, finally. “Think you’d recognize him again?”

“You bet!” cried Tom--“and lined up among a dozen.”

The crowd was not satisfied until Larry Burnham’s experiences were
related; and not once during the whole recital did they make any
unfavorable comment. Of course Larry could see that all this must
have been arranged beforehand; but it increased his feeling of
gratitude, especially as his companions highly praised his action in so
courageously following the three riders.

“After such thrilling tales our own seems tame enough,” said Bob.
“Several hours after you had gone, Tom, as things began to get rather
dull, we decided to make a run over to the settlement ourselves. We
camped on those hills yonder for the night. Sam, who was the early
morning watch, sighted the wagon--you know the rest.”

“You’re a great lot,” laughed Witmar. “What’s the next thing you’re
going to be up to?”

“I heard there’s been quite a bit of cattle rustling going on around
here. So I suppose there must be ranch-houses within easy riding
distance?”

“Aye, aye!” said Witmar. “The nearest is Jerry Duncan’s. A fine chap he
is, too. Jerry’s lost quite a bunch of steers.”

“If there’s a house so close I propose we call on the owner,” put in
Dave Brandon. “After such a long ride we ought to have a good rest
before going on our trip to the border.”

The thought of a nice big room proved so irresistible to the
comfort-loving Dave that he spoke eloquently on the subject. And the
crowd, never liking to go against his wishes, finally put the question
to a vote.

Tom, notwithstanding his anxiety to reach their destination, cast his
ballot for the affirmative side, remarking:

“Who knows, fellows, perhaps Jerry Duncan may be able to give us some
information about Jed Warren?”

Policeman Witmar, who had heard from Billy Ashe all about the amazing
search of the Ramblers, much to the tall boy’s astonishment guffawed
loudly.

“Well?” demanded Tom, in his gruffest voice.

Witmar diplomatically evaded a direct answer.

“There are lots of ranchmen and cowpunchers over in that direction who
knew Jed Warren,” he said.

“That settles it,” declared Tom. “I’m glad we’re going.”




CHAPTER XVIII

ASKING QUESTIONS


“If you chaps are pining for adventure this certainly doesn’t look much
like it,” remarked Larry Burnham.

The seven, led by Thunderbolt, were traveling in the direction of Jerry
Duncan’s ranch.

“You never can tell,” grinned Dick.

“I’m afraid the Rambler Club won’t solve any mysteries on this trip,”
insisted Larry.

“Don’t you fool yourself,” retorted Tom. “Wait and see.”

In another half hour the lads were approaching a range of hills, rather
higher and wilder-looking than any encountered before. Great numbers of
cattle bearing Jerry Duncan’s brand grazing on the plain and up over
the slopes gave a cheering indication that somewhere among the rolling
ridges his ranch-house was located.

Thunderbolt assured them that any one unacquainted with the topography
of the country would have a hard task to find it.

“Why in the dickens did they ever build in such a place?” cried Tom.

“Much nice,” said Thunderbolt. “In winter wind no so strong. A creek
close by and many trees.”

After skirting the hills for about a mile the young Indian halted, and
pointed to a deeply-shadowed break in their rugged slopes.

“We go through pass,” he explained.

“It’s a rather wild-looking place,” commented Dave.

“I sort o’ think it’ll make me wild to ride through it,” murmured Larry.

In spite of his lesson he felt discontented feelings coming over him
again. He longed for the camping-out time to arrive, when, lolling in
the pleasant shade of some tree, he could read, or otherwise amuse
himself.

On all sides of the gorge, which the lads soon entered, was a beaten
trail made by the passing of countless horses and cattle. Though often
turned aside by grim-looking boulders, groups of stunted trees, or
thickets, they made good progress.

“I see it,” sang out Tom.

Just above a jutting crag the upper part of the ranch-house, glowing in
the sun, had appeared to his eagerly searching vision.

“Jerry Duncan’s!” exclaimed Thunderbolt.

“Hooray!” cried Tom, spurring his horse into a gallop.

Now over a smooth grassy stretch, the seven swung along, and, sweeping
around a rocky barrier, saw the solid, substantial home of Jerry Duncan
rising before them. It was surrounded by a wide, cozy-looking porch,
and not far in the rear stood a commodious stable.

Resting in a cup-shaped enclosure between the hills, the ranch-house
suggested a pleasing retreat. The shadow of the opposite range was
already beginning to steal across the grassy floor over which a number
of horses and cattle were grazing. At their rapid approach the deep
baying of a dog chained to a post echoed startlingly clear.

On the instant two men came running out of the house.

“Hello!” yelled Bob Somers. “Is Mr. Duncan in?”

A short, stout man, whose face, deeply browned by exposure to the
weather, wore a most jovial expression, spoke up.

“My name’s Duncan,” he exclaimed. “For gracious sakes, boys, who are
you, and----”

“I’ll finish the sentence,” laughed Tom. “Where do you come from? I
never saw a parcel of boys traveling over the country like this before.”

“Exactly; you couldn’t have hit it better.”

The lads did not lose any time in acquainting Mr. Duncan and his
cowpuncher with enough information to satisfy their curiosity.

“Jed Warren!” exclaimed the ranchman reflectively. “Why, to be sure,
I know him. He was often around these hills, and, excepting for the
border patrol which you mention, the very last man to see him was a
chap back there.”

A comprehensive wave of the hand indicated that “back there” meant the
same direction in which the boys had been traveling.

“What’s his name?” asked Tom, eagerly.

“Oscar Lawton. How far is it? Oh, about five miles. Easy to get there?
Yes--in an aeroplane.”

The good-natured cattleman laughed.

“Let’s take a chance on it, fellows,” cried Tom, eagerly.

“Oh--oh! Just listen to him!” groaned Larry.

“A good detective never allows a single clue to get by him,” insisted
Tom, with an air of superior wisdom.

“Oh, yes; I suppose that settles it,” returned Larry, wearily.

“I agree with Tom,” remarked Sam Randall. “Since we started out on this
job let’s be able to say that everything possible has been done to
clear it up.”

“That’s the idea!” exclaimed Bob, heartily.

“You’d better come in and rest for a while,” said Mr. Duncan, “and get
a bite to eat.”

“Joy--oh, joy!” murmured Larry. “Of course we will.”

After spending over an hour in the pleasant shade of the porch,
indulging in roast beef sandwiches, plenty of coffee and other good
things, the crowd voiced an emphatic vote of thanks.

The cattleman insisted on their coming again. “Because,” explained Mr.
Duncan, with a rather suspicious twinkle in his eye, “I want to know
how this detective work of yours turns out.”

“We’ll certainly drop around and tell you,” cried Bob, heartily.

Then began a long, tedious march over high ridges where nature seemed
to have put up many barriers, not only to endanger the safety but also
to wear out the patience of unwary travelers. The young Cree, however,
proved himself to be a most excellent guide. No difficulty was too
great for him to overcome; and, as little time was lost in detours,
the ranch-house for which they were seeking came into view long before
Larry Burnham had expected.

The building rested in a broad, grass-covered valley almost midway
between the hills. And on nearer approach its rather neglected
appearance became strikingly evident.

But the boys, weary with their long ride, paid no attention to this.
They were too eager to meet the owner, and then continue on their long
journey southward to the border. A great disappointment awaited them,
however.

Oscar Lawton, they were informed by several men lounging about, was
miles away on the open range. And none could state the exact time of
his return.

“Oh, this is perfectly awful!” cried Larry Burnham, in exasperation.
“Won’t it ever end?”

“Jed Warren!” exclaimed one of the men, in answer to a question. “No;
we don’t know nothin’ about Jed Warren. What in thunder are you fellers
expectin’ to do--ketch up with that there scarlet jacket?”

“Our expectations cannot be measured in words,” drawled Larry.

“Is there another ranch near by?” asked Bob.

“Oh, yes; there’s several of ’em hereabouts,” answered a cowpuncher.

“Well, then, let’s go to one or two more, fellows,” suggested Tom
Clifton. “If Mr. Lawton saw Jed perhaps some other people have, too.”

“Ah! Much good,” approved Thunderbolt. “Sure! Maybe we learn
somethings.”

As long as they remained in sight the cowpunchers kept waving their
hands in farewell.

“I don’t suppose you chaps feel a bit discouraged even yet,” said
Larry, satirically. “I’d call this perseverance and perversity.”

“Oh, we’ve just begun,” chirped Tom.

Another long ride followed. Sometimes the lads traveled over hills;
then, again, across the undulating plain, or forded narrow streams.
And Larry was as hopelessly mixed on their location as a boy could be.
Herds of grazing cattle were often encountered, and left behind.

Even the sanguine, hopeful Tom began to lose his accustomed air of
cheerfulness after several ranches had been visited without a scrap
of information being gained. Things were not breaking very well, he
reflected; and it made him feel angry and disgusted indeed.

“We go some more ranches?” asked Thunderbolt. “Not many mile from Jerry
Duncan’s is one. What you say?”

“Don’t ask, but just go,” said Larry. “And when we get through there
take a short cut to the next.”

Some time later they came once more in sight of the range of hills
in which Duncan’s ranch was situated, though at a point considerably
further to the east. The late afternoon sun sent a mellow glow over
the landscape, touching boughs and branches with golden luster, and
sending long purplish shadows down the slopes or trailing over the
ground.

“No far now,” announced Thunderbolt.

He swerved to the right, leading them toward the base of a hill which
jutted out a considerable distance on the prairie.

“And I, for one, propose to stay there for the night, if the owner is
willing,” announced Dave.

“I’ll back you up,” cried Larry. “Who runs this ranch, Thunderbolt?”

“Him called Hank Styles,” answered the young Cree.

“And I do certainly hope to goodness Hank is in,” said Tom.

“He hasn’t much of a looking ranch-house,” remarked Bob, as the
building gradually came into view.

Certainly the abode of Hank Styles and his cowpunchers was not
calculated to impress the visitors with favor. It had a crumbling,
neglected appearance. Everything about the place suggested age and
decay.

“I hope Mr. Styles doesn’t correspond in looks to his building,”
remarked Sam Randall. “If he does, perhaps we’d better keep on to Jerry
Duncan’s.”

“So say I,” laughed Bob.

“Ah! He come now,” said Thunderbolt, suddenly. “Him much little fellow.”

A man had appeared in the doorway, and after gazing long and earnestly
at the approaching horsemen, stepped down and walked toward them with
long, swinging strides.

“Thank goodness,” exclaimed Tom. “In luck at last. Good-afternoon,
Mr. Styles,” he added, raising his voice. “We’ve come to see you on
important business. What do you know about Jed Warren?”




CHAPTER XIX

BOB RIDES ALONE


The ranchman, at this salutation, stopped short and stood looking
fixedly at them.

“How do you do, sir?” said Dave, politely.

“Well, what do you want?” demanded Hank Styles. “What do you want, I
say?”

There was such ungraciousness expressed in his manner and tone that the
boys felt considerably surprised--a surprise which prevented them from
replying until the ranchman had spoken again.

“Can’t you answer a civil question?” he snarled.

“We are looking for Jed Warren,” explained Bob Somers, “and thought
possibly you might know something about him.”

“Jed Warren!” repeated the man. “What should I know about Jed Warren?”

“Didn’t you ever meet him--a mounted policeman?” cried Tom.

“Well, I’ve seen lots of the redcoats around; an’ maybe I have, an’
maybe I haven’t. Who sent you here?”

“Nobody sent us.”

“Well, then, you’d better go away. Ask somebody else.”

“See here, Mr. Styles,” interposed Dave, “would you have any objection
to our resting a short time in your house?”

This request brought a sudden change of expression into the ranchman’s
face.

Of all the boys lined up before Mr. Styles no one was surveying the
situation more keenly than Tom Clifton. He was vaguely impressed with a
feeling that something was behind the man’s peculiar manner; and this
idea growing, as ideas usually did with Tom, he sprang to the ground,
exclaiming:

“A good scheme, Dave. No objections, I suppose, Mr. Styles? Come on,
fellows!”

“How long are you going to hang around these parts?” demanded Styles.

“Some considerable time,” replied Tom, greatly to the astonishment and
disgust of Larry Burnham; “and we’re going to camp right within sight
of your ranch-house. It’s dangerous out on the plains after dark. I
was attacked the other night; and if I ever run across the chap who did
it he’ll get all that’s coming to him.”

Then, while the occupant of the ranch eyed him with a peculiarly
sinister expression, Tom began striding toward the dilapidated building.

“Hold on, there!” The command came sharp and peremptory. “You’re in an
awful big hurry, ain’t you? Can’t even wait till a man tells you he’s
ready!”

“Better picket your horse, Tom,” cautioned Sam Randall.

Bob Somers, viewing the trend of affairs with considerable surprise,
exchanged a significant look with Dave, who immediately eased himself
from his saddle with a sigh of relief.

“I’ll follow your example, Tom,” said the writer, as the tall boy drove
in a picket pin.

“So shall I,” said Bob.

Larry Burnham was considerably astonished also, but in a different way.
He regarded the action of the Ramblers as a decidedly cool proceeding.
Here they were practically forcing themselves upon a man whose every
action indicated that their presence was by no means welcome.

“I don’t wonder Hank Styles looks a bit peeved,” he reflected. “Gee!
It’s certainly awful nerve on their part.”

“The house ain’t in no condition to receive visitors,” explained the
ranchman.

“Oh, no matter,” said Tom.

“Yes, but it does matter. You can just stay here until I get things in
a little more ship-shape order--understan’?”

Without ceremony, Hank Styles abruptly turned and reëntered the house.

“You’re a jolly nice lot,” began Larry.

“Just close down on any talk of that sort,” snapped Tom. “Don’t you see
something queer in the way that man’s acting?”

“I don’t wonder at it, after the way you’re actin’.”

“You leave things to us.”

The blond lad looked at Tom in wonderment.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded.

“I’m not saying anything,” answered Tom.

“That’s the way the rest ought to do,” said Dave. “Keep cool, Tom. You
know jumping at conclusions sometimes only makes a chap tumble to his
own folly.”

“Humph! I suppose this is another mystery,” snickered Larry--“never to
be solved.”

“Hank Styles is a pretty rough-looking customer,” said Bob. “I think
I know what’s been going on in your mind, Tom. A chap is justified in
trying to find out all he can in a case like this. Fellows”--he raised
his hand impressively--“no objections, now. What I am going to do may
be only the result of a foolish whim, but perhaps it may do some good,
after all.”

“What’s the idea?” demanded Tom, breathlessly.

“I’ll skip off. All of you go in the house. With such a big bunch
around he’ll probably never miss me. Even if he does it can’t do any
harm.”

“But look here, Bob,” protested Sam Randall.

“Not a word,” warned Bob. “Don’t pay the slightest attention to
me--remember!”

“Go as far as you like, Bob,” whispered Tom.

Hank Styles reappeared at the door a short time later. His manner had
undergone a decided change.

“Come right in, fellows!” he called. “I straightened things up a bit;
an’ there’s a nice room where you kin rest jist as long as you like.”

Bob Somers, Dave Brandon and Larry Burnham kept to the rear of the
little procession which immediately started off.

Just as they reached the steps of the ranch-house Bob Somers dropped
behind, and, while the rest crowded toward the entrance, the Rambler,
with a quick, noiseless tread, slipped around the side of the house.

Pausing for an instant to study his surroundings, he headed directly
toward a spur in the hills thickly overgrown with bushes and only about
a hundred feet distant. Several times he turned, half expecting to see
other men around the ranch.

But from the rear the old house presented a picture of loneliness
and desolation. Even the dilapidated sheds and stable close by were
apparently deserted, although, through an open door, he caught a
glimpse of several horses.

“I’ll admit if a motion picture photographer had his camera trained on
me I’d feel rather foolish,” muttered Bob, when he reached his goal
and threw himself flat on the ground behind the bushes. “I don’t know
exactly why I’m here--but I am here! If I don’t see anything suspicious
within a half hour or so guess I’d better go back to the crowd.”

From his position he was able to get a good view of both buildings, and
at the same time was thoroughly concealed by the bushes.

The lone watcher, busily debating in his mind the question as to
whether he was acting foolishly or pursuing a course of wisdom,
answered the problem to his own satisfaction within the next five
minutes.

The back door of the house opened, and three men came hurriedly out,
almost running toward the stable; and the one in the rear he recognized
as Hank Styles.

“Good gracious!” murmured Bob. “There’s something doing, sure as I
live. Wonder what in the world has become of the fellows?”

Now he felt thankful indeed that his forethought had been, apparently,
wise. There was something so hasty in the movements of the men as to
convince him that they were on no ordinary errand.

They disappeared inside the stable, and the sound of their voices came
over the air, mingling in with the stamping of horses’ hoofs.

“Ah! They are saddling their mounts,” murmured Bob. “Mighty
interesting, I call it.”

Snuggling closer among the bushes the Rambler peered eagerly through an
opening.

“Ah!” he breathed. The men were leading their horses outside, at the
same time talking in excited tones, but too low for the words to reach
him. “Going to skip, eh?”

One of the trio began tearing a bit of paper into strips. Then, taking
off his sombrero, he dropped the pieces inside, while the others,
standing near by, gesticulated in an angry fashion. Not a move was
lost to Bob Somers’ eager gaze. Their actions bore out in an almost
startling fashion his idea that something was up.

“Ah!” he muttered again.

Little Hank Styles was holding his hat high in the air.

Two arms were immediately outstretched, as his companions one after
another drew forth a slip from the hat. Each seemed to scan the pieces
with great eagerness. The next instant Hank Styles and another burst
into a loud peal of laughter and began to slap their knees and give
other evidences of extreme satisfaction. The third, however, indicated
his displeasure in a way there could be no mistaking. He shook his fist
in the air and at the house. And all this seemed to excite further the
risibilities of the other two.

Bob Somers was clearly puzzled.

“I can’t understand it,” he mused.

Now the cattlemen were engaged in a most earnest and animated
conversation. Frequently voices rose higher. Then, as though arriving
at some understanding, the three sprang on their horses, cracked their
quirts and were off.

Two rode away in the direction of the open prairie, while the third,
the man who had become so angry, wheeled about and headed in Bob’s
direction.

The Rambler’s nerves did not forsake him. Lying flat on the ground he
contrived to shield his body still more by the aid of the bushes and
tall grass which grew around him in profusion. As the hoof-beats of
the horse told of the rider’s rapid approach he felt his heart beating
faster. Discovery might lead to most unpleasant results. With muscles
tense, he was ready to spring to his feet at the first intimation of
danger.

But the rider clattered by without seeing the amateur detective.

Then there flashed into Bob Somers’ mind a possible explanation of the
men’s peculiar actions.

“They must have drawn lots,” he exclaimed. “By Jingo, I’ll bet that’s
it. If I followed this chap I might make some more interesting
discoveries.”

His thoughts reverted to the crowd. Why had none of them appeared?
Were they sitting comfortably in the ranch-house, unmindful of the
fact that their host had flown? His confidence in his friends was too
great to make him feel uneasy about their safety. He had the choice of
two decisions. And if he selected the one he was almost irresistibly
prompted to do it meant leaving without an instant’s loss of time.

“Of course they’ll know I’m safe,” reflected Bob.

Cautiously he rose to a sitting position, for the sound of the horseman
could still be heard.

“Yes, I’ll risk it,” he muttered, with grim emphasis. “Better a failure
than to be wondering always if a good chance had slipped by.”

Now he stood upright, and still fearful lest other men should have
remained in the vicinity of the house took a quick survey before
venturing forth. Then he ran, silently and rapidly, to the front of the
building, where his horse was tethered.

Fearing the loss of an instant’s time, he resisted a temptation to dash
inside and tell his friends, and a moment later had jumped into the
saddle and was on the move.

His work required the greatest care. Should he approach too close it
meant danger of being seen; should he lag too far behind the risk of
losing the other’s trail. The route which the cowpuncher had taken led
directly up the hill; so Bob Somers followed.

The presence of the man in advance was occasionally betrayed by a
crackling in the underbrush, as his horse plunged through. He was
evidently traveling hard.

The Rambler took the precaution to keep intervening objects between, or
to ride in the shadows now thickly falling about him in the deep woods.
Steadily forging ahead, he only came to a halt when the top of the hill
was reached.

Overlooking the trees and vegetation which covered the descending
slope, Bob Somers could see a narrow valley, then, beyond, a succession
of rolling ridges. It was a wild, desolate and silent scene, with no
suggestion of either human or animal life in all its vast reaches.

He realized, however, that if the man kept straight ahead he must soon
emerge into the open valley. So, sheltered behind a mass of scrubby
cedars, he watched and waited.

“Hello--there he is now!”

The horseman, abruptly appearing in the field of vision, began to
gallop at top speed over the level stretch; and Bob Somers, eagerly
following his course, saw him heading for a wide break in the hills.

“He’s in a mighty big hurry,” said Bob, half aloud. “By Jingo, seems
to be getting rather suspicious, too.”

The man had suddenly reined up; then, swinging around in his saddle, he
looked long and earnestly in every direction. Apparently satisfied, he
whipped up his steed and never slackened pace until the jagged sides of
the pass hid him from view.

“Gee--one hasty move, and the jig might be up!” reflected the Rambler,
as he rode down the slope.

When Bob, in his turn, crossed the valley and reached the break in the
hills he surveyed the somber-looking depths and precipitous slopes with
a critical air.

“Whew! I certainly shouldn’t like to be caught in there on a dark
night,” he murmured. “By George--there he goes again!”

Scarcely visible against the surroundings, horse and rider were seen
moving across an open space.

The lad pulled hastily back, not stirring until he judged the other to
be sufficiently far ahead for him to escape the risk of detection.

The cool, damp air was filled with the odor of rank weeds and grasses.
Occasionally he came across decaying branches and boughs strewn over
the ground; tangled thickets and slabs of rock, too, added to the
difficulties of the way. Pools of water and marshy stretches mirrored
the gray sky above; and numerous insects hovering over their slimy
surfaces attacked the traveler and his horse with unpleasant vigor.

Naturally, Bob often questioned the wisdom of his course. What would
his companions think?

“Hang it all, I’ve gone too far now to back out,” he concluded,
shrugging his shoulders.

At last the gulch began opening out into another valley.

Before leaving the deep shadows of the hills Bob rose in his stirrups,
to sweep the country with his field-glass. After several minutes of
anxious search the powerful instrument brought into view the horseman
already climbing the side of a hill directly opposite.

Now and again, riding in and out among the trees, he was lost to view,
and, finally, disappeared.

“Perhaps I’ve made a pretty mess of it,” soliloquized Bob, with a look
at the darkening sky. “Even if I started back now I couldn’t get very
far before the night would be down on me black as pitch.”

At a rattling pace the lad pounded across the valley, then up the hill.
On reflecting that the man might have halted somewhere in the vicinity,
he proceeded slowly, never relaxing his vigilance for a moment.

The timber grew thickly on the slopes; deep, gloomy shadows lay across
his path. The sky between the interlocking branches appeared in weirdly
shaped patches of light. The outlook was not encouraging.

At the top of the hill Bob could find no point of vantage, as before,
from which to gaze over the surrounding landscape. The timber was too
thick, the inequalities of the ground too great.

“Still,” he reflected, “I’ll take a chance, and plunge ahead.”

And when night finally came Bob Somers found himself on the slope of
another wooded hill. He dismounted, picketed and unsaddled his horse,
then sat down on a grassy knoll to think over the situation. His sudden
whim had turned out disastrously. He was miles and miles away from his
companions. In all his travels he had never been in the midst of a more
desolate-looking place; and the trail was utterly lost.




CHAPTER XX

THE RANCH-HOUSE


“This here is a kind of an old place,” began Hank Styles, as the boys
entered the ranch-house. “We never went in for no fancy fixin’s, like
Walt Allen over to Fool’s Castle. I reckon you might as well come right
up-stairs.”

He led them to a rough wooden stairway which led up from the main room.

Hank Styles waited until all had passed, then followed.

It impressed Larry Burnham as being rather singular that they should be
conducted to the second floor, and suddenly his comfortable feeling of
security vanished. Bob Somers was a pretty bright chap, he reflected,
and his suspicions might be justified. The echoing of their footsteps
sounded through the big ranch-house with dismal, uncanny clearness. He
didn’t like the little ranchman following so close behind, as though
driving them before him.

“Here we are!” Hank Styles’ rough voice broke in harshly upon his
meditations. “If this here ain’t a nice room I never seen one. Plenty
of stools. A nice bench. We ain’t got no books or other foolish things;
but that there view out the winder can be looked at a long time.”

Larry Burnham, brushing past the ranchman, noted the massiveness of the
door and its powerful lock.

“It’s certainly a big room,” said Dave.

Tom stepped quickly over to the window.

“I don’t see much to gaze at,” he sniffed.

“That there is the beauty of it,” remarked Hank Styles, coolly. “You’ve
got to look a long time before you kin see where it comes in.”

He was now standing with his back against the partly-open door
surveying the crowd with such a curious expression that Larry’s
uneasiness changed like a flash into alarm. The man’s eyes seemed to
suggest a curious mixture of triumph and maliciousness.

“Sit down, fellows,” commanded the ranchman. “Make yourselves at home.”

Dave Brandon, usually the first to comply with such invitations, gave
the little man a swift, keen glance.

“That tired feeling I had has sort of worn off,” he remarked. He
glanced significantly toward Sam Randall. “So I don’t think we’ll stay.”

The moment these words were spoken Larry Burnham, yielding to his
fears, attempted to pass Hank Styles.

“You don’t think you’ll stay, eh?” yelled the ranchman savagely. “But I
reckon you will--you confounded lot of spies!”

As though overpowered with rage he gave the blond lad a mighty push
which sent him staggering back, to bring up violently in the arms of
Sam Randall.

The room was in an uproar at once. Dave Brandon leaped forward.

Hank Styles, however, with the agility of a cat, eluded him, and by an
adroit movement of his foot almost sent the stout boy to the floor.
Then, with a yell of derision, he slipped outside the room, and before
the combined rush of angry and excited boys could prevent it had closed
the great door with a bang. Instantly they heard the ominous sound of
the lock being turned.

“Trapped!” groaned Larry Burnham. “Oh, what easy marks!”

“I no understand!” cried Thunderbolt.

“Let us out,” howled Tom, “or you’ll get in the worst trouble of your
life!”

A tremendous onslaught was made on the door. Every ounce of their
united strength was exerted in an effort to force it open. But the only
result was to make themselves hot, tired and perspiring.

“Yes; push on it hard!” yelled a derisive voice. “‘Walk inter my
parler,’ says the spider to the fly. Thought yerselves smart, didn’t
yer? Well, all I kin say is that ye’re goin’ ter smart for it.”

“Come now, this has gone far enough,” shouted Dick Travers. “We don’t
mind a little joke----”

“A joke, is it?” Hank Styles’ voice, muffled by the partition, came
again. “Thought I couldn’t see through yer little trick, didn’t yer?
Sit there an’ think it over. It’s a nice, comfor’ble room with stools
an’ benches. An’ when you git tired o’ sittin’ look out o’ the winder
at that there beautiful view.”

Tom Clifton immediately attacked the door with a fury that, if not
emulated by the others, at least caused them to join in another supreme
effort to break the lock.

Puny indeed was the lads’ force against the mighty strength and
solidity of the great door. Their efforts were as fruitless as those of
a bird fluttering and beating its wings against the bars of its cage.

“Oh, what a beautiful mess!” cried Larry, despairingly. “Now what are
we going to do?”

“Not blubber--for one thing!” cried Tom, so exasperated that he could
scarcely speak. “Hank Styles is going to pay for this. I knew there was
something wrong the moment he opened his mouth.”

“Then why did you want to come in, like a silly idiot?” stormed Larry.

“Because I thought we could find out something.”

“Well, we’re found in something.”

“Oh, but this is much queer!” exclaimed Thunderbolt.

“Come now, don’t let us get excited,” admonished Dave. “We have an
ally on the outside--a mighty lucky idea of Bob Somers’.”

“Yes. And he’ll find a way to get us out,” said Sam, confidently.
“Fellows, what kind of a place do you suppose we’ve run into?”

“The headquarters of a band of smugglers, of course,” cried Tom, with
conviction. “Didn’t you see how strange Hank Styles looked when I spoke
about the man who attacked me?”

“I certainly did,” answered Dick Travers.

“Are we going to jaw here all night?” demanded Larry Burnham. “I’m
beginning to know what a chicken in a coop feels like. Let’s open that
window an’ yell for Bob.”

“Gee! I was never so mad in all my life!” fumed Tom.

“And you look it,” said Dave, cheerfully.

Dick Travers, at this moment, was vainly trying to open the window. But
the sash was nailed fast.

“Score another one for Hank Styles,” he said, calmly.

“Stand back, fellows,” cautioned Larry Burnham, picking up a stool. “I
know a capital remedy for windows that won’t open.”

“Hold on, Larry, hold on!” interposed Sam Randall. “What’s the use of
spoiling perfectly good panes of glass? Where’s your confidence in Bob
Somers?”

“That uncommonly tired feeling I had has returned,” said Dave. “I’m
going to take a rest.”

Larry placed the stool on the floor and sat down.

“I wonder why Hank Styles locked us in?” he exclaimed. “What can he
expect to gain by it?”

A lengthy and earnest discussion followed. Many theories were advanced;
but beyond being absolutely certain that the whole affair was most
extraordinary none could give a plausible explanation.

“I’ll bet there’s a big bunch around this place,” said Tom.

“An’ maybe ready to pounce on us the moment we get out,” suggested the
blond lad. “Gee! I only hope nothing’s happened to Bob.”

“They’d never catch him napping,” said Dick.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. For all we know, they may have tied him
up an’ tossed him in a corner like a sack of wheat. Look out, fellows!
This time it goes.”

With all the strength of his powerful arms the big lad hurled the stool.

The sound of a fearful crash instantly followed. The woodwork was torn
asunder, while showers of glass rattled over the floor, or, falling
outside, were splintered and smashed to bits on the ground. A dull thud
announced the arrival of the stool on the turf.

“Not a neat job, but effective,” remarked Dave.

“Would have been quite a pretty sight from down below,” commented Sam.

A number of heads were immediately poked out through the broken window.

“Hello, Bob, hello!” yelled Tom.

The others joined in a rousing chorus.

When no replies came to repeated calls the lads began to look at each
other with expressions of wonderment.

“Still,” remarked Tom, with great confidence, “you may be mighty sure
Bob has some good reason for not opening his mouth.”

“I guess I’ve stated it,” grunted Larry; “an’ it wouldn’t surprise me
a bit if we never saw our horses an’ stuff again.”

This possibility quite staggered the crowd.

“Wouldn’t that be a jolly fine ending to your mystery-solving
expedition?” went on Larry relentlessly.

“‘Words, words, words’!” came from Dave. “Boys, we must get out of
here. Can’t jump--the distance is entirely too great.”

“Let’s see,” exclaimed Sam. “Our khaki coats are strong and tough.
What’s the matter with tying the sleeves of two together, and----”

“Good!” broke in Tom. “I’d have thought of that myself in another
moment. Quick! Let’s try it.”

He and Larry immediately took off their coats and followed Sam’s
suggestion.

“It ought to be strong enough to hold an elephant,” remarked Dave,
approvingly, as he examined their work.

Tom seized one of the sleeves, Larry Burnham and Dick gripping the
other. Then, easing himself over the window sill, the tall lad was
lowered steadily toward the grass-bestrewn ground. It was such an easy
operation that he laughed in derision at Hank Styles’ effort to hold
them prisoners.

The instant his feet touched the ground Tom dashed off at top speed.
A glad cry of relief presently escaped his lips--the horses were
contentedly munching the grass in front of the house. A quick count,
however, showed one to be missing.

“Ah! No wonder Bob didn’t answer,” he exclaimed. An idea of the true
state of affairs flashed into his mind. “Hooray! I’ll just bet he’s up
to some detective work.”

Running back he yelled: “There doesn’t seem to be a soul about the old
place, fellows, and I guess Bob is on their trail.”

Dick Travers was soon standing beside him; then came the young Cree.
And presently all were on solid earth once more.

“I think the view looks much finer from here than it does up above,”
laughed Tom, joyously.

“Hank Styles much bad man!” exclaimed Thunderbolt, with emphasis. “If
him ever come over to Cree village again he run away mighty fast. Me
see him there many times.”

“Half the fun of getting out is spoiled by Bob’s not being here,”
growled Dick. “I guess Tom’s theory is correct. Let’s go inside.”

He led the way to the front door.

It proved to be locked.

“Humph! I believe those fellows have gone away for good!” cried Tom.

“We must wait here until Bob gets back,” remarked Dave. “So what’s the
matter with making ourselves comfortable? Suppose we try the windows.”

“But--but--just imagine what might happen if Hank Styles an’ some
others should come back,” began Larry.

“Ease your mind, son,” interrupted Tom, loftily. “We’re not a bit
afraid.”

Finding all the ground floor sashes fastened the crowd decided to adopt
heroic measures. A ponderous sawhorse was found in the stable; and,
armed with this, they attacked the door. Before their onslaught it soon
tottered back on creaking hinges.

“Hooray--hooray!” shouted Tom. And, followed by the others, he dashed
inside.

“Let’s get something to eat,” suggested Dave. “I’m uncommonly hungry.”

“That seems to be the best plan,” agreed Sam. “Here’s a big stove and
enough wood to start a fire. Let’s pitch in hard.”

Several of the boys immediately went out and got the saddle bags.

But one thing marred their happiness--the absence of Bob Somers.
Without his cheery presence a damper seemed to have come over the group.

“Him much nice boy,” said the young Cree. “Hope nothing hurt him.”

“Well, he’s staying away a blamed long time,” said Larry, uneasily.
“Perhaps we ought to go off on a search.”

“While the grub is cooking I’ll do it,” cried Tom. “Come along?”

“Me go, too,” said Thunderbolt.

The three scouts departed at once, and did not return until Dave was
placing the steaming viands on a long pine table which stood in the
middle of the room.

“No news,” announced Larry, “although we nearly yelled our heads off.”

“Bad--very bad!” cried Thunderbolt.

“If I didn’t know Bob Somers so well I’d feel worried,” remarked Dave
Brandon. “But he’s a strong, courageous and resourceful chap. We can
save his share of the meal.”

In spite of anxiety every one possessed a tremendous appetite. After
their long ride it seemed almost impossible to get enough.

While the big square window still framed in an expanse of greenish sky
and glowing clouds Tom lighted an oil lamp that hung from the ceiling,
and its dull yellow glow partly chased away the gloom which pervaded
their surroundings.

As time passed slowly on, bringing no sound of footsteps, and twinkling
stars appeared in the dark and colorless sky, the lads found it
increasingly difficult to keep up the mask of cheerfulness.

“There’s one thing pretty certain,” remarked Dave: “if Bob has gone
anywhere among those hills there’s not much chance of our seeing him
again to-night.”

Outside, a fitful wind rustled the grass. From the gently swaying
branches of a tree close by came a musical sighing. Walking to the door
Tom looked out upon a field of darkness so intense that nothing beyond
a few feet could be distinguished.

“Whew, how black!” he exclaimed. “Let’s get some more lanterns,
fellows.”

“Going to illuminate the prairie?” inquired Larry.

“No; but we’ll make the windows shine so brightly that if Bob should
happen to be out in the open he’d see the beacon for miles.”

The boys hustled around, soon finding three lanterns in a closet. These
were lighted, carried to adjoining rooms and placed on the window sills.

“Now, for the present, there is nothing to do but wait,” exclaimed Dave.

After a while Thunderbolt and Tom went outside and led the horses to
the stable, then rejoined the disconsolate-looking Ramblers, who were
either lounging or walking about the big room. The light from the lamp
failed to clear away entirely the gloom which hovered over the corners,
and every movement of the lads sent odd-shaped shadows traveling
fantastically across the floor or walls.

At last Dave picked up his blanket.

“I’m going to make a mighty good try to sleep,” he said.

“You’ll succeed, all right,” grinned Larry. “Who’s standin’ guard?”

“My turn,” replied Tom.

The rest of the crowd, weary and worried, concluded to follow the stout
boy’s example.

“Sleep well,” said the sentinel, with an effort to smile.

Rifle in hand, he walked outside and began pacing to and fro.

His watch passed in a very uneventful fashion. Sam Randall relieved
him, and when Sam’s time was up he called Tom.

“Gee!” muttered the tall Rambler, rubbing his eyes. “I wish the next
two hours would pass as quickly as the last.”

He took up a position by the window, and, just as watchful as though a
host of enemies surrounded them, kept a keen lookout.

“I do wonder where Bob is at the present moment,” he thought. “It’s a
mighty queer affair. If he doesn’t turn up pretty soon we’ll have to go
on a hunt for him.”

Occasionally it required heroic efforts to keep his eyes from closing.
He envied the sleepers, so blissfully unconscious of time or place. Now
he tiptoed softly up and down; then walked to the partly-open door, or
stood by the window trying to penetrate the obscurity beyond.

He felt relieved to see a change gradually coming over the scene. The
eastern sky became tinged with a cold and grayish light--dawn was
approaching, and ghostly streamers of mist were revealed hanging low
over the prairie and hills.

“Well, I was certainly never so glad to see it in my life,” exclaimed
Tom, softly. “My, hasn’t the time dragged out, and----”

He abruptly paused--for, without warning, there happened the most
singular thing which had ever taken place in the history of the Rambler
Club.




CHAPTER XXI

LOST


Bob Somers, in his camp among the hills, with the black night about
him, tried to accept the situation philosophically. It looked as though
his pursuit had been a dismal failure. And here he was, cut off from
any hope of reaching his friends for hours.

“If I’d only taken time to tell the fellows I’d feel much better,” he
reflected.

He had built a fire in a secluded spot and eaten supper. And now
there was nothing to do but think, or gaze at the flashes of light
which often pierced the darkness. The stars were shining with unusual
brilliancy. He tried to remember what he had read about these orbs so
many million miles away, but his thoughts would constantly return to
the boys he had left in the lonely ranch-house and the man who was
possibly encamped somewhere on the same range of hills.

“I only hope he doesn’t see the light of this fire,” he murmured.

Long experience in the woods had steeled his nerves to stand without a
tremor the rustlings and whisperings which sometimes even the slightest
breeze occasions. A twig snapping, a broken branch falling earthward,
or some small animal scurrying through the brush sounds in the silence
of the night with unaccountable clearness.

Bob Somers, sitting on a broad, smooth slab of stone, was often obliged
to fight off swarms of insects attracted by the glow of the fire. An
inquisitive toad hopped up, fixed its beady eyes on him for a moment,
then turned about and solemnly hopped away.

Often he asked himself if they actually had stumbled upon the
smugglers’ stronghold. At any rate there was clearly something wrong.
He had been forcibly impressed with the idea that the man who had
ridden among the hills was delegated to perform some most important
work. It made his disappointment all the keener.

“Well, the only way is to make the best of it,” mused Bob. “I’ll join
the ‘Don’t Worry’ Club. Worry certainly never did a chap a bit of
good. When things begin to go wrong be glad they aren’t any worse.”

Having spoken this bit of philosophy aloud the Rambler rose to his
feet. His pocket search-light cut a brilliant streak over the ground,
and by its aid he was able to find his way across the uneven surface.
From a little distance the firelight dancing and sparkling, its cheery
rays flashing upon the surrounding trees and bushes, made a decidedly
cheerful spot of color in a field of blackness.

He found walking rather difficult. Bushes rose up before his path;
here and there a treacherous declivity had to be avoided. But still he
pushed on, hoping to catch sight somewhere in the scene before him of
another glowing spot of color which might tell him of the presence in
that vast expanse of the man he had pursued.

There was none, however. Bob, following his own advice, thrust aside
the feeling of disappointment and began to retrace his steps.

“I might as well turn in,” he reflected, “and get up with the day. I’ll
make a mighty good try to pick up that fellow’s trail again.”

Accordingly he rolled himself in his blanket and lay down. Out in the
open air, with the scent of the earth and growing things about him, and
a pleasant breeze sweeping over the hilltop, slumber did not need to
be wooed. The Rambler was soon fast asleep. And it was not until early
morning that his eyes were once more open.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Daylight already! And
there’s plenty of work to be done.”

Only a few charred sticks remained of his fire, but Bob soon had
it going again. A breakfast was hastily cooked and eaten; then,
considerably refreshed, he saddled his horse.

Cheerless and grim appeared the flattish clouds of mist which hung
between him and the distance. Vegetation dripped with moisture and
reflected the cold gray of the sky above.

Bob’s first work was to make a careful search of the surroundings, to
see if he could discover any indications of the rider having passed
that way. In this he was not successful. So he at last vaulted on his
horse’s back and started off.

A rosy glow was now appearing in the eastern sky; and presently streaks
of light began stealing over the ridge of hills, picking out here and
there a resting place. As the sun crept above the horizon and showed
its gorgeous rim over the even gray of a distant elevation Bob Somers
rode down into the still-shadowed valley, examining every foot of the
way with the keenest scrutiny.

“I’ll use up all morning in the search,” he decided. “I certainly hope
the fellows won’t be worried. Don’t believe any of ’em, though, would
want me to turn back now.”

Traveling up the slope of another hill he reached the summit just as
the full glow of sunlight shot over the landscape. Somber shadows were
immediately transformed into tints of delicate blue, barren surfaces of
rock on hillsides caught and held the gleams of gold, while the woods
became patches of mellow green.

There was a delightful sense of freshness in the fragrant air. Bob
Somers felt buoyed up. He reflected that any one who could experience
gloomy feelings on such a morning must be hopelessly out of tune with
nature.

Descending again, he reached a creek which rippled musically over
a boulder-strewn bed between two high ridges. On the opposite side
traveling was impossible, owing to precipitous slopes.

“By Jove, I’m getting into a regular wilderness!” exclaimed Bob.

A few minutes later, on turning a bend, he saw before him a point where
the stream was almost choked with the débris brought down by floods.
Around decaying boughs and branches the water swirled and bubbled,
as if seeking to tear them from their fastenings. A murmur, never
slackening for an instant, filled the narrow gorge with a pleasing
sound.

Bob Somers rode along a narrow space with the stream some four or five
feet below, while above towered a wall of dull slate-colored rock.
He saw with satisfaction, however, that a short distance beyond a
gentle descent led down to the water’s edge. There numerous pools had
formed, and a marshy stretch partly overgrown with weeds and tall grass
followed the receding base of the hill.

As he reached it the Rambler uttered an exclamation of surprise. Deeply
imprinted on this tract were impressions of horses’ hoofs.

“Great Scott!” cried Bob, leaping to the ground.

All thoughts of returning for the present vanished from his mind.
Here was exactly what he had been looking for so anxiously. A careful
examination, too, convinced him that the tracks were fresh.

“Well, this is certainly a great piece of luck,” he exclaimed,
joyously. “I haven’t the least doubt in the world that it was Mr. Hank
Styles’ friend who passed this way.”

Highly encouraged, Bob Somers resumed the trail, and presently made
another interesting discovery. Beside the fresh tracks were many others
clearly much older. A pathway, too, had been beaten through the tall
grass.

Satisfied that for the present at least there was no danger of his
going off the track, Bob traveled on, putting mile after mile behind
him. Occasionally he urged his horse through dark, somber ravines which
suggested the abode of wild animals, for nature here had contrived to
put on its grimmest aspect.

At last progress by the side of the stream was no longer possible. The
hills rose steeply from the water’s edge.

“Blocked from the creek, that’s certain,” mused Bob.

After taking the precaution to fill his canteen and give the horse a
drink, he surveyed the landscape carefully in all directions. From the
character of the ground he felt sure that the man had been obliged to
follow the stream on the same side, and, on further consideration,
concluded it to be quite possible that he had mounted the hill, either
there or at a point close by.

“So I’ll climb it myself,” he said, giving the reins a jerk.

Although the Rambler tried to keep close to the creek so many obstacles
were encountered that the distance between them seemed steadily to
increase.

“Well, now I’m certainly as badly off as ever,” soliloquized Bob
Somers, ruefully. “If I hadn’t come across those hoof-prints I’d
probably be a long way on the back track by this time. And--by
George--I really do believe I’m getting mixed.”

He raised himself in his stirrups. Everywhere ridge after ridge rolled
off to meet the sky, all looking monotonously alike.

“For the life of me I don’t know in which direction Hank Styles’
ranch-house lies,” he grinned. “It’s a good thing my saddle bags are
full of grub.”

A spirit of recklessness seized him.

“Of course,” he argued, “the fellows must know I’m safe; and as I’ve
stayed away so long a few hours more or less can’t matter. Get up, old
boy! I’ll give Larry Burnham a chance to say that this was the wildest
wild goose chase he ever heard of.”

About an hour later he drew rein at the bottom of a deep ravine. There
could be no question now that his task had utterly failed. The horseman
who had passed through the swampy section might have pursued a course
miles and miles away from his present situation. The Rambler was
reconciled. At least, he had made a faithful effort. His mistake had
been in allowing himself to be led on and on when common sense should
have told him the futility and absurdity of such a course.

“Oh, yes, I know it’s very dreadful,” grinned Bob. “Still, I guess
Tom’ll stick up for me against the stings and jibes of outrageous
tongues.” He laughed merrily. “Now for a bite of lunch.”

Realizing the importance of every minute, if he expected to reach the
ranch-house before nightfall, the lad satisfied himself with crackers
and dried beef. Then, consulting his compass, he set off in search of
the creek.

“And once there it won’t take me long to get my bearings,” he thought,
confidently.

Up and down hill he rode; but the stream persistently remained out of
sight.

To Bob Somers’ mind there was humor in the situation--but the humor was
of rather a grim sort. Weeks might be spent in that wild region without
encountering a single human soul.

“It’s a good thing I’m not a tenderfoot,” he grinned. He stroked his
pony’s neck. “I guess, though, we’ll be able to find our way out of
here before very long, old boy.”

Bob Somers’ hopeful prediction did not seem likely of fulfilment. He
could find nothing that looked familiar.

“Lost at last!” he muttered, with a smile.

His horse was plainly showing evidences of distress. The long, hard
climbs over steep and slippery surfaces, together with the heat of the
day, were exhausting the animal. So Bob presently dismounted.

“Poor old chap,” he murmured, commiseratively. “You certainly need a
rest.”

The lad looked over the oval-shaped valley and the line of encircling
hills, then, drawing a long breath, exclaimed:

“I guess my troubles are only beginning.”




CHAPTER XXII

A CRY FOR HELP


Too considerate of his pony to push the animal hard, Bob now made but
slow progress. His canteens were empty and his throat already becoming
parched. The horse, too, needed water. This, then, began to be a more
important consideration than a steady march toward the ranch-house.

From the top of a high hill he finally saw through his field-glass a
line of scrubby willows crossing a valley. Their presence suggested a
watercourse.

“By Jingo, I believe it’s the creek!” he cried, hopefully. “Hooray!”

After a long, arduous descent he reached the trees, finding that a
narrow creek coursed its way between their overhanging branches toward
a wide gash in the hills beyond.

“Ah, this is a fine sight!” exclaimed the Rambler, enthusiastically.

Rarely had clear, sparkling water held such a delightful appeal. The
very air seemed filled with its fresh, pleasant odor. The pony neighed
and tugged hard to pull away from his restraining hands.

“No, no, old chap,” whispered Bob. “You must rest a bit and cool off
first.”

How delightful it was to wash his face and hands in the stream and
drink the cool, refreshing liquid! And then, having satisfied nature’s
cravings, he began to figure out his position.

“Yes, sir, I believe this is the very creek,” he decided, at length,
“but miles beyond the place where the gorge pushed me aside.” He
glanced at the sun. His brow clouded over. “I’ll never make it
to-night,” he exclaimed, with finality. “So what’s the use of
exhausting this pony any more? No, sir--I won’t do it.”

Some distance further along, near the base of the hill, he discovered
an inviting little depression, and in the middle of this built a
fire. Then, while the coffee-pot simmered on a bed of red-hot coals
and frying bacon sent off a pleasant aroma, he reflected on the many
mysterious things which had happened, and on the ill-luck which had
attended all their efforts to solve them.

“It begins to look as though Larry Burnham was right,” he murmured.
“Still, somehow, I don’t regret having taken this chance.”

He strolled up and down for a while; then followed the creek quite a
distance as it wound its way among the hills.

“I have a pretty good idea how Robinson Crusoe must have felt in his
solitude,” he grinned, as he turned and began to walk back toward the
fire.

Finding inactivity trying to his patience, Bob Somers kept busy while
the end of the day approached. Even then time seemed to pass with
extraordinary slowness. He heartily welcomed dusk; and as the shadows
of night stole over the hills and crept into the valleys, gradually
wrapping the landscape in impenetrable gloom, he decided to seek repose.

“And I’ll hit the trail back on the very first signs of day,” he
concluded.

Being a good sleeper, and nothing occurring to disturb him, morning
found Bob Somers fresh, and eager to conquer the difficulties of
travel which he knew lay between him and the ranch-house.

His breakfast was cooked and eaten in short order. When the pony, in
response to the crack of his quirt, leaped ahead, Bob felt like giving
a shout of exultation.

“Mighty certain, after this, the crowd will stick together,” he said,
aloud. “By Jingo, I suppose the fellows must be pretty badly worried.”

He found the passage between the hills comparatively easy, so made
rather rapid progress.

Always an alert and careful observer, he noticed, when the hills began
to fall away, a beaten trail.

“By George!” he exclaimed, in some excitement. “I do wonder if this can
have any connection with the other? It seems very likely,” he argued.
“If I hadn’t lost the trail among the hills it would probably have led
me to this very place.”

His eyes followed the track, which, approaching from the distance, left
the creek rather abruptly and cut across the wide undulating valley.
He was in the grip of all his old feelings like a flash. An intense
curiosity to know where the trail led, if nothing more, stole over him.
The thought of possible discoveries kindled his imagination. A strong
allurement tempted him once more to brave Dame Fortune.

“Why not?” he asked himself.

Indecision lasted but an instant. The day was young; the broad expanse
seemed to beckon him on. He drew a long breath.

“Yes, I’ll do it!” he exclaimed, determinedly. “Get up, old chap!”

The horse broke into a gallop. No great amount of care was necessary
to keep the trail in view, though in places it was either faint or
entirely obliterated.

“I only hope things don’t turn out as they did before,” he exclaimed.

The opposite hills rose higher, ever cutting more sharply against the
sky. His pony, in a spirited mood, needed no urging. He swung over a
gently-swelling rise, then galloped swiftly down on the other side.

The trail was still before him. But instead of climbing the hill, as he
had expected, it skirted along the base.

Bob Somers was about to ride on when he observed a lesser track leading
around the slope in the opposite direction. He instantly halted.

“Shouldn’t wonder a bit if it goes to some cabin or house,” he said to
himself. “Perhaps it would pay to investigate.”

He wheeled sharply about, then rode slowly along, examining every foot
of the way with the keenest attention. In several places the earth was
considerably cut up by horses’ hoofs, some of the imprints having a
fresh appearance.

“Good--good!” cried Bob.

The trail presently led over a slope, through a patch of woods, and
kept luring him on until he soon found himself deep among the hills
again. On a rocky stretch all traces vanished, but a careful search
revealed it further along.

At last, turning into a dark and narrow gorge, the Rambler suddenly
reined up with an exclamation.

Between leafy openings in the trees his keen eyes had caught sight of
a log cabin. Yes, there was a cabin--somebody’s home. Triumphantly he
gazed upon it.

“I’ve found something, anyway,” he whispered softly. “But what a
curious idea to build in such an out-of-the-way place! I wonder if----”

He paused. Suppose the occupants of the cabin should prove to be some
of the rough and dangerous characters Teddy Banes had spoken about?

“Guess I’d better go a bit slow on this,” he reflected, picketing his
horse behind a clump of bushes.

Presently he stole ahead almost as silently as an Indian.

A few moments later he paused behind a thick bush, with the structure
right before him. He studied it earnestly. There were no sounds of
life, although the cabin did not bear the appearance of a place
deserted. True enough, the door was closed, one window boarded up, the
sash of another down; but there seemed to be plenty of evidences of the
recent presence of human beings.

“I suppose they’ve just gone away for a while,” mused Bob.

He waited for several minutes; then, straightening up, walked boldly
across the gulch.

“I know it’s scarcely worth while to knock,” he thought, “but here
goes--just for fun.”

The butt of his quirt came against the heavy door with force enough to
send a series of sharp echoes throughout the narrow confines.

The Rambler laughed softly.

“That certainly made an awful racket,” he began.

Then, as though an electric shock had passed through him, the
expression on his face changed to one of amazement.

The sound of a voice had come from within--and of a voice raised, as
though in a cry for help.




CHAPTER XXIII

BILLY ASHE IS DISAPPOINTED


Tom Clifton, the sentinel, gazing abstractedly out of the window,
suddenly saw a number of horsemen, like shadowy phantoms, ride from
behind a spur of the hill, and, with ominous silence, bear down upon
the house.

This sight so astounded the tall boy that for an instant he stood stock
still. But, with a strong effort, recovering mastery over his tingling
nerves, he yelled a warning.

“Great Cæsar! Wake up, fellows, wake up!”

His ringing alarm had not ceased to echo when sharp gleams of fire
caught his eye and he heard the rapid crack, crack of pistol shots,
together with a succession of shouts.

By this time the boys were springing to their feet, as wide awake as
they had ever been in their lives, every one hurling eager, anxious
inquiries toward the Rambler.

“Keep under cover!” screamed Larry. “You chaps wouldn’t take any
warning. Now see what’s come of it!”

Crack--crack--crack! The fusillade of shots rang out again. They could
hear the sound of many voices. Thoroughly alarmed, all sprang for
points of safety, as far away from the range of bullets as possible.

Every instant they expected to hear the ping, ping of flying lead.

This ominous sound, however, failed to reach their ears.

But something else did.

“We call upon you to surrender!” shouted a powerful voice. “The house
is surrounded. There are no possible means of escape!”

“Oh--oh!” wailed Larry. “What is going to happen?”

“Come out one by one and throw up your arms!” again thundered the
voice. “Be lively, now, or we’ll fire on the house!”

At this awe-inspiring command the boys stood motionless, as though
their muscles refused to perform their usual functions. They realized
instantly that no time would be given them to choose any plan of
action. The voice of the speaker indicated a deadly earnestness not to
be trifled with.

Who among them would be the first to go out in the gray, cheerless dawn
to face this mysterious body of horsemen who had them completely at
their mercy?

For a few seconds the silence was dense--painful. Each waited for the
others to speak.

“Are you coming, or shall we fire?” roared the man outside. “Surrender,
in the name of the law!”

“Ah ha!” cried Dave, suddenly. “What does that mean? In the name of the
law--the name of the law!”

“I--I--be-be-lieve it’s only some kind of a trick!” cried Larry, with
vibrating voice.

“For the third and last time: are you going to come out?”

“I’ll go,” said Dave.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Tom, heroically.

He brushed hastily past the stout boy, and, with a fast-beating heart,
swung open the big front door and stepped outside.

“Up with your hands!” came a ringing order. “Do you surrender?”

[Illustration: HE LOOKED UP AT THE MAN]

For the first time gaining an unobstructed view, Tom Clifton uttered
a gasp of astonishment. A half dozen red-coated figures stationed at
different points were covering him with revolvers.

“Great Scott--the--the Mounted Police!” he cried.

The feeling of relief was so great that he almost felt like bursting
into a laugh.

“Do we surrender? Why, certainly--anything to oblige.”

A distinct cry of amazement from the foremost rider was immediately
heard. A touch of the quirt sent his horse leaping toward the Rambler,
whose arms dropped to his side.

An explosive exclamation came from the officer, so loud, so full of
pent-up wrath as to cause Tom Clifton to step hastily back.

He looked up at the man.

“You!--You again!” cried a furious voice.

“Billy Ashe!” fell from Tom’s lips in tones of amazement.

The two faced each other. There was a moment of tense--dramatic silence.

The young trooper of the Northwest Mounted was apparently too
dumfounded to follow up his speech. The other horsemen galloped up,
while the crowd rushed pell-mell from the ranch-house.

“I can hardly believe it!” came in Witmar’s voice. He turned toward the
other men. “These are the very chaps we told you about.”

“Ah! Good-morning, Mr. Ashe!” remarked Sam Randall, pleasantly. “This,
indeed, is a joyous surprise!”

The trooper found his voice.

“I never heard of such confounded luck in all my life!” he yelled. “Are
there any men in that house? Quick--tell me!”

“Not a single one,” answered Tom. “We scared Hank Styles away.”

“We might have known it!” exclaimed Ashe, violently. “This is the
second time you’ve bungled things and allowed the men to escape us.”

“Aye, aye!” said Witmar. “We’ll never get ’em as long as these chaps
remain in Canada.” And, to Billy Ashe’s intense anger and disgust, he
burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. Several of the others
joined in.

This wave of mirth immediately communicated itself to the lads.

Billy Ashe’s disappointment, however, was too great to permit him to
see any humor in the situation. An all-night’s vigil, which every one
had confidently predicted would be the means of their rounding up the
entire band, had only resulted in bringing them once more face to face
with this crowd of boys from the States. It was too exasperating to
overlook.

“You fellows are under arrest!” he exclaimed, harshly. “Step right back
into that house!”

“Must we hold up our hands?” asked Tom.

“No back talk now. You have interfered with officers of His Majesty’s
service. That’s no joking matter.”

“Don’t try to resist, boys,” exclaimed Witmar, grinning broadly, “or
we’ll cover you again.”

“Fellow prisoners,” cried Dick, “let us invite our captors to
breakfast.”

“I am sorry we should have been the means of putting you to so much
trouble,” said Dave Brandon. “I hope next time things will turn out
better.”

“They never will,” growled Ashe. “Every time I expect to make an
important capture I’ll find one of you chaps bobbing up to say: ‘Why,
hello, here’s Billy Ashe again!’”

The policemen picketed their horses, then followed the crowd inside.

It didn’t look very much like captors and captured. A big breakfast was
cooked; and gradually the awful frown which rested on Trooper Ashe’s
face departed. He listened to all they had to say, and actually smiled
when he learned the trick Hank Styles had played upon them.

“And you haven’t seen your friend since?” he asked.

“No,” responded Tom. “And we’re a bit worried about him, too.”

“Don’t let that bother you in the least,” said Ashe. “He’s probably
arranging things so that whatever little chance we might have had to
nab ’em is gone.”

The roars of laughter which followed this remark were hearty and
spontaneous.

“Now, fellows,” went on Ashe, turning to the other policemen, “you’d
better scour the country.” Then he added, addressing Tom: “No, I’m not
going to tell you how Hank Styles and his men came to be suspected--or
when. If Sergeant Erskine chooses to do so, all right.”

“Are we still under arrest?” laughed Sam.

“Technically--yes,” returned Ashe. “I want your word of honor that all
will report to the sergeant within a week’s time.”

“You have it,” said Dave, calmly. “I suppose we shall run across Bob
Somers before then.”

At this remark the boys’ thoughts were turned into another channel.
Their apprehensions returned. Tom walked over to the window and poked
his head outside, to see that the long streamers of whitish mist were
being gradually driven away by the rays of the rising sun. But in
whatever direction he looked empty stretches alone met his eye.

The troopers, accompanied by the boys, were soon outside searching for
clues. In this the young Cree was of material assistance. Near the base
of the hill, on a stretch of bare earth, he pointed out the imprints of
a horse’s hoofs so sharp and clear as to indicate a rapid pace. A bit
further along a small bush was partly flattened.

“Tracks fresh,” said Thunderbolt. “Him go up hill.”

“Two of you had better ride in that direction, while the others scout
about over the prairie,” said Ashe to his men.

On returning to the ranch-house the trooper, aided by Witmar, made a
thorough search for contraband goods. None, however, were found.

“A slick lot!” exclaimed the former. “I reckon, though, they’ll never
pull off any more of their tricks around these parts. Now, fellows, we
must be off.”

“Where to?” asked Sam.

“We’ll stop at Jerry Duncan’s, on our way to the post of police at the
settlement.”

The lads accompanied the policemen outside, and watched them mount and
ride away.

As soon as their forms were lost to view behind a rise in the rolling
prairie plans were made for the day. It was decided to divide up into
searching parties; some to explore the hills, others to ride off into
the open country.

And although they continued their task until nightfall not the
slightest sign of the missing Rambler could be found.

Supper was eaten in dismal silence. Sunset, twilight and night came on.
Lanterns were lighted and again placed in the windows. Monotony and
anxiety literally drove the lads to their blankets. But none of them
slept well. And in their waking moments the all-absorbing topic was
continually discussed.

Morning rolled around. They jumped up unrefreshed, had a cold
breakfast, and, following this, horses were saddled. It was impossible
to banish from their minds the fear that something might be amiss with
Bob.

No longer could the suspense be borne.

Seizing eagerly upon a suggestion made by Dave, Tom wrote a note and
placed it on the table.

“Yes, sir--Jerry Duncan’s for us!” he cried. “Gee, fellows! Bob may
have gone off in that direction and stopped in to see the ranchman.”

It was a very faint hope, but better than none.

Following directions given by Ashe, the lads started off, pushing
their horses hard. And never had their eyes seen a more welcome sight
than when Jerry Duncan’s ranch-house, in its secluded situation among
the hills, appeared in view.

As the big dog’s loud barking announced their presence the smiling and
genial owner stepped hastily out of the door and almost rushed toward
them.

“Welcome, boys!” he exclaimed, in his most hearty tone. “Welcome!”
His eyes ran quickly over the group. A shadow seemed to cross his
face. “Ashe and Witmar were here yesterday, and told me Bob Somers was
missing. It isn’t possible----”

“Then you haven’t seen or heard anything of him?” asked Tom, with
painful apprehension.

“Indeed I only wish I had.”

This answer, although half expected, filled the hearts of the boys with
a sinking feeling. They looked at one another in silence.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE PRISONER


At first Bob Somers, standing by the door of the lonely cabin, almost
thought his senses were playing him a trick. But a second shout caused
his heart to quicken.

Though the thick walls muffled the sound, the words, “Help--help!” were
clearly distinguishable.

“By all that’s wonderful, what have I come across?” he gasped. “What
can it mean--some one imprisoned?”

He gave an answering hail, then attacked the door with all the strength
of his sturdy muscles.

“Help--help!”

This appeal coming once more made Bob Somers work with redoubled vigor.
All his efforts went for naught. As though built to resist attack, the
panels scarcely jarred beneath his most furious onslaught.

With his pulse quickened by excitement, the Rambler, even in those busy
moments, asked himself over and over again what this new mystery could
mean. He was thankful indeed that good fortune had led him into this
narrow gulch to aid some one in distress.

“I’ll have to break in,” he decided.

Taking a short-handled axe from his belt he sent blows crashing
one after another around the lock. Chips of wood flew about him.
Crash--smack--bang! The sound of rending wood and the sharp snap of
splintering panels told him that his work would soon be over.

Scarcely taking an instant to regain his breath, he struck harder and
harder, until at last the lock was shattered, and the door, with a
convulsive movement, staggered back.

But where was the man he had expected to see?

For a second Bob Somers’ eyes, blinded by the brilliant light of
out-of-doors, could discern but little in the darkened interior. Then
the obscurity appeared to melt away, and in place of the shadows he saw
a mellow glow, through which the furnishings revealed themselves in
blurred patches of darks and softened lights.

A glance showed him that the interior was divided into two rooms. It
was from the other, then, that the shouts had come. Another sturdy door
lay between him and the prisoner.

The man shouted again.

“I’ll get you out of there in a moment,” yelled Bob.

Attacking the second door, he finally burst it open; and as the man
stepped from the black and forbidding enclosure Bob Somers regarded him
in speechless astonishment.

For a few seconds the two stood gazing fixedly into each other’s faces.
Then the boy, with a mighty effort, partly recovered his composure.

“Hello, Jed Warren!” he exclaimed, extending his hand. “I guess you
haven’t forgotten the Rambler Club.”

The eyes of Jed Warren, former cowpuncher, later a member of the Royal
Northwest Mounted Police, were staring at him; his mouth was open. The
situation seemed unreal--impossible. Here was a boy whom he had last
seen on Circle T Ranch in Wyoming; and now to have him appear before
his vision in such an amazing manner staggered his comprehension.

“Bob--Bob Somers!” he gasped. “Bob!” He seized the Rambler’s hand and
wrung it with powerful force. “I don’t--I can’t understand! Bob, is
this really you?”

A revulsion of feeling came to Bob Somers. He felt like dancing and
shouting for joy. Instead of a disheartening failure, his haphazard
trip had brought him the most wonderful success. Right before him stood
his friend, Jed Warren, for whom every man on the mounted force had
been on the lookout. And it had fallen to his lot not only to discover
his whereabouts, but to release him from imprisonment.

Yet, with the evidence before his eyes, Bob Somers could scarcely
realize it. And if he was excited and astounded at the outcome Jed
Warren continued to be even more so. The policeman passed his hand
across his forehead as though in a daze. He stared hard at the lad and
shook his head.

“This has sure put my brain in a whirl, Bob Somers,” he exclaimed.
“I’ve got to get some air mighty fast. Come--see if it seems any more
real outside.”

The two were presently pacing up and down in the bright sunlight.
It didn’t seem any more real, either. Their ready flow of words was
checked.

“What will the fellows think?” the Rambler kept repeating to himself.
“Won’t they give a yell when Jed Warren and I march right up before
them!”

“No, I sure can’t get over it, Bob,” Jed Warren exclaimed at length. “I
guess I’ll wake up in another minute an’ discover it ain’t nothin’ but
a dream.”

Movement--and quick movement--was the only thing which seemed to be
able to calm excited nerves and fast-beating hearts.

For some time all Bob Somers could get out of Jed was the fact that he
had been captured and imprisoned by smugglers, and for weeks had not
breathed the pure air of out-of-doors.

“I can’t make it seem real to me, Bob,” Jed kept repeating blankly. “I
can’t, for a fact.”

Reviewing the situation again Bob Somers pictured the astonishment
of Sergeant Erskine. He thought of Billy Ashe; of Teddy Banes. And
although his sensibilities had never been wounded by the remarks of
either he could not repress a feeling of triumph.

They continued pacing to and fro in the yellow glare which filled the
narrow gulch until the emotions of each began to slowly subside. Then,
feeling that a good meal was far more important than explanations, Bob
Somers set to work.

“There’s plenty o’ grub inside that thar room,” explained the former
cowpuncher. “They shoved ’nuff in to keep me goin’ for a spell.”

Bob dashed toward the cabin, returning in a few moments, his arms
burdened with provisions. He had never felt more joyous in his life.

A meal was quickly prepared. And perhaps neither the former prisoner
nor his rescuer ever enjoyed one more. They lingered over it a long
time, too, often looking at each other in silence, as though it was
almost impossible for them to realize their good fortune.

At length Jed began to recount his experiences.

“It ain’t such a long story, Bob,” he explained. “You haven’t told me
much about yourselves yet; but you’ve mentioned seein’ that thar Hank
Styles.” The trooper scowled angrily. “Every time I think of him an’
his crowd my dander rises to the b’ilin’ point.”

“I don’t blame you,” said the Rambler.

“A little while back, when cattle rustlers an’ smugglers had started
things goin’ at a lively rate, Sergeant Erskine gave me a ‘special’ on
the job. I tell you, Bob, I wanted to make my mark on the force; an’ I
thought it would be the means of givin’ me the first big boost.”

“Well, I can just bet you did all you could,” cried Bob.

“You’re sartinly right. I worked day an’ night. Sometimes I thought I
had track of ’em. But nothin’ seemed to pan out; an’ I began to get
sick o’ the job.”

“Remember saying something like that to one of the border patrols?”

“Sure thing. Why?”

“He got an idea you were tired of the force.”

Jed Warren shook his head emphatically.

“Then he didn’t get it straight, Bob. I can see you’ve got some
interesting things to tell me, so I’ll make short work o’ this here
tale of mine.”

“I have,” laughed Bob.

“Of course I knew a lot of ranchmen an’ cowpunchers. Some of ’em used
to hang around the Cree village; an’ I kind of thought that a feller
named Hank Styles an’ some of his men seemed to be takin’ things purty
easy.”

“So he was the ringleader, eh?” inquired Bob.

“He sartinly were. Honest, Bob, I hate to admit it, but I never
suspicioned him. He seemed always so friendly, an’ sayin’ a smart young
chap like me was bound to git ahead; an’, somehow, that kind o’ dope
got me, Bob.”

Jed Warren paused. His eyes flashed as he began again:

“Several times, in passin’ that way, I stopped in to have a friendly
chat with Styles. He treated me fine. Nothin’, he said, was too good
for a trooper of the Northwest Mounted. I fell for that, too, Bob.”
Warren’s tone became sorrowful.

“What a sly old duffer!” exclaimed Bob.

“Yes! An’ all the time I was askin’ myself why them thar fellers didn’t
fix up the ranch-house, an’ make it a comfortable place to live in. I
talked to Hank about it, an’ he laughed. ‘We’re out here for the dough,
Warren,’ he says; ‘it ain’t worth while to take the time an’ trouble.’
Even that didn’t open me eyes.”

“Oh, you can’t blame yourself,” said Bob, consolingly.

“I’m not so sure. I wouldn’t say it to everybody, Bob, but I kind o’
think their smooth, oily ways was what made me miss connections. It’s a
bitter story, an’ it makes me feel mighty bitter to tell it.”

Bob nodded sympathetically.

“I were a-ridin’ about the prairie one black night when I happened to
think that Hank Styles’ place was purty near. ‘Wal,’ says I, ‘it’s me
for a canter over to the big front door.’”

“Ah!” cried Bob. “Now we’re coming to the climax.”

“Hank an’ a couple o’ his cowpunchers were there, an’, as usual,
treated me jist as nice as pie. Though it did strike me they looked
kind o’ odd. They kept sayin’: ‘Well, Jed, I guess you’ll be off in a
few minutes, eh?’ ‘Nary,’ says I; ‘right here seems too good.’”

“What happened?” asked Bob, breathlessly.

“About an hour arterward I thought it were time to skip. So I mounted
me nag an’ started to ride around the house. ‘Why, which way are you
goin’, Jed?’ hollers one. ‘In the opposite direction from which I
come,’ says I, laughin’. Hank Styles laughed, too. Wal, Bob, in a
jokin’ sort o’ way, they tried to steer me off in another course. But,
jist the same, I rides toward the rear, an’ almost bumps into a big
wagon.”

“Ah ha!” exclaimed Bob.

“‘Hello!’ says I. ‘What’s this?’ ‘Only a chuck wagon full o’ grub for
men on the range,’ replies a feller, in a queer kind o’ tone. All of
a sudden, Bob, I got mighty suspicious, an’ managed to put my hand
inside. It landed kerplunk on the knee o’ some one a-sittin’ there.”

“Great Scott!” cried Bob.

“Thinks I, there’s sure somethin’ wrong.” Warren smiled grimly. “An’
the trouble was, they knew I’d investigate pretty fast. In about two
seconds I felt cold steel pressed against me side. ‘You’ll come right
in the house, Warren,’ says Hank. ‘Don’t make no fuss.’ Yes--they had
me. I went in.”

“Gee, what an extraordinary tale!” cried Bob.

Warren quickly told of his later experiences. Without delay he was
escorted under heavy guard to the cabin in the gulch and confined in
the inner room. Hank Styles and his men, although furiously angry,
treated him with consideration, and explained that when all their goods
were disposed of they would leave the country and notify the police of
his whereabouts.

“But it took them a mighty long time to finish up, didn’t it?”
exclaimed the Rambler.

“Wal, they probably had a great lot of stuff,” said Jed. “An’ mebbe
they had to go a bit slow, too. I wouldn’t wonder if Styles an’ his men
knew a lot about the cattle stealin’, besides.”

“Did they leave a guard here?” asked Bob.

“Sure thing.”

A sudden idea had flashed into Bob Somers’ mind. Perhaps the object of
the men in drawing lots was to determine which of the three should ride
over to the gulch and notify the sentinel to make his escape.

“Did you hear anything unusual last night, Jed?” he asked.

“Yes, siree!” responded the policeman. “A feller rode up; an’ though it
wasn’t so easy to hear inside those thick walls, I could tell from the
excited way he an’ the guard began to chin that somethin’ was up.”

“Go on!” cried the highly gratified Bob Somers.

“I pressed me ear to the door, an’ by listenin’ hard, managed to catch
a lot. ‘I tell you the same bunch has jist rid’ up to the house,’ says
one. ‘They know all about us; an’ ye kin be sure the perlice ain’t fur
behind ’em.’”

Bob laughed gleefully.

“What happened then?” he demanded.

“Purty soon one of ’em yells: ‘So-long, Warren. We’re goin’ to skip.
Don’t be skeered. Ye’ll git out soon.’ But say, Bob, what do you know
about it?”

The lad immediately explained.

Jed opened his eyes wide with astonishment.

“So yours was the crowd, eh?” he cried. “Wal, wal! I wonder if I’ll
ever git over this, Bob. But fire away. I want to hear the rest o’ your
story.”

Warren followed every word with the utmost eagerness. A flash in his
eye and a tightening of the lips indicated his feelings when he heard
about the attack on Tom Clifton.

“From your description, I think I know the chap, Bob,” he exclaimed.
“I can’t understand those yells and pistol shots you tell me about,
though.”

“We may find out yet,” grinned the lad.

“I’m proud o’ you, Bob,” declared the policeman, emphatically, when all
was told, “I sartinly am. You’ve done some wonderfully slick work, but
this is about the slickest yet.”

Then, to the Rambler’s embarrassment, he abruptly started on a new tack.

“Bob,” he demanded, “was my horse ever found?”

“Yes, Jed,” answered Bob.

“Where?”

“On the other side of the international boundary line.”

Warren shook his fist savagely in the air.

“I think I see through their game!” he cried, springing to his feet.
“Now see here”--he planted himself squarely before the lad--“did
Sergeant Erskine think--think I was--I was”--he seemed to utter the
words with difficulty--“a deserter?”

“Yes,” answered Bob, frankly. “But we stood up for you as solidly as a
stone wall, Jed.”

The policeman had been able to bear his capture and imprisonment with
fortitude; he had accepted it as one of those incidents liable to
happen to one in his position. But the thought of having the stigma of
“deserter” attached to his name made his blood fairly boil.

“Come on, Bob,” he exclaimed. “I can’t lose another instant. I reckon
your horse can carry double. We’ll hit the trail for Jerry Duncan’s.”

“Jerry Duncan’s?” queried Bob, in surprise. “Why not Hank Styles’,
where I left the crowd?”

“Because Duncan’s is nearer. Besides, a good trail leads there. And
from his ranch-house you can skirt around the hills and reach Hank
Styles’ without any trouble.”

Dashing back into the cabin Jed Warren reappeared a moment later with
his scarlet coat--the coat he had worn so proudly.

“Where’s your horse, Bob?” he demanded, hurriedly. “I reckon you know
how I feel about this thing. Nobody before ever said that Jed Warren
weren’t on the square.”

“And I don’t believe anybody ever will again,” said Bob, emphatically.
“If those chaps had known you half as well as we do, Jed, they never
could have believed it possible.”

The athletic young policeman drew himself up to his full height, and
there was a huskiness in his voice as he exclaimed:

“Bob, when you an’ your crowd are friends to a feller you’re real
friends. Shake!”

Bob wrung his hand warmly. Then, closing the door of the cabin, the two
started briskly off in the direction of the horse.

Every step of the way Bob was picturing in his mind the astonishment,
the joy, their arrival was bound to create. He thought how the anxious
watchers would be repaid for all their worry.

The horse was in good condition to continue the journey. Bob Somers
quickly mounted; then Jed sprang up behind him, and in this fashion
they started off to carry the news of a most sensational event to the
Canadian authorities.

Jed Warren, being thoroughly familiar with the topography of the
country, directed their course. Bob Somers soon found himself riding
along the trail by the base of the hill. There were still many ridges
to be crossed, so the sturdy little nag was not pushed too hard.

It was very trying on Jed Warren’s patience, though under the influence
of Bob Somers’ cheery remarks the stern lines on his face gradually
relaxed, to be replaced at length by a grin.

“I sure think it’s a rich joke on me, Bob,” he exclaimed. “How Hank
Styles an’ his men must have laughed when everybody fell for that
little trick o’ theirs.”

Up and down hill they jogged, across broad or narrow valleys, with a
soft breeze blowing in their faces and white clouds floating in the
field of blue above.

The journey seemed very long to both, but, like all journeys, finally
approached an end. Reaching the crest of a hill they looked down, to
see Jerry Duncan’s substantial ranch-house about a quarter of a mile
beyond at the base of the slope.

“Hooray!” shouted Bob.

And now he sent his pony pounding along faster and faster until
they were traveling at a pace which might have been trying to less
experienced riders.

“That’s right, Bob; whoop ’er up!” cried Jed.

He gave a long, rousing yell, which produced a most extraordinary
result.

A crowd came rushing out on the porch and down the steps of the house.
And every one among them eyed the approaching horse and its double
burden with apparently the greatest astonishment.

And Bob Somers was astonished, too; for, as the nag galloped across
the last stretch, he recognized his friends--the friends whom he had
thought were miles away.

And there was Jerry Duncan, his round, smiling face wearing a ludicrous
expression of amazement.

“Hello--hello!” yelled Bob. He tried to control the ring of triumph in
his voice--to still the excitement which gripped him.

They swung up amidst the group and sprang to the ground. Then, for the
first time, the boys seemed to find their tongues. But it was not until
Larry Burnham caught the name “Jed Warren” passing from lip to lip that
he understood what the riotous, uproarious demonstration was all about.




CHAPTER XXV

EVERYBODY HAPPY


Yes, it was a riotous and uproarious demonstration. And the noise which
echoed and reëchoed between the hills was probably the greatest those
narrow confines had ever heard.

The boys slapped Jed Warren on the back and wrung his hand, until the
policeman, in sheer self-defense, was obliged to back up against the
porch and hold them at bay.

“Enough, fellows, enough!” he gasped.

“What did I tell you, Larry Burnham?” howled Tom, above the uproar.
“Wasn’t I just sure we could do it? Hurrah for Jed Warren! Hurrah for
everybody!”

“Order, order!” shouted the genial Mr. Duncan, red-faced and happy.
“Order, I say, boys! Let’s get at the bottom of this thing before I
succumb from excitement.”

And now, unable to reach Jed Warren, the lads were repeating their
manifestations of enthusiasm on Bob Somers, until he, too, sought
relief by the side of the grinning policeman.

It was only after exhausted nature came to aid the calmer members of
the group that the hubbub began to cease.

“I sure knew you fellers was a lively lot,” cried Jed Warren, “but it
strikes me you’ve got more ginger than ever.”

Then began a fusillade of questions. No one heard Jerry Duncan’s
invitation to come in the house; no one paid the slightest attention to
anybody but Jed Warren and Bob Somers. Tom, triumphant, could scarcely
refrain from shouting. What a superb surprise they had in store for
Billy Ashe and Teddy Banes. Perhaps they, and all the rest who had had
the temerity to reflect on the ability of the Rambler Club, would now
reverse their opinions.

Yes, it was a glorious occasion, and Larry Burnham enjoyed it as much
as any one; for, he reflected, it was his running away and leading
the others into the territory where the smugglers worked that had
indirectly brought about such a happy result.

It was a long, long time before every one was satisfied. Not a single
question seemed to remain unasked; nor could another response add to
the information already gained. Bob Somers was the hero; every one had
known it before--but now they were doubly certain. They absolutely
refused to listen to the Rambler’s contention that good fortune had
played the star rôle.

“Get out!” scoffed Tom. “It was brains--brains--and nothing else. Were
we worried? Oh, a trifle. But of course the crowd knew you were all
right every minute of the time.”

And at this point Mr. Jerry Duncan managed to make his presence felt.

“You simply have to come inside now,” he exclaimed. “The smugglers
haven’t anything on me, Jed. I’m going to take you prisoner. Inside
with him, boys! The Mounted Police have no terrors for us.”

Instantly the ranchman’s hand fell on Jed Warren’s shoulder, and, ably
assisted by his courageous band, he hustled this particular member
of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police unceremoniously into the big
dining-room of the ranch-house.

“The sentence for your ‘desertion’ is: that you shall be allowed
freedom after eating one of the best meals ever prepared in this place.”

“And we will ably assist!” cried Dave. “These little incidents that
are always occurring to the Rambler Club do give me an uncommonly good
appetite.”

“Shortly, you shall be sentenced to make a speech,” cried Mr. Duncan.

“I’ll make two, if agreeable,” laughed Dave.

The dinner was, naturally, a lively and jolly affair. Every one rose to
the occasion. Jed made the first “oration.” He laughingly expressed the
opinion that the Canadian government could not do better than to employ
the entire Rambler Club to act as an advisory board.

“Never,” cried the jovial Mr. Duncan, at the conclusion of the
“banquet,” “have I enjoyed myself so much.”




CHAPTER XXVI

FACING THE SERGEANT


In the outpost barracks of which Sergeant Erskine was in charge a great
crowd had assembled. It included the lads, Jed Warren, Billy Ashe,
Witmar, and Teddy Banes.

The half-breed’s demeanor toward the boys had entirely changed. And the
bluff old sergeant, too, often looked at them with an expression in
which a great deal of admiration was apparent.

The rescue of Jed Warren had created a tremendous sensation. The stigma
of “Deserter” was removed. And his superiors expressed as much regret
for ever having suspected him as the dignity of their position would
allow.

“Young men,” began Sergeant Erskine, in his crisp, businesslike
tone, “you were ordered to report to me by Private William Ashe.” He
smiled rather quizzically. “Of course I know, in view of the unusual
circumstances, you would have done so anyway.”

“We certainly should,” affirmed Tom.

“Now, I should like to hear the details of your trip. Somers, kindly
oblige.”

Bob immediately began; and in his sentences, directly to the point,
recounted everything which had a bearing on the case.

As he concluded the sergeant nodded toward the half-breed.

“Banes,” he exclaimed, “I believe you can clear up some of these
points. Begin, for instance, with those mystifying cries and pistol
shots which so startled the boys.”

“Oh, that’s just what we want to hear about,” cried Dick Travers.

“I should say we do,” put in Tom.

Teddy Banes turned his impassive face toward the expectant Ramblers.

“I sure think I know,” he said, his harsh, guttural voice filling the
room. “Boys go with me to Cree village. Sometimes I see cowpunchers
there, and on that day three--four, maybe.”

“And so did I!” cried Tom.

For an instant a gleam of humor seemed to play in Teddy Banes’ eyes.

“An’ you talk much--very much,” he exclaimed. “You say: ‘No; never we
leave the Northwest Territories until Jed Warren is found.’ And you say
that very loud.”

“Oh!” said Tom, looking a trifle embarrassed. “Suppose I did? Wasn’t it
true?”

“Ah--much true! But it do harm. Listen--I tell you how. Those men Hank
Styles’ cowpunchers--but smugglers, too!”

“Thunderation!” gasped Tom, his expression indicating much surprise.
“If I’d only known that----”

“Nearly all of us would make fewer mistakes,” interrupted Sergeant
Erskine, in a kindly tone, “if we could only have information in
advance instead of after something has happened. It is not always wise
to speak our thoughts too plainly before strangers.”

Tom Clifton flushed. He realized that his actions hadn’t been
altogether wise.

“Yes, smugglers,” went on Teddy Banes, in his imperturbable way. “They
hear what you say. They see six big, strong boys. They get scare,
maybe.”

“And I’m afraid the rest of the crowd did some hollering, too,” laughed
Dick Travers. “I know I said the same thing myself. Everybody thinking
Jed was a deserter worked us up a bit, I can tell you.”

“And we had determined to do everything possible to learn the true
facts,” put in Sam Randall, quietly.

“Smugglers take no chances.” Banes was speaking again. “The men say:
maybe these boys for us make trouble. They come too near where we work.
But we fix ’em.”

“Banes’ explanation is undoubtedly correct,” interrupted Sergeant
Erskine. “Of course, at that time, none of these cowpunchers was even
suspected. They probably talked it over and decided upon a plan which
they thought would speedily drive you back to civilization. Several of
them followed on your trail and were responsible for the dreadful night
alarms. But the men did not know that you are seasoned veterans of the
plains.”

The sergeant’s eyes twinkled humorously, and the entire crowd joined in
the laugh which followed.

“How about that man who attacked me, sergeant?” asked Tom.

“We have also a very ready explanation for that.” The officer stroked
his iron-gray moustache reflectively. “From your description Private
Ashe immediately came to the conclusion that he was one of the
cowpunchers who had seen your party at the Cree village, and also
overheard what was said in regard to Jed.”

“Great Cæsar!” murmured Tom.

“The smugglers with the wagon evidently saw your fire, and this man
concluded it would be wise to investigate. So he reconnoitered. He knew
well enough that if any one should happen to see the wagon there might
be trouble. He was no doubt thoroughly alarmed when he discovered your
identity. In his suspicious state of mind it must have appeared that
you were already on their track.”

“Yes; there can be no doubt about it,” admitted Dick Travers.

“If your slumber had not been broken we may reasonably conclude that
the man would, when the vehicle was beyond all chance of discovery,
have simply rejoined his comrades. But you happened to jump up; and he,
fearing recognition, concluded to take you prisoner.”

“You see,” put in Jed Warren, “Hank knew their game was up. They
couldn’t keep me in the cabin indefinitely. So the idea was to wind up
their business as quickly as possible, then skip out.”

“May I put a question to Mr. Ashe?” spoke up Larry Burnham.

“Certainly,” responded the sergeant.

“How did you happen to get on the trail of the wagon that night?” asked
the blond lad, turning toward the trooper.

“Well, we were working in that locality, and on the lookout. I reckon
the men were in a desperate hurry, or they wouldn’t have taken a chance
on a night when the moon would be up. We didn’t know where the wagon
came from or its destination.”

“What made you think they were the smugglers?” asked Sam.

“Their actions fitted in so well with other information we had that
both Witmar and myself concluded there could be no doubt about it.”

“Aye, aye!” said Witmar.

“I will finish the story,” broke in Erskine, in his blunt,
authoritative tone. “Private Ashe, armed with an excellent description
of Clifton’s assailant, immediately reported to the superintendent of
police at a post in the settlement. He conferred with him regarding
his suspicions. What followed would make quite a story, boys, but the
upshot of it was that they decided to make an early morning descent
upon Hank Styles’ ranch-house and capture the entire band.”

“And the joke was on us,” murmured Witmar.

“One thing I don’t quite understand,” said Dave, “is this: if the wagon
belonged to Hank Styles, why were the men so foolish as to return
to headquarters, knowing that the finding of the vehicle must throw
suspicion upon them?”

“There was nothing to identify it as belonging to the ranch. They were
too sly to be caught so easily.”

“Oh, now it is all clear to me,” declared the “historian.”

“There is nothing else to say,” remarked Teddy Banes. “Everybody know
everything.”

“On the contrary, Banes, I have a few remarks to add,” said the
grizzled sergeant.

“We shall be very glad to hear them,” exclaimed Bob.

“In a way, you have proved good friends to the smugglers, who were
cowboys and cattle rustlers between times. By a peculiar combination of
circumstances you appeared at exactly the right time to enable them to
escape the clutches of the law.”

“It was curious,” said Larry.

“But, on the other hand, you have proved a better friend to the police.
If it hadn’t been for your clever work, Somers”--his stern eyes fell
full on the Rambler’s face--“Jed Warren might not have been found
for many days. Therefore we rather think the balance is entirely in
your favor. So I take the opportunity, as an officer of the Northwest
Mounted, to thank you and your fellow members of the club.”

“And I am sure we highly appreciate your kind words,” said Bob, while
the rest of the crowd voiced their approval in the most hearty and
spontaneous fashion.

“I know we shall never forget the great time we’ve had in Canada,”
cried Tom, his face glowing with pride. He looked toward Billy Ashe,
and a twinkle came into his eye. “And the police are certainly a mighty
fine lot--even if they did place us under ‘arrest.’”

“What are your plans now?” inquired Sergeant Erskine, joining in the
laugh which ran around the room.

“We shall probably camp out a bit,” answered Bob, “and perhaps try to
get a sight of some big game.”

“At any rate. I hope you will mess with us to-night?”

The boys, heartily thanking the sergeant, accepted his kind invitation;
then, not wishing to take up more of his time, withdrew.

It was mighty pleasant for the boys to see Jed Warren, resplendent in
his scarlet coat, and to reflect how good fortune had aided them in
their fight to bring out the truth.

Everything around the barracks was so agreeable that they not only
stopped to mess that evening but remained for several days.

Not long before the time for their departure arrived, an unsigned note
addressed to Sergeant Erskine was brought by a mail carrier. It stated
briefly that the missing Jed Warren could be found in the cabin in the
gulch, the location of which was accurately described.

“This shows,” commented Sergeant Erskine, exhibiting it to the boys,
“that Hank Styles has some good in his make-up, after all.”

“Bob,” exclaimed Tom, suddenly, “I guess we’d better be on the move.
You know the time is rushing around fast. I can almost see myself
getting ready for that prep school now--and--and----”

“And we know you’re not thinking about school books, or examinations,
or any of those things which tax a fellow’s head so confoundedly,”
interrupted Dick, with a laugh.

“Of course not!” cried Tom.

Above a loud burst of hilarity which greeted his words, Larry Burnham’s
voice rose high and clear.

“Hooray--hooray for the Rambler Club’s Football Eleven!” he cried.

And the others enthusiastically joined in.


Other Books in this Series are:

  THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT
  THE RAMBLER CLUB’S WINTER CAMP
  THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS
  THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH
  THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS
  THE RAMBLER CLUB’S GOLD MINE
  THE RAMBLER CLUB’S AEROPLANE
  THE RAMBLER CLUB’S HOUSE-BOAT
  THE RAMBLER CLUB’S BALL NINE
  THE RAMBLER CLUB’S MOTOR CAR
  THE RAMBLER CLUB’S FOOTBALL ELEVEN




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

  The title of the book on page 9 is shown incorrectly using the word
    _Among_ instead of the word _With_.