The Rambler Club with the Northwest Mounted
Date: 2022-09-16T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Boys -- Societies and clubs -- Juvenile fiction; Royal North West Mounted Police (Canada) -- Juvenile fiction; Northwest Territories -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: The Rambler Club with the Northwest Mounted

Author: W. Crispin Sheppard

Release date: September 16, 2022 [eBook #68995]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Penn Publishing Company, 1914

Credits: David Edwards, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE RAMBLER CLUB WITH THE NORTHWEST MOUNTED ***

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

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.

“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:

“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.

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?”

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:

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.

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Table of Contents

- The Rambler Club with the Northwest Mounted
- Introduction
- Contents
- Illustrations
- CHAPTER I AT THE BARRACKS
- CHAPTER II “WHERE IS JED WARREN?”
- CHAPTER III TEDDY BANES
- CHAPTER IV IN THE SADDLE
- CHAPTER V THE INDIAN VILLAGE
- CHAPTER VI BILLY ASHE
- CHAPTER VII THE FIRST CAMP
- CHAPTER VIII THE STAMPEDE
- CHAPTER IX LARRY HAS A PLAN
- CHAPTER X FOOL’S CASTLE
- CHAPTER XI THE RIDER
- CHAPTER XII TOM FOLLOWS
- CHAPTER XIII SMUGGLERS
- CHAPTER XIV LARRY’S COURAGE
- CHAPTER XV CAPTURED
- CHAPTER XVI THE LOADED WAGON
- CHAPTER XVII THE WHOLE CROWD
- CHAPTER XVIII ASKING QUESTIONS
- CHAPTER XIX BOB RIDES ALONE
- CHAPTER XX THE RANCH-HOUSE
- CHAPTER XXI LOST
- CHAPTER XXII A CRY FOR HELP
- CHAPTER XXIII BILLY ASHE IS DISAPPOINTED
- CHAPTER XXIV THE PRISONER
- CHAPTER XXV EVERYBODY HAPPY
- CHAPTER XXVI FACING THE SERGEANT
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE