BOB LOSES
The astounded Ramblers gazed in consternation at Tom Smull and Alf
Griffin. They saw the lumbermen's revolvers flashing in the moonlight,
and a single glance convinced them that the two were in deadly earnest.
A touch of Tom Smull's quirt sent his pony almost into that of Bob
Somers', but he jerked the animal around in time.
"I reckon ye won't be so confounded sassy, now, pard!" he exclaimed, in
a voice ringing with triumph.
Bob Somers looked into the barrel of a revolver held close to his head,
while Alf Griffin, waving a huge weapon from side to side, had the rest
of the crowd covered.
"Well, what do you want, Tom Smull?" asked Bob, as soon as his
astonishment allowed him to speak.
"Now, that 'ere language sounds jist a leetle bit better, pard,"
exclaimed the lumberman, with a gruff laugh. "Me an' Griffin has went
to a precious sight o' trouble ter git this hyar interview. We want ter
be frien's o' yourn."
"Then you might as well show it by pointing that revolver some other
way," suggested Bob.
"Where's the rest o' your bold, brave gang o' sneakers?" demanded Jack
Conroy, hotly. "Throw down those shootin' irons, an' I'll bet the whole
crowd wouldn't dare face us three seconds. An'--"
"Thar it goes ag'in!" snorted Tom Smull, violently. "Best be a bit
keerful, younker. If yer never smelt powder smoke a-blowin' in yer
face, it may be time fur yer to smell it now. But we ain't a-talkin'
ter you; our business is with the gineral--Somers."
"Well?" queried Bob.
"I reckon it will be, if yer acts peaceable-like. You've got a drawin'
showin' whar that streak o' pay dirt is, an' me an' Alf sure needs it."
"Hand it out, pard!" came from Griffin. "Ye kin jine our crowd, an'
we'll share alike."
"Of all the nerve I ever heard about this is the biggest!" stormed Jack.
"It won't pay none ter git sassy," warned Smull. "Give me that drawin',
Somers!"
"And if I don't?" asked Bob.
"'Twon't make a particle o' difference; we'll hev it all the same."
"Well, in that case, suppose you come and take it!"
The lumbermen listened to these words in amazement. Tom Smull stared
wonderingly at Bob.
"Wal, if this don't beat all creation!" he cried. "I s'picion as
how ye'll find out it don't pay none ter run ag'in Tom Smull." The
lumberman, still keeping his weapon leveled, roughly seized the bridle
of Bob's pony. "Come now," he added, scowling fiercely, "no more
foolin'!"
A few seconds of silence followed this command. Highly indignant and
alarmed, the boys gazed intently toward the two principals facing each
other in the moonlight. If the lumberjacks secured possession of the
map it might give them such an advantage as to threaten the success
of their expedition. And it was galling to think of their very first
attempt to outwit the trailers meeting with complete defeat.
Breathlessly, they watched Bob Somers. His arm flashed up so swiftly
that their eyes could scarcely follow its movement.
Tom Smull's pistol hand received the full force of the blow. Then a
quirt came down with stinging force upon the broncho's back, and the
bridle was torn so suddenly from the lumberman's grasp as to almost
throw him to the ground.
Bob Somers, encouraged by the cries of his excited chums, put spurs to
his horse and galloped recklessly down the valley, while Tom Smull,
with a yell of rage, started off in hot pursuit.
"Stop--stop!" he bawled.
A grim, determined expression on Bob Somers' face indicated clearly
that he had no intention of obeying this command. Lying almost flat
upon his pony's back, he urged him ahead until trees and bushes were
whirling by with bewildering rapidity.
But fast as his pony tore, Tom Smull's went faster; and he realized
that it was only a question of a short time when he would be
overtaken--and then?
"There's going to be one of the liveliest musses Tom Smull was ever
mixed up in," murmured Bob Somers, grimly.
"Stop--yer can't git away!"
Over swells, down the sides of little gullies, and across level
stretches, the mad, headlong race continued, the shrill cry of a
skulking coyote close at hand alone rising above the clatter of hoofs.
"I've got yer, pard!"
Bob Somers was on the point of wheeling his pony about, in order to
face his determined pursuer, when the animal's fore legs suddenly
plunged into a morass. It had been completely concealed by densely
matted grasses and other vegetation.
As the snorting pony sank up to his knees, a stream of liquid mud shot
into the air. Bob Somers found himself jarred from the saddle and
catapulted over the animal's head. He landed at full length, and lay
almost stunned amidst the grass and ooze.
Tom Smull had, perhaps, never been more astonished in his life. By the
narrowest margin, he succeeded in pulling his own horse up in time.
Then, with a whoop of triumph, he swung himself from the saddle.
"Knew I'd git ye, pard!" he yelled.
As Bob endeavored to rise from the soft, yielding surface which had so
fortunately saved him from injury, he caught a glimpse of a dark form
struggling through mud and vegetation toward him.
He turned and threshed about, fighting hard to free his legs from the
entangling rushes.
"No yer don't!" jeered Tom Smull.
A violent shove sent Bob on his back, and, as his eyes gazed into the
lumberjack's triumphant face, he also saw the barrel of a revolver
again poked toward him.
"Mebbe that won't keep yer quiet fur a spell!" grinned Tom. "'Tain't
allus healthy ter smell powder smoke, young un."
He tore Bob's khaki jacket roughly open, and in another instant his big
hand was feeling for the inside pocket.
The precious map was there.
Bob Somers groaned inwardly. He heard a gruff exclamation of joy. The
document, held in Tom Smull's hand, was shining in the soft, greenish
moonlight.
When the lumberjack's eyes rested upon the crude lines, his exultation
was so great that he seemed to entirely forget his victim.
"Ha, ha! The identical thing! It 'ud sarve ye jist right, pard, if I
handed yer a clip or two fur all the trouble ye give me; but thar ain't
nuthin' mean 'bout me."
The lumberman was of an immensely strong and wiry build, and the idea
of a boy actually having the courage to attack him never entered his
mind. Bob, however, working quietly, had succeeded in getting his legs
loose, and, while the other was still gloating over his victory, rose
to a standing position. Tom Smull, unprepared for such sudden action,
received a powerful blow which struck the revolver from his hand. Then,
before a howl of pain had ceased, he found himself gripped by a pair of
muscular arms and forced over backward.
The astounded lumberman struggled fiercely to regain his balance, but
the combination of slippery surface and unpreparedness was too much to
successfully combat. A few brief instants of desperate struggle; a
wild threshing about among the reeds and ooze; a splashing of water;
the peculiar, sucking sound of gripping mud, as boots were drawn from
it--then:
Tom Smull, panting for breath, toppled suddenly over, and brought up
with a resounding squash where the mire was deepest.
The object of the battle, wafted away by the breeze, had settled down
beneath a huge tree a few yards beyond the edge of the marsh.
"I'll pay ye fur this!" howled the lumberjack, furiously.
His big hand gripped Bob Somers' leg.
But the boy had seen and heard something which instilled into him new
courage and determination--a sound of beating hoofs and the sight of a
line of horsemen sweeping along at reckless speed.
Tom Smull realized that quick action was necessary. He struggled
furiously, both to retain his hold upon Bob and extricate himself, only
to fail completely. Bob tore his leg loose, while, at every move, Smull
plunged more deeply into the slimy mud and plastered it more thickly
upon him.
Just as Bob Somers, feeling that victory had been won, voiced a
loud warning to his friends to look out for the marsh, a startling
interruption took place.
A limb of the tree close by began to shake and creak--and it was not
the breeze that caused it. A flutter of dead leaves and twigs floated
mournfully downward, while two brilliant spots glowed among the dark
branches. Then a low, ominous growl filled the boy's heart with dismay.
Smull was oblivious to all this; he had ears for nothing, and eyes only
for the scrap of paper beneath the tree. Relieved momentarily from
the hindrance which Bob had caused to his movements, he staggered and
plunged toward dry ground.
The limb creaked again. A long, savage snarl rose harshly upon the
still night air.
"A painter!" cried Tom Smull. His voice was hoarse with sudden terror.
"It's a painter! The two of us is goners!"