A NIGHT IN THE OPEN
Only Tom Clifton’s presence of mind saved him from taking a headlong
plunge down the slope. He had just managed to slide nimbly over the
mustang’s neck when a veritable pile of horses stumbled over his
steed’s prostrate body. With a quick spring the lad reached that point
of safety--the underbrush.
Yes, he was actually safe at last. All the mustangs but his own had
scrambled up, and on all sides, singly and in groups, were racing down
the slopes, growing fainter every moment.
He hadn’t realized how hard it was raining. The water seemed to be
coming down in sheets, thudding, beating and splashing; forming into
little rivulets, which wound in twisting passageways to the base of the
hill. The thunder was still rolling too, and every few instants the
glare of lightning rent the darkness and revealed what lay behind the
rain.
“Poor little duffer!” exclaimed Tom, all his thoughts on the horse
which still lay where it had fallen. “I do hope to goodness he isn’t
badly hurt.”
He sprang up the slope to the side of the mustang.
It was an anxious moment for Tom. His feeling of gratitude at his own
fortunate escape was for the moment almost forgotten as he bent over
the animal.
His blood-shot eyes and painfully heaving sides indicated a badly
distressed condition. There was an ugly cut on its right hind leg, and
several bruises caused by the horses falling upon him, but the Rambler
could discover no injuries that seemed to be of a serious nature.
“Hooray!” he almost shouted. “Just all in! A mighty narrow squeak,
though, sure enough! Ha, ha, Cranny, just wait till I see you again.
I’ve got a tale that’ll make you open your eyes!”
Tom felt in a rare good humor. It was certainly an adventure which
would sound well in Dave Brandon’s history of the club. Then his
thoughts suddenly reverted to Bob Somers. Unmindful of the wind or
rain he stood pondering deeply. He strove to reconstruct the scene in
his mind at the instant his companion had shouted. What had been Bob
Somers’ course?
“Oh! Of course, Bob’s all right,” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.
“I’ll bet it never even ruffled his hair.”
Tom Clifton’s confidence in the other’s ability to take care of himself
under all circumstances was so great that he was easily able to dismiss
all worry concerning him and concentrate his thoughts on the situation
that confronted him.
With a gunny sack he washed the mud from the animal’s body; then by a
little gentle persuasion managed to get him up on his feet. He felt
convinced now that his diagnosis was correct, yet, from the way in
which the animal bore his weight on the injured leg, he realized that
he would be in no condition to travel for hours.
At the base of the hill a thick grove of cottonwoods suggested a
pleasant place for a camp. Tom, of course, well knew the danger of
seeking shelter under trees during a thunder-storm; but, by this
time, the lightning had passed far enough beyond for him to have no
hesitation.
He began to lead the mustang down the incline, finding to his great
satisfaction that it limped but slightly.
“That’s another fine piece of luck,” he reflected, gleefully. “Now if
the rain would only let up a bit, I wouldn’t kick about a single thing.”
A few minutes later he made a discovery which added still more to his
cheerful frame of mind. A tiny creek wound its way through the middle
of the valley.
“Hooray! All the comforts of a Mexican hotel without the expense!” he
chuckled. “I don’t mind, old boy, if we do have to spend a night all by
our lonesome!”
Beneath the thick, spreading foliage of the cottonwoods he found relief
from the steady drizzle.
After unsaddling the mustang and allowing the tired beast to rest for a
short time, he conducted him to the creek where he was watered a little
at a time until his thirst was quenched.
After returning to the cottonwoods, the Rambler got out his case of
medical supplies, many of which were labeled “good for either man or
beast,” and felt confident that with a little doctoring to assist the
course of nature the pony’s wound would soon be healed.
This job of bathing and bandaging the sore spot, owing to the beast’s
decided objections, took so long that by the time he finished the rain
had ceased and the storm clouds were far away.
The active Tom still found plenty to do. He cleaned his garments,
spread the heavy water-soaked saddle blanket over a limb to dry,
cleared a generous-sized space for his camp, then set about gathering
wood.
A short time later a fire crackled in a hollow and his meal was under
way. The situation appealed to the romantic side of Tom’s nature; it
also gave him a pleasant sense of manliness to reflect upon the ease
with which he could look out for himself. He thought of Don Stratton.
Don he felt sure would be filled with misgivings if placed in similar
circumstances.
“Still,” remarked Tom loftily to himself, “he hasn’t had enough
experience yet; confound these mosquitoes; it isn’t easy to find one’s
way over such a whopping big country. A little miscalculation,” he
smiled grimly, “and if a chap wasn’t well supplied with both food and
water, he might have some pretty rough sledding.”
The lad gazed at the curling tongues of ruddy flames growing brighter;
at the jumping sparks and the columns of smoke rising in whirling
clouds against the dark rich foliage of the cottonwoods. It seemed very
lonely. How nice it would be, he thought, if only all the crowd were
there. He began to miss sadly the sound of their voices--the cheerful
rattle of conversation.
This momentary weakness, however,--Tom considered it to be a
weakness--having passed, he began to whistle cheerfully.
“I’m not even going to bother about Bob’s bothering about me,” he
grinned. “He knows I can look out for myself all right.”
When his supper was cooked and eaten, the last traces of a rich
after-glow had entirely vanished, and shadows were creeping steadily
over the landscape, settling in deep, somber tones under the grove of
cottonwoods.
After washing his tin dishes in the creek and gathering sufficient
wood to last the night, Tom seated himself upon a large flat stone
near the fire. As the darkness increased, so the leaping tongues of
flame pierced it with greater brilliancy. Beyond the range of light
nature looked very dark and gloomy. Only the irregular outlines of the
hills and the vegetation crowning their summits could be seen with any
distinctness, and these were gradually becoming blurred and mysterious.
Tom was gazing reflectively at the fire when his hand suddenly touched
something in the pocket of his jacket. It was the book on cowboy life
presented to him by Jimmy Raymond.
“Ah, ha! here’s another slice of luck,” he exclaimed with a grin of
satisfaction. “This will help me pass the time.”
The Rambler became quite thoughtful when, on opening the little volume,
he saw the young pianist’s name written in a bold, legible hand on the
title page.
“Jimmy’s a dandy chap, all right,” he reflected. “Gee, I’ll never leave
this part of the country without finding out something about him--no
siree!”
The solitude of the night, with the incessant chant and hum of
insects coming from all directions, was conducive to thought, and Tom
allowed his to soar. Jimmy Raymond and the Texas Rangers became the
central figures of a drama which he considered would have made a very
interesting photo-play.
At last, however, tiring of this pastime, he drew up close to the fire,
and began to read the cowboy story. It proved to be such a lively yarn
of adventure that he sat up much longer than he had intended.
Just before the moon rose above the hills he rolled himself up in a
blanket and stretched himself out on the ground. And when the satellite
climbed high enough to flood the earth with its silvery light, its rays
fell on the form of a peacefully sleeping lad.
Many hours later, as Tom Clifton once again looked upon the world, he
discovered it to be a dimly lit and cheerless-looking place. A few
wisps of clouds near the eastern horizon were not even tinged with the
faintest color. Over the valley, over everything within the range of
vision, a succession of long, thick streamers of whitish mist hung low.
The early morning air was raw and chill.
Tossing aside his blanket, the lad rubbed his eyes and rose sleepily to
his feet.
“Humph!” he muttered, after a long, earnest stare. “Not a very joyous
sight, to be sure; one good thing, though, it’s jolly early.”
His first thoughts were for the mustang. The animal was contentedly
lying down, but at his approach scrambled to his feet in a manner that
indicated a great improvement in the condition of his injured leg.
“Fine and dandy, old chap,” declared Tom, grinning with satisfaction.
“Let’s have a look.”
An examination increased his grin.
“Bully!” was his comment. “Nothing now to prevent us from making a
quick get-away. A cold bite and then it’s the long ride for us.”
In the space of about twenty-five minutes his wants and those of
the mustang had been satisfied. After this, the lad repacked the
saddle-bags, filled the canvas water-bottles with cool water from the
creek, and lastly saddled his pony.
“Now, little chap,” he exclaimed, springing into the saddle, “let ’er
go!”
The landscape still presented the same cheerless aspect. Having
carefully consulted his compass Tom headed in a direction which took
him straight toward an impenetrable wall of gloomy mist.
To be once more actually on the way filled him with a huge sense of
satisfaction. Over ridges, across valleys now enveloped in the thick
vapors, jogging along in the half-light between, he made good progress.
And all the while the appearance of the world about him was gradually
changing. The clouds in the east had become tinged with delicate tones
of purple and gold, the rays of the rising sun shot high above them.
Tom in a receptive mood halted on the top of a high ridge to study
the glories of the awakening day. A glowing rim was rising above the
eastern hills. Slowly the whole of the pale golden ball rose into view,
and its rays, soon shooting across the wide landscape, transformed the
heavy, leaden gray vapors into objects of ethereal lightness.
“Dave would certainly call that ‘glorious,’” mused Tom with a smile.
His eyes followed a flock of birds circling high in the sky. “The chap
who doesn’t rise early in the morning misses a whole lot!”
It was so pleasant to watch the changes of nature that Tom continued
to stay until the mists were in full retreat before the strengthening
shafts of light.
His eyes, wandering from place to place, suddenly came to a halt on a
faint speck of dark far off in the valley.
Somehow or other, it did not have the appearance of a bush, or any
other kind of vegetation, but rather suggested to his mind the form of
some animal stretched at full length on the ground. His utmost efforts
to make out the exact nature of the object were unavailing, which, to
one who possessed as large a bump of curiosity as Tom, was a highly
unsatisfactory state of affairs.
“It’s so early I guess I can afford to take a bit of time,” he
reflected. “By George! I will!”
Having come to this conclusion, he set off down the incline, presently
reaching a grassy valley. From this point the irregular character of
the ground shut the odd-looking spot of dark from view.
It proved to be much farther off than Tom had supposed, and but for a
dogged determination to carry to a successful conclusion any task once
started, he might have faced about and ridden away.
“No, sir, I’m going to find out just what it is,” he exclaimed aloud.
He patted his mustang’s neck. “Luckily for both of us, old chap, your
leg’s nearly well.”
At last, skirting around a clump of trees to see a broad open expanse
stretching before him, he uttered an exclamation.
“I thought so!” he cried.
The dark object, though still some distance away, could now be
distinctly seen; and one swift glance proved sufficient to reveal the
fact that it was a prostrate steer.