“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.