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.