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:
[Illustration: “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.