SMUGGLERS
Yes, Larry Burnham had outwitted the Ramblers. Smart as they thought
themselves it proved a very easy matter to lead his horse outside the
stockade, mount and gallop away.
So long as he kept within sight of Fool’s Castle he kept turning
in the saddle; and each time, discovering no pursuers, his grin of
satisfaction increased.
“I can just imagine how Tom Clifton’ll stamp around and roar,” he
chuckled. “Here’s where little ‘Fear-not’ scores.”
There was nothing to disturb Larry Burnham’s peace of mind. He just had
to keep riding straight ahead until the settlement was reached; then a
train would speedily carry him back to the States and civilization.
“But for this miserable Jed Warren business I’d probably have stuck it
out,” he soliloquized. “But such a long wild goose chase!”
What to do with his horse had at first bothered the boy; but he finally
concluded to have the animal shipped to his father’s Wisconsin farm.
“All serene,” he laughed. “Even if the bunch are angry I’ll fix it up
with them when they get back to Kingswood.”
Some hours later Larry’s troubles began. They loomed up in the shape of
hills. He surveyed with dismay the barrier which nature had set against
him. Accustomed to put responsibilities upon others wherever possible,
he was at a disadvantage when compelled to depend entirely upon himself.
The long detours, the difficulties which beset him on all sides, were
eating up precious time. Often he became confused, lost his bearings,
and, in his impatience plunged blindly ahead, many times forced by
steep declivities or obstructions to retrace his way.
A troubled look came into his eyes. It was exasperating to be so
balked--to have his well-laid plans threatened with failure. The
thought of Tom Clifton’s laughter, and the sarcastic remarks he would
be certain to make caused Larry’s lips to tighten.
“Get up, get up!” he growled. “We’ll reach that railroad or leave our
bones on the plain. Ha, ha, ha--that’s a good one! This situation is
makin’ me feel dramatic.”
Before he at last managed to reach the river the rider had passed a
most unpleasant period. His face was scratched and bruised; while the
jolting and tossing about in the saddle added considerably to the
soreness of his bones and muscles.
The lad, however, managed to stand all these things with some degree
of patience until he found himself facing a stretch of water far wider
than he had ever expected.
“Now what am I to do?” he cried, in utter disgust. “By Jingo, I’m
blocked--blocked for fair. Horses are mighty good swimmers, I know; but
trustin’ my safety to a nag when there’s no one around to give me a
hand if anything happens doesn’t suit me.”
Larry’s impatience soon began to change into genuine alarm. He could
discover no place, either up or down the river, where he dared to ford.
At last, completely at a loss to know what to do, he sprang to the
ground.
The thought of being obliged to pass the night alone filled him with
dread. For the first time he began bitterly to regret his course.
“From the map I judged this river to be a small affair like some of the
others the crowd crossed,” he grumbled. “But, hang it all, this might
as well be the Atlantic Ocean.”
It was a long time before Larry’s unhappy frame of mind permitted
him to get up sufficient energy to search for a camping place. About
a hundred feet from the river a thick clump of bushes spotted the
prairie; and their shelter, he decided, was more inviting than the
broad open stretches.
After unsaddling and picketing his horse, he drew a hatchet from his
belt and sallied out in search of wood. It seemed as though the irony
of fate was plunging him right into the kind of work he so cordially
detested.
“I reckon this would make Tom Clifton laugh,” he thought, with a smile
which had little mirth in it.
The necessity for swift work if he wished to have supper before dark
put some action into his big frame; so, in a comparatively short time,
an armful of wood was carried over to the camp. Larry was doubtful
about his ability as chef, never having prepared a meal in his life.
Still, he reflected, cooking bacon and potatoes requires but little
skill. The quantity of coffee to use, however, puzzled him.
“I guess it isn’t more’n a cupful, anyway,” he remarked, aloud.
A roaring fire was immediately kindled and saddle bags unpacked. Larry,
as might have been expected, soon succeeded in burning his fingers, as
well as the bacon. The gravy caught fire, and in attempting to put it
out he knocked several of the largest slices into the flames, thereby
adding for a few seconds a furious sputtering and hissing.
The coffee had a strangely unfamiliar taste; nor were the potatoes any
better, being burnt almost black on one side and nearly raw on the
other. He was, therefore, obliged to depend almost entirely on the
canned goods and crackers.
The ill success which attended his efforts served to relieve Larry’s
mind, for a short time, from his greater troubles. They returned,
however, with added force when the tin dishes were cleared away. The
light was fast fading; the hills had become dark and somber. Sounds
of chirping insects, or an occasional cry from some far-away bird,
increased the sense of utter desolation. How heartily glad he would
have been to see the Ramblers about the fire. Even Tom Clifton’s
oddities and annoying ways appeared to him in a different light at this
particular moment.
While the landscape was in the full glare of sunlight no feelings of
possible danger had worried him. But now his mind began to be occupied
with thoughts of smugglers and cattle rustlers--men whom Teddy Banes
denounced as rough and dangerous characters. And the two mysterious
alarms in the night certainly proved that the half-breed had good
reasons for his warning.
“Oh, I do wish I had stuck to the crowd!” exclaimed Larry, attempting
to master a nervous feeling which now and again came upon him. “If I
can’t get across this river somewhere it means a jaunt back to Fool’s
Castle. And--and--suppose I can’t find the place?--or the fellows have
gone?”
He abruptly paused. Such an eventuality quite staggered him. His stock
of provisions would last only a few days. He possessed no knowledge
of woodcraft, or of the ability to keep oneself alive, in case of
emergency, by such edibles as might be found in the woods and fields.
True, Larry carried a rifle; but he suspected, not without good reason,
that any animal would have to be either very large or very close to
stand in danger.
“Hang it all, I’m in a pretty mess!” he said, disgustedly.
It was the inaction--the impossibility of making any move for
hours--which drove the usually indolent Larry to pacing up and down
at a furious rate. As the dusk gathered around him he kept closer and
closer to the fire, then, oppressed by the darkness, took a seat close
beside it.
“Oh, how delightful life in the open is!” he thought. “To hear Tom
Clifton chirp about it a chap might think it was one of the most
glorious things in the world. I’m going to dream about this experience
for a month.”
At last, hoping he might be able to forget his troubles in sleep, Larry
spread a blanket on the ground and lay down. The long journey had
fatigued him; and this, together with the softly-stirring air, brought
on a condition which soon resulted in deep, heavy slumber.
Some hours afterward Larry Burnham suddenly awoke. The fire was
practically out. A very faint light came from the rising moon. Vaguely
uneasy, he raised himself to an upright position.
A sound had aroused him. It came again--a creak, as though made by
wagon wheels. Then, following this, the faint thud of horses’ hoofs was
clearly perceptible.
With a gasp of surprise, Larry looked eagerly about.
Over the top of the bushes, scarcely more than a darkish blur against
the landscape, he detected an object moving slowly along. And in
advance, and following, were several horsemen.
“Great Scott!” he muttered, breathlessly.
At first a thrill of joy ran through him. Here was relief--men,
undoubtedly, who could put him on the right track. But the impulse to
make his presence known suddenly disappeared.
Who were they?
Wasn’t there something queer about a wagon and a silent body of
horsemen passing across the prairie at such an hour?
Cautiously, Larry dragged himself nearer the bushes. He now began to
feel thankful for having chosen such a secluded retreat, and that the
smouldering remains of his fire were not bright enough to betray his
presence. The horse, too, was lying down.
The words of Teddy Banes rang in his ears. He strained his eyes to
make out the form of the vehicle. Its blurred outlines, now almost
abreast the bushes, were sufficiently strong to enable him to see its
canvas-covered sides and top.
“Judgin’ by the speed they’re makin’ it must be pretty heavily loaded,”
thought Larry.
He listened intently, hoping to catch some stray bits of conversation
which might give him some idea of the character of the men. Not a word,
however, came from the little procession moving so methodically and
steadily by. This curious silence had a peculiar effect on Larry’s
nerves. He felt convinced that he was seeing something entirely out of
the ordinary.
Time seemed to pass with almost unendurable slowness. He longed to
rise, to stretch his legs--but did not dare to do so until the wagon
and its accompanying horsemen were almost indistinguishable in the
distance. Then Larry Burnham rose to his feet.
“Score another one for Teddy Banes,” he said, softly. “Sure as I live
it’s a band of smugglers!”