LARRY’S COURAGE
“Smugglers!” The word had a very unpleasant sound to Larry Burnham’s
ears. He was sure he had been an actual witness of one of those
expeditions for which the Northwest Mounted Police are continually on
the lookout.
The blond lad scanned the landscape earnestly. How he longed for
daylight! How slowly the hours would pass! It was bad enough to be
alone in that great wilderness; but it seemed infinitely worse to know
that other human beings were near.
“Yes, I’ll just go back and take my medicine,” grunted Larry, “and let
Tom do the last laugh business. Why, that big, barren room at Fool’s
Castle would look like a palace to-night. Here’s where I get to work!”
Larry’s work consisted of walking to and fro, at the same time allowing
his mind to dwell on all the stories he had ever heard concerning
dreadful things which had happened to travelers out in the open. That
same old moon he now saw had looked down upon some mighty strange
scenes. He was quite sure he would never forget how the orb appeared on
this occasion--its shape was so odd, its rays so weird.
At length he stopped pacing and looked with a searching gaze at the
point in the landscape where the wagon had last been seen.
“Hello!” he exclaimed, softly; “don’t I see something?”
His interest became so great that, forgetting caution, he walked beyond
the shelter of the bushes.
“Great Scott--horsemen again,” he murmured. “Why, the prairie must be
full o’ ’em.”
Three faint spots not far apart seemed to be moving along at an
extraordinary pace.
“What in the world can that mean?” thought Larry, becoming excited
again.
Retreating behind the shelter of the bushes he kept his eyes on the
approaching riders as though fascinated by the spectacle. The three
specks were increasing in size with remarkable rapidity.
“It looks as though somebody is getting chased,” thought Larry. “That
chap in the lead certainly seems to be doing all he can to get away.
Whew--what a night it has been!”
At first he was fearful that the horsemen might descend directly upon
his camp. A little study, however, convinced him that unless they
swerved considerably from their course the riders would pass some
distance away.
There was something so mysterious, so unusual in the scene being
enacted before his eyes that his mind became filled with the most
dreadful misgivings. Now there came to his ears a faint sound of voices
and the rapid hoof-beats of the racing horses.
“Oh, wouldn’t I give a lot if I had Bob Somers’ field-glass,” he
muttered. “Gee! They’re gainin’ on that chap. In a few minutes more
they’ll have him.”
Larry’s prediction was quickly verified. He saw the three horses swing
together and form one confused patch of dark against the silvery sheen
of the plain. Almost instantly they came to a standstill. Then, once
more, he heard the sound of voices--angry voices, too.
“There’s some fellow out there in a whole lot of trouble!” exclaimed
the watcher, half aloud.
Though with eyes opened to their widest extent and ears primed to catch
the faintest sound, Larry sought vainly to gain some idea of what was
taking place. Curiosity began to get the better of his fears.
“It surely has something to do with that band of smugglers,” he
thought. “By Jove--look!”
The three men had wheeled about and were returning in the direction
from whence they had come. All were riding almost as furiously as
before.
“I’ll bet he’s been taken prisoner!” cried Larry, excitedly, jumping to
his feet. “Gee whiz! Teddy Banes was certainly right!”
Then he began to experience an uncomfortable feeling that if any
one was in trouble a stern duty lay before him: he must, at least,
investigate.
“Suppose I got in a fix like that! What should I think of a chap who
stood by and did nothing?” he growled, striking his big chest a blow
with his fist. “By Jove, I’d put him down as a pretty poor specimen!”
When Larry’s thoughts began to be taken off himself and his own
troubles his courage rapidly rose.
“Maybe little ‘Fear-not’ will score in this game!” he cried. “And if he
does I’ll make it a point to let Tom Clifton hear all about it.”
He strode over to the horse.
“Get up, you lazy creature, get up!” he cried.
And putting his big hands upon the “lazy creature’s” shoulder he gave
it a violent shove which speedily brought the animal to its feet.
The change which had come over the “promising football player” within a
few moments was quite remarkable. All his timidity and fear seemed to
have disappeared. Now no one would have recognized in him the lad who
had sheltered himself behind a fringe of bushes.
For the first time a little get up and go seemed to have crept into his
nature. Faster than he had ever done so before, he saddled the horse.
Then, vaulting upon its back, he rode away at a swift pace.
The gleams of the rifle barrel resting across the pommel served to give
him a sense of security. Larry actually felt surprised at himself. He
also began to feel a trifle ashamed. Viewing matters from a different
standpoint, he suddenly began to wonder what the boys in Kingswood
would think of his “desertion.”
“Thunderation!” he growled, angrily. “Maybe they’ll call me a
‘quitter.’ I was sort o’ thinkin’ the joke would be on the other
side; but I guess I’ll be the one that’s going to catch it!” Growing
reckless, he urged his horse into a faster gallop. “Tom Clifton was
right. I’ve been a little ‘Fear-not’ who feared everything.”
Having come to this unpleasant conclusion, Larry appeared to lose all
caution and restraint. His horse was fresh, the air cool, and almost as
fast as he had seen the mysterious riders dash over the plain, so he
rode in pursuit of them, with the breeze blowing his sandy hair wildly
against his face.
And all the time he kept an eager lookout for the riders somewhere
ahead. Unless they were making for some pass in the hills he felt sure
his scrutiny would soon be rewarded. The blond lad regarded himself as
quite a hero.
“By Jinks, I can understand now how the Ramblers feel about these
trips,” he soliloquized. “I must have been asleep all the time.”
His fiery pony was pounding over the plain at a reckless rate, and the
faster he went the faster he wanted to go. In the exhilaration he felt
almost like shouting. With the bunch grass on every side, it seemed as
though he was plunging into a waste of silvery waves.
Suddenly a reddish gleam in the midst of a patch of timber caught
his eye; then, as intervening trees came between, flashed out; then
reappeared once more.
“Whoa--whoa!” whispered Larry, softly. “Here’s a development I wasn’t
expectin’. Where there’s a camp-fire there must be men.”
Pulling up his steaming horse, some of his old feelings of nervousness
returned.
“It may be dangerous,” he reflected. “Oh, thunder! Wonder what I’d
better do?”
For several moments he debated the question; then, making up his mind,
rode to a tree close by, and, dismounting, tied his horse.
“By George, I’ll sneak up,” he muttered, determinedly. “Little
‘Fear-not’ is going to see this business through to the end.”
Unslinging his rifle, and using the utmost care, Larry crept slowly
toward the light, which was more often out of sight than in. There
was no sound of voices or anything else to indicate the presence of
campers. This, however, he argued, was not to be wondered at, as the
hour was very late.
No Indian stealing upon an unwary foe could have used greater care than
he. But not possessing the Indian’s skill the sharp cracking of twigs,
or other noises made by his advance, often caused him to stop, his
heart beating fast.
“Suppose some one should suddenly pop out from those bushes and draw a
bead on me!” he muttered, shiveringly.
Several times he was on the point of giving up, but on each occasion
shook his head.
“If anything happens, it happens!” he said grimly.
Now came the step which called for all his courage. He could see the
embers, down in a little hollow, glowing brightly. The dark trees rose
before him--ominously dark--their scraggly branches assuming in the
whitish light of the moon a weird and sinister aspect.
Within their shadows, Larry Burnham, crouching behind a bush, looked
and listened with painful intensity. His mind continually pictured
menacing figures but a few yards away waiting for his appearance. A
crackling of the embers filled him with sudden terror. Only a powerful
effort prevented him from fleeing in mad panic.
Finally he quelled his shaking nerves, and worked his way to a point
where a clear view of the hollow was before him. The tension leaped
away. He uttered a sigh of heartfelt relief.
The camp was deserted.
The instant this discovery was made, Larry, with a boldness in great
contrast to his former stealth, rose to his feet and walked directly
toward the fire.
The first thing which struck his attention was the appearance of the
ground and grass. The latter in many places was beaten down, while
deep imprints and clods of torn-up earth gave every indication that
some terrific struggle had taken place. And, to add to these evidences,
his eye lighted on a bush, partially flattened, its branches and leaves
scattered about. “By whom?--how?”
The astounded Larry Burnham asked himself these questions over and over
again.
The silence, the peace of the enclosure appeared in such striking
contrast to something which he could see only too clearly had taken
place. And the impression on his mind was tremendous.
“By Jingo!” he murmured, breathlessly, “those shouts and pistol shots
seem tame alongside of this. Believe me, it’s enough to give a chap the
creeps.”
Bending over, he followed the tracks with the minutest care, then
suddenly straightened up with an exclamation.
A bit further along, partly hidden by tall grass, he saw several dark
objects. In his eagerness he almost leaped toward them.
“Great Scott--a bridle an’ saddle!” he exclaimed. “But where is the
horse they belong to? This is another mystery. And, by George, it’s a
hummer!”
Dragging the saddle to a smoother piece of ground, he began to examine
it. Then, as though something had struck him a blow, he straightened up
and almost staggered back.
He had seen that particular saddle before.
“It can’t be possible,” he gasped--“it can’t be!”
Eager and with trembling hands he looked it over again. Now, all doubts
were stilled. It belonged to a Rambler,--and that Rambler was Tom
Clifton.