BOB RIDES ALONE
The ranchman, at this salutation, stopped short and stood looking
fixedly at them.
“How do you do, sir?” said Dave, politely.
“Well, what do you want?” demanded Hank Styles. “What do you want, I
say?”
There was such ungraciousness expressed in his manner and tone that the
boys felt considerably surprised--a surprise which prevented them from
replying until the ranchman had spoken again.
“Can’t you answer a civil question?” he snarled.
“We are looking for Jed Warren,” explained Bob Somers, “and thought
possibly you might know something about him.”
“Jed Warren!” repeated the man. “What should I know about Jed Warren?”
“Didn’t you ever meet him--a mounted policeman?” cried Tom.
“Well, I’ve seen lots of the redcoats around; an’ maybe I have, an’
maybe I haven’t. Who sent you here?”
“Nobody sent us.”
“Well, then, you’d better go away. Ask somebody else.”
“See here, Mr. Styles,” interposed Dave, “would you have any objection
to our resting a short time in your house?”
This request brought a sudden change of expression into the ranchman’s
face.
Of all the boys lined up before Mr. Styles no one was surveying the
situation more keenly than Tom Clifton. He was vaguely impressed with a
feeling that something was behind the man’s peculiar manner; and this
idea growing, as ideas usually did with Tom, he sprang to the ground,
exclaiming:
“A good scheme, Dave. No objections, I suppose, Mr. Styles? Come on,
fellows!”
“How long are you going to hang around these parts?” demanded Styles.
“Some considerable time,” replied Tom, greatly to the astonishment and
disgust of Larry Burnham; “and we’re going to camp right within sight
of your ranch-house. It’s dangerous out on the plains after dark. I
was attacked the other night; and if I ever run across the chap who did
it he’ll get all that’s coming to him.”
Then, while the occupant of the ranch eyed him with a peculiarly
sinister expression, Tom began striding toward the dilapidated building.
“Hold on, there!” The command came sharp and peremptory. “You’re in an
awful big hurry, ain’t you? Can’t even wait till a man tells you he’s
ready!”
“Better picket your horse, Tom,” cautioned Sam Randall.
Bob Somers, viewing the trend of affairs with considerable surprise,
exchanged a significant look with Dave, who immediately eased himself
from his saddle with a sigh of relief.
“I’ll follow your example, Tom,” said the writer, as the tall boy drove
in a picket pin.
“So shall I,” said Bob.
Larry Burnham was considerably astonished also, but in a different way.
He regarded the action of the Ramblers as a decidedly cool proceeding.
Here they were practically forcing themselves upon a man whose every
action indicated that their presence was by no means welcome.
“I don’t wonder Hank Styles looks a bit peeved,” he reflected. “Gee!
It’s certainly awful nerve on their part.”
“The house ain’t in no condition to receive visitors,” explained the
ranchman.
“Oh, no matter,” said Tom.
“Yes, but it does matter. You can just stay here until I get things in
a little more ship-shape order--understan’?”
Without ceremony, Hank Styles abruptly turned and reëntered the house.
“You’re a jolly nice lot,” began Larry.
“Just close down on any talk of that sort,” snapped Tom. “Don’t you see
something queer in the way that man’s acting?”
“I don’t wonder at it, after the way you’re actin’.”
“You leave things to us.”
The blond lad looked at Tom in wonderment.
“What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“I’m not saying anything,” answered Tom.
“That’s the way the rest ought to do,” said Dave. “Keep cool, Tom. You
know jumping at conclusions sometimes only makes a chap tumble to his
own folly.”
“Humph! I suppose this is another mystery,” snickered Larry--“never to
be solved.”
“Hank Styles is a pretty rough-looking customer,” said Bob. “I think
I know what’s been going on in your mind, Tom. A chap is justified in
trying to find out all he can in a case like this. Fellows”--he raised
his hand impressively--“no objections, now. What I am going to do may
be only the result of a foolish whim, but perhaps it may do some good,
after all.”
“What’s the idea?” demanded Tom, breathlessly.
“I’ll skip off. All of you go in the house. With such a big bunch
around he’ll probably never miss me. Even if he does it can’t do any
harm.”
“But look here, Bob,” protested Sam Randall.
“Not a word,” warned Bob. “Don’t pay the slightest attention to
me--remember!”
“Go as far as you like, Bob,” whispered Tom.
Hank Styles reappeared at the door a short time later. His manner had
undergone a decided change.
“Come right in, fellows!” he called. “I straightened things up a bit;
an’ there’s a nice room where you kin rest jist as long as you like.”
Bob Somers, Dave Brandon and Larry Burnham kept to the rear of the
little procession which immediately started off.
Just as they reached the steps of the ranch-house Bob Somers dropped
behind, and, while the rest crowded toward the entrance, the Rambler,
with a quick, noiseless tread, slipped around the side of the house.
Pausing for an instant to study his surroundings, he headed directly
toward a spur in the hills thickly overgrown with bushes and only about
a hundred feet distant. Several times he turned, half expecting to see
other men around the ranch.
But from the rear the old house presented a picture of loneliness
and desolation. Even the dilapidated sheds and stable close by were
apparently deserted, although, through an open door, he caught a
glimpse of several horses.
“I’ll admit if a motion picture photographer had his camera trained on
me I’d feel rather foolish,” muttered Bob, when he reached his goal
and threw himself flat on the ground behind the bushes. “I don’t know
exactly why I’m here--but I am here! If I don’t see anything suspicious
within a half hour or so guess I’d better go back to the crowd.”
From his position he was able to get a good view of both buildings, and
at the same time was thoroughly concealed by the bushes.
The lone watcher, busily debating in his mind the question as to
whether he was acting foolishly or pursuing a course of wisdom,
answered the problem to his own satisfaction within the next five
minutes.
The back door of the house opened, and three men came hurriedly out,
almost running toward the stable; and the one in the rear he recognized
as Hank Styles.
“Good gracious!” murmured Bob. “There’s something doing, sure as I
live. Wonder what in the world has become of the fellows?”
Now he felt thankful indeed that his forethought had been, apparently,
wise. There was something so hasty in the movements of the men as to
convince him that they were on no ordinary errand.
They disappeared inside the stable, and the sound of their voices came
over the air, mingling in with the stamping of horses’ hoofs.
“Ah! They are saddling their mounts,” murmured Bob. “Mighty
interesting, I call it.”
Snuggling closer among the bushes the Rambler peered eagerly through an
opening.
“Ah!” he breathed. The men were leading their horses outside, at the
same time talking in excited tones, but too low for the words to reach
him. “Going to skip, eh?”
One of the trio began tearing a bit of paper into strips. Then, taking
off his sombrero, he dropped the pieces inside, while the others,
standing near by, gesticulated in an angry fashion. Not a move was
lost to Bob Somers’ eager gaze. Their actions bore out in an almost
startling fashion his idea that something was up.
“Ah!” he muttered again.
Little Hank Styles was holding his hat high in the air.
Two arms were immediately outstretched, as his companions one after
another drew forth a slip from the hat. Each seemed to scan the pieces
with great eagerness. The next instant Hank Styles and another burst
into a loud peal of laughter and began to slap their knees and give
other evidences of extreme satisfaction. The third, however, indicated
his displeasure in a way there could be no mistaking. He shook his fist
in the air and at the house. And all this seemed to excite further the
risibilities of the other two.
Bob Somers was clearly puzzled.
“I can’t understand it,” he mused.
Now the cattlemen were engaged in a most earnest and animated
conversation. Frequently voices rose higher. Then, as though arriving
at some understanding, the three sprang on their horses, cracked their
quirts and were off.
Two rode away in the direction of the open prairie, while the third,
the man who had become so angry, wheeled about and headed in Bob’s
direction.
The Rambler’s nerves did not forsake him. Lying flat on the ground he
contrived to shield his body still more by the aid of the bushes and
tall grass which grew around him in profusion. As the hoof-beats of
the horse told of the rider’s rapid approach he felt his heart beating
faster. Discovery might lead to most unpleasant results. With muscles
tense, he was ready to spring to his feet at the first intimation of
danger.
But the rider clattered by without seeing the amateur detective.
Then there flashed into Bob Somers’ mind a possible explanation of the
men’s peculiar actions.
“They must have drawn lots,” he exclaimed. “By Jingo, I’ll bet that’s
it. If I followed this chap I might make some more interesting
discoveries.”
His thoughts reverted to the crowd. Why had none of them appeared?
Were they sitting comfortably in the ranch-house, unmindful of the
fact that their host had flown? His confidence in his friends was too
great to make him feel uneasy about their safety. He had the choice of
two decisions. And if he selected the one he was almost irresistibly
prompted to do it meant leaving without an instant’s loss of time.
“Of course they’ll know I’m safe,” reflected Bob.
Cautiously he rose to a sitting position, for the sound of the horseman
could still be heard.
“Yes, I’ll risk it,” he muttered, with grim emphasis. “Better a failure
than to be wondering always if a good chance had slipped by.”
Now he stood upright, and still fearful lest other men should have
remained in the vicinity of the house took a quick survey before
venturing forth. Then he ran, silently and rapidly, to the front of the
building, where his horse was tethered.
Fearing the loss of an instant’s time, he resisted a temptation to dash
inside and tell his friends, and a moment later had jumped into the
saddle and was on the move.
His work required the greatest care. Should he approach too close it
meant danger of being seen; should he lag too far behind the risk of
losing the other’s trail. The route which the cowpuncher had taken led
directly up the hill; so Bob Somers followed.
The presence of the man in advance was occasionally betrayed by a
crackling in the underbrush, as his horse plunged through. He was
evidently traveling hard.
The Rambler took the precaution to keep intervening objects between, or
to ride in the shadows now thickly falling about him in the deep woods.
Steadily forging ahead, he only came to a halt when the top of the hill
was reached.
Overlooking the trees and vegetation which covered the descending
slope, Bob Somers could see a narrow valley, then, beyond, a succession
of rolling ridges. It was a wild, desolate and silent scene, with no
suggestion of either human or animal life in all its vast reaches.
He realized, however, that if the man kept straight ahead he must soon
emerge into the open valley. So, sheltered behind a mass of scrubby
cedars, he watched and waited.
“Hello--there he is now!”
The horseman, abruptly appearing in the field of vision, began to
gallop at top speed over the level stretch; and Bob Somers, eagerly
following his course, saw him heading for a wide break in the hills.
“He’s in a mighty big hurry,” said Bob, half aloud. “By Jingo, seems
to be getting rather suspicious, too.”
The man had suddenly reined up; then, swinging around in his saddle, he
looked long and earnestly in every direction. Apparently satisfied, he
whipped up his steed and never slackened pace until the jagged sides of
the pass hid him from view.
“Gee--one hasty move, and the jig might be up!” reflected the Rambler,
as he rode down the slope.
When Bob, in his turn, crossed the valley and reached the break in the
hills he surveyed the somber-looking depths and precipitous slopes with
a critical air.
“Whew! I certainly shouldn’t like to be caught in there on a dark
night,” he murmured. “By George--there he goes again!”
Scarcely visible against the surroundings, horse and rider were seen
moving across an open space.
The lad pulled hastily back, not stirring until he judged the other to
be sufficiently far ahead for him to escape the risk of detection.
The cool, damp air was filled with the odor of rank weeds and grasses.
Occasionally he came across decaying branches and boughs strewn over
the ground; tangled thickets and slabs of rock, too, added to the
difficulties of the way. Pools of water and marshy stretches mirrored
the gray sky above; and numerous insects hovering over their slimy
surfaces attacked the traveler and his horse with unpleasant vigor.
Naturally, Bob often questioned the wisdom of his course. What would
his companions think?
“Hang it all, I’ve gone too far now to back out,” he concluded,
shrugging his shoulders.
At last the gulch began opening out into another valley.
Before leaving the deep shadows of the hills Bob rose in his stirrups,
to sweep the country with his field-glass. After several minutes of
anxious search the powerful instrument brought into view the horseman
already climbing the side of a hill directly opposite.
Now and again, riding in and out among the trees, he was lost to view,
and, finally, disappeared.
“Perhaps I’ve made a pretty mess of it,” soliloquized Bob, with a look
at the darkening sky. “Even if I started back now I couldn’t get very
far before the night would be down on me black as pitch.”
At a rattling pace the lad pounded across the valley, then up the hill.
On reflecting that the man might have halted somewhere in the vicinity,
he proceeded slowly, never relaxing his vigilance for a moment.
The timber grew thickly on the slopes; deep, gloomy shadows lay across
his path. The sky between the interlocking branches appeared in weirdly
shaped patches of light. The outlook was not encouraging.
At the top of the hill Bob could find no point of vantage, as before,
from which to gaze over the surrounding landscape. The timber was too
thick, the inequalities of the ground too great.
“Still,” he reflected, “I’ll take a chance, and plunge ahead.”
And when night finally came Bob Somers found himself on the slope of
another wooded hill. He dismounted, picketed and unsaddled his horse,
then sat down on a grassy knoll to think over the situation. His sudden
whim had turned out disastrously. He was miles and miles away from his
companions. In all his travels he had never been in the midst of a more
desolate-looking place; and the trail was utterly lost.