THE RANCH-HOUSE
“This here is a kind of an old place,” began Hank Styles, as the boys
entered the ranch-house. “We never went in for no fancy fixin’s, like
Walt Allen over to Fool’s Castle. I reckon you might as well come right
up-stairs.”
He led them to a rough wooden stairway which led up from the main room.
Hank Styles waited until all had passed, then followed.
It impressed Larry Burnham as being rather singular that they should be
conducted to the second floor, and suddenly his comfortable feeling of
security vanished. Bob Somers was a pretty bright chap, he reflected,
and his suspicions might be justified. The echoing of their footsteps
sounded through the big ranch-house with dismal, uncanny clearness. He
didn’t like the little ranchman following so close behind, as though
driving them before him.
“Here we are!” Hank Styles’ rough voice broke in harshly upon his
meditations. “If this here ain’t a nice room I never seen one. Plenty
of stools. A nice bench. We ain’t got no books or other foolish things;
but that there view out the winder can be looked at a long time.”
Larry Burnham, brushing past the ranchman, noted the massiveness of the
door and its powerful lock.
“It’s certainly a big room,” said Dave.
Tom stepped quickly over to the window.
“I don’t see much to gaze at,” he sniffed.
“That there is the beauty of it,” remarked Hank Styles, coolly. “You’ve
got to look a long time before you kin see where it comes in.”
He was now standing with his back against the partly-open door
surveying the crowd with such a curious expression that Larry’s
uneasiness changed like a flash into alarm. The man’s eyes seemed to
suggest a curious mixture of triumph and maliciousness.
“Sit down, fellows,” commanded the ranchman. “Make yourselves at home.”
Dave Brandon, usually the first to comply with such invitations, gave
the little man a swift, keen glance.
“That tired feeling I had has sort of worn off,” he remarked. He
glanced significantly toward Sam Randall. “So I don’t think we’ll stay.”
The moment these words were spoken Larry Burnham, yielding to his
fears, attempted to pass Hank Styles.
“You don’t think you’ll stay, eh?” yelled the ranchman savagely. “But I
reckon you will--you confounded lot of spies!”
As though overpowered with rage he gave the blond lad a mighty push
which sent him staggering back, to bring up violently in the arms of
Sam Randall.
The room was in an uproar at once. Dave Brandon leaped forward.
Hank Styles, however, with the agility of a cat, eluded him, and by an
adroit movement of his foot almost sent the stout boy to the floor.
Then, with a yell of derision, he slipped outside the room, and before
the combined rush of angry and excited boys could prevent it had closed
the great door with a bang. Instantly they heard the ominous sound of
the lock being turned.
“Trapped!” groaned Larry Burnham. “Oh, what easy marks!”
“I no understand!” cried Thunderbolt.
“Let us out,” howled Tom, “or you’ll get in the worst trouble of your
life!”
A tremendous onslaught was made on the door. Every ounce of their
united strength was exerted in an effort to force it open. But the only
result was to make themselves hot, tired and perspiring.
“Yes; push on it hard!” yelled a derisive voice. “‘Walk inter my
parler,’ says the spider to the fly. Thought yerselves smart, didn’t
yer? Well, all I kin say is that ye’re goin’ ter smart for it.”
“Come now, this has gone far enough,” shouted Dick Travers. “We don’t
mind a little joke----”
“A joke, is it?” Hank Styles’ voice, muffled by the partition, came
again. “Thought I couldn’t see through yer little trick, didn’t yer?
Sit there an’ think it over. It’s a nice, comfor’ble room with stools
an’ benches. An’ when you git tired o’ sittin’ look out o’ the winder
at that there beautiful view.”
Tom Clifton immediately attacked the door with a fury that, if not
emulated by the others, at least caused them to join in another supreme
effort to break the lock.
Puny indeed was the lads’ force against the mighty strength and
solidity of the great door. Their efforts were as fruitless as those of
a bird fluttering and beating its wings against the bars of its cage.
“Oh, what a beautiful mess!” cried Larry, despairingly. “Now what are
we going to do?”
“Not blubber--for one thing!” cried Tom, so exasperated that he could
scarcely speak. “Hank Styles is going to pay for this. I knew there was
something wrong the moment he opened his mouth.”
“Then why did you want to come in, like a silly idiot?” stormed Larry.
“Because I thought we could find out something.”
“Well, we’re found in something.”
“Oh, but this is much queer!” exclaimed Thunderbolt.
“Come now, don’t let us get excited,” admonished Dave. “We have an
ally on the outside--a mighty lucky idea of Bob Somers’.”
“Yes. And he’ll find a way to get us out,” said Sam, confidently.
“Fellows, what kind of a place do you suppose we’ve run into?”
“The headquarters of a band of smugglers, of course,” cried Tom, with
conviction. “Didn’t you see how strange Hank Styles looked when I spoke
about the man who attacked me?”
“I certainly did,” answered Dick Travers.
“Are we going to jaw here all night?” demanded Larry Burnham. “I’m
beginning to know what a chicken in a coop feels like. Let’s open that
window an’ yell for Bob.”
“Gee! I was never so mad in all my life!” fumed Tom.
“And you look it,” said Dave, cheerfully.
Dick Travers, at this moment, was vainly trying to open the window. But
the sash was nailed fast.
“Score another one for Hank Styles,” he said, calmly.
“Stand back, fellows,” cautioned Larry Burnham, picking up a stool. “I
know a capital remedy for windows that won’t open.”
“Hold on, Larry, hold on!” interposed Sam Randall. “What’s the use of
spoiling perfectly good panes of glass? Where’s your confidence in Bob
Somers?”
“That uncommonly tired feeling I had has returned,” said Dave. “I’m
going to take a rest.”
Larry placed the stool on the floor and sat down.
“I wonder why Hank Styles locked us in?” he exclaimed. “What can he
expect to gain by it?”
A lengthy and earnest discussion followed. Many theories were advanced;
but beyond being absolutely certain that the whole affair was most
extraordinary none could give a plausible explanation.
“I’ll bet there’s a big bunch around this place,” said Tom.
“An’ maybe ready to pounce on us the moment we get out,” suggested the
blond lad. “Gee! I only hope nothing’s happened to Bob.”
“They’d never catch him napping,” said Dick.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. For all we know, they may have tied him
up an’ tossed him in a corner like a sack of wheat. Look out, fellows!
This time it goes.”
With all the strength of his powerful arms the big lad hurled the stool.
The sound of a fearful crash instantly followed. The woodwork was torn
asunder, while showers of glass rattled over the floor, or, falling
outside, were splintered and smashed to bits on the ground. A dull thud
announced the arrival of the stool on the turf.
“Not a neat job, but effective,” remarked Dave.
“Would have been quite a pretty sight from down below,” commented Sam.
A number of heads were immediately poked out through the broken window.
“Hello, Bob, hello!” yelled Tom.
The others joined in a rousing chorus.
When no replies came to repeated calls the lads began to look at each
other with expressions of wonderment.
“Still,” remarked Tom, with great confidence, “you may be mighty sure
Bob has some good reason for not opening his mouth.”
“I guess I’ve stated it,” grunted Larry; “an’ it wouldn’t surprise me
a bit if we never saw our horses an’ stuff again.”
This possibility quite staggered the crowd.
“Wouldn’t that be a jolly fine ending to your mystery-solving
expedition?” went on Larry relentlessly.
“‘Words, words, words’!” came from Dave. “Boys, we must get out of
here. Can’t jump--the distance is entirely too great.”
“Let’s see,” exclaimed Sam. “Our khaki coats are strong and tough.
What’s the matter with tying the sleeves of two together, and----”
“Good!” broke in Tom. “I’d have thought of that myself in another
moment. Quick! Let’s try it.”
He and Larry immediately took off their coats and followed Sam’s
suggestion.
“It ought to be strong enough to hold an elephant,” remarked Dave,
approvingly, as he examined their work.
Tom seized one of the sleeves, Larry Burnham and Dick gripping the
other. Then, easing himself over the window sill, the tall lad was
lowered steadily toward the grass-bestrewn ground. It was such an easy
operation that he laughed in derision at Hank Styles’ effort to hold
them prisoners.
The instant his feet touched the ground Tom dashed off at top speed.
A glad cry of relief presently escaped his lips--the horses were
contentedly munching the grass in front of the house. A quick count,
however, showed one to be missing.
“Ah! No wonder Bob didn’t answer,” he exclaimed. An idea of the true
state of affairs flashed into his mind. “Hooray! I’ll just bet he’s up
to some detective work.”
Running back he yelled: “There doesn’t seem to be a soul about the old
place, fellows, and I guess Bob is on their trail.”
Dick Travers was soon standing beside him; then came the young Cree.
And presently all were on solid earth once more.
“I think the view looks much finer from here than it does up above,”
laughed Tom, joyously.
“Hank Styles much bad man!” exclaimed Thunderbolt, with emphasis. “If
him ever come over to Cree village again he run away mighty fast. Me
see him there many times.”
“Half the fun of getting out is spoiled by Bob’s not being here,”
growled Dick. “I guess Tom’s theory is correct. Let’s go inside.”
He led the way to the front door.
It proved to be locked.
“Humph! I believe those fellows have gone away for good!” cried Tom.
“We must wait here until Bob gets back,” remarked Dave. “So what’s the
matter with making ourselves comfortable? Suppose we try the windows.”
“But--but--just imagine what might happen if Hank Styles an’ some
others should come back,” began Larry.
“Ease your mind, son,” interrupted Tom, loftily. “We’re not a bit
afraid.”
Finding all the ground floor sashes fastened the crowd decided to adopt
heroic measures. A ponderous sawhorse was found in the stable; and,
armed with this, they attacked the door. Before their onslaught it soon
tottered back on creaking hinges.
“Hooray--hooray!” shouted Tom. And, followed by the others, he dashed
inside.
“Let’s get something to eat,” suggested Dave. “I’m uncommonly hungry.”
“That seems to be the best plan,” agreed Sam. “Here’s a big stove and
enough wood to start a fire. Let’s pitch in hard.”
Several of the boys immediately went out and got the saddle bags.
But one thing marred their happiness--the absence of Bob Somers.
Without his cheery presence a damper seemed to have come over the group.
“Him much nice boy,” said the young Cree. “Hope nothing hurt him.”
“Well, he’s staying away a blamed long time,” said Larry, uneasily.
“Perhaps we ought to go off on a search.”
“While the grub is cooking I’ll do it,” cried Tom. “Come along?”
“Me go, too,” said Thunderbolt.
The three scouts departed at once, and did not return until Dave was
placing the steaming viands on a long pine table which stood in the
middle of the room.
“No news,” announced Larry, “although we nearly yelled our heads off.”
“Bad--very bad!” cried Thunderbolt.
“If I didn’t know Bob Somers so well I’d feel worried,” remarked Dave
Brandon. “But he’s a strong, courageous and resourceful chap. We can
save his share of the meal.”
In spite of anxiety every one possessed a tremendous appetite. After
their long ride it seemed almost impossible to get enough.
While the big square window still framed in an expanse of greenish sky
and glowing clouds Tom lighted an oil lamp that hung from the ceiling,
and its dull yellow glow partly chased away the gloom which pervaded
their surroundings.
As time passed slowly on, bringing no sound of footsteps, and twinkling
stars appeared in the dark and colorless sky, the lads found it
increasingly difficult to keep up the mask of cheerfulness.
“There’s one thing pretty certain,” remarked Dave: “if Bob has gone
anywhere among those hills there’s not much chance of our seeing him
again to-night.”
Outside, a fitful wind rustled the grass. From the gently swaying
branches of a tree close by came a musical sighing. Walking to the door
Tom looked out upon a field of darkness so intense that nothing beyond
a few feet could be distinguished.
“Whew, how black!” he exclaimed. “Let’s get some more lanterns,
fellows.”
“Going to illuminate the prairie?” inquired Larry.
“No; but we’ll make the windows shine so brightly that if Bob should
happen to be out in the open he’d see the beacon for miles.”
The boys hustled around, soon finding three lanterns in a closet. These
were lighted, carried to adjoining rooms and placed on the window sills.
“Now, for the present, there is nothing to do but wait,” exclaimed Dave.
After a while Thunderbolt and Tom went outside and led the horses to
the stable, then rejoined the disconsolate-looking Ramblers, who were
either lounging or walking about the big room. The light from the lamp
failed to clear away entirely the gloom which hovered over the corners,
and every movement of the lads sent odd-shaped shadows traveling
fantastically across the floor or walls.
At last Dave picked up his blanket.
“I’m going to make a mighty good try to sleep,” he said.
“You’ll succeed, all right,” grinned Larry. “Who’s standin’ guard?”
“My turn,” replied Tom.
The rest of the crowd, weary and worried, concluded to follow the stout
boy’s example.
“Sleep well,” said the sentinel, with an effort to smile.
Rifle in hand, he walked outside and began pacing to and fro.
His watch passed in a very uneventful fashion. Sam Randall relieved
him, and when Sam’s time was up he called Tom.
“Gee!” muttered the tall Rambler, rubbing his eyes. “I wish the next
two hours would pass as quickly as the last.”
He took up a position by the window, and, just as watchful as though a
host of enemies surrounded them, kept a keen lookout.
“I do wonder where Bob is at the present moment,” he thought. “It’s a
mighty queer affair. If he doesn’t turn up pretty soon we’ll have to go
on a hunt for him.”
Occasionally it required heroic efforts to keep his eyes from closing.
He envied the sleepers, so blissfully unconscious of time or place. Now
he tiptoed softly up and down; then walked to the partly-open door, or
stood by the window trying to penetrate the obscurity beyond.
He felt relieved to see a change gradually coming over the scene. The
eastern sky became tinged with a cold and grayish light--dawn was
approaching, and ghostly streamers of mist were revealed hanging low
over the prairie and hills.
“Well, I was certainly never so glad to see it in my life,” exclaimed
Tom, softly. “My, hasn’t the time dragged out, and----”
He abruptly paused--for, without warning, there happened the most
singular thing which had ever taken place in the history of the Rambler
Club.