LOST
Bob Somers, in his camp among the hills, with the black night about
him, tried to accept the situation philosophically. It looked as though
his pursuit had been a dismal failure. And here he was, cut off from
any hope of reaching his friends for hours.
“If I’d only taken time to tell the fellows I’d feel much better,” he
reflected.
He had built a fire in a secluded spot and eaten supper. And now
there was nothing to do but think, or gaze at the flashes of light
which often pierced the darkness. The stars were shining with unusual
brilliancy. He tried to remember what he had read about these orbs so
many million miles away, but his thoughts would constantly return to
the boys he had left in the lonely ranch-house and the man who was
possibly encamped somewhere on the same range of hills.
“I only hope he doesn’t see the light of this fire,” he murmured.
Long experience in the woods had steeled his nerves to stand without a
tremor the rustlings and whisperings which sometimes even the slightest
breeze occasions. A twig snapping, a broken branch falling earthward,
or some small animal scurrying through the brush sounds in the silence
of the night with unaccountable clearness.
Bob Somers, sitting on a broad, smooth slab of stone, was often obliged
to fight off swarms of insects attracted by the glow of the fire. An
inquisitive toad hopped up, fixed its beady eyes on him for a moment,
then turned about and solemnly hopped away.
Often he asked himself if they actually had stumbled upon the
smugglers’ stronghold. At any rate there was clearly something wrong.
He had been forcibly impressed with the idea that the man who had
ridden among the hills was delegated to perform some most important
work. It made his disappointment all the keener.
“Well, the only way is to make the best of it,” mused Bob. “I’ll join
the ‘Don’t Worry’ Club. Worry certainly never did a chap a bit of
good. When things begin to go wrong be glad they aren’t any worse.”
Having spoken this bit of philosophy aloud the Rambler rose to his
feet. His pocket search-light cut a brilliant streak over the ground,
and by its aid he was able to find his way across the uneven surface.
From a little distance the firelight dancing and sparkling, its cheery
rays flashing upon the surrounding trees and bushes, made a decidedly
cheerful spot of color in a field of blackness.
He found walking rather difficult. Bushes rose up before his path;
here and there a treacherous declivity had to be avoided. But still he
pushed on, hoping to catch sight somewhere in the scene before him of
another glowing spot of color which might tell him of the presence in
that vast expanse of the man he had pursued.
There was none, however. Bob, following his own advice, thrust aside
the feeling of disappointment and began to retrace his steps.
“I might as well turn in,” he reflected, “and get up with the day. I’ll
make a mighty good try to pick up that fellow’s trail again.”
Accordingly he rolled himself in his blanket and lay down. Out in the
open air, with the scent of the earth and growing things about him, and
a pleasant breeze sweeping over the hilltop, slumber did not need to
be wooed. The Rambler was soon fast asleep. And it was not until early
morning that his eyes were once more open.
“Hello!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “Daylight already! And
there’s plenty of work to be done.”
Only a few charred sticks remained of his fire, but Bob soon had
it going again. A breakfast was hastily cooked and eaten; then,
considerably refreshed, he saddled his horse.
Cheerless and grim appeared the flattish clouds of mist which hung
between him and the distance. Vegetation dripped with moisture and
reflected the cold gray of the sky above.
Bob’s first work was to make a careful search of the surroundings, to
see if he could discover any indications of the rider having passed
that way. In this he was not successful. So he at last vaulted on his
horse’s back and started off.
A rosy glow was now appearing in the eastern sky; and presently streaks
of light began stealing over the ridge of hills, picking out here and
there a resting place. As the sun crept above the horizon and showed
its gorgeous rim over the even gray of a distant elevation Bob Somers
rode down into the still-shadowed valley, examining every foot of the
way with the keenest scrutiny.
“I’ll use up all morning in the search,” he decided. “I certainly hope
the fellows won’t be worried. Don’t believe any of ’em, though, would
want me to turn back now.”
Traveling up the slope of another hill he reached the summit just as
the full glow of sunlight shot over the landscape. Somber shadows were
immediately transformed into tints of delicate blue, barren surfaces of
rock on hillsides caught and held the gleams of gold, while the woods
became patches of mellow green.
There was a delightful sense of freshness in the fragrant air. Bob
Somers felt buoyed up. He reflected that any one who could experience
gloomy feelings on such a morning must be hopelessly out of tune with
nature.
Descending again, he reached a creek which rippled musically over
a boulder-strewn bed between two high ridges. On the opposite side
traveling was impossible, owing to precipitous slopes.
“By Jove, I’m getting into a regular wilderness!” exclaimed Bob.
A few minutes later, on turning a bend, he saw before him a point where
the stream was almost choked with the débris brought down by floods.
Around decaying boughs and branches the water swirled and bubbled,
as if seeking to tear them from their fastenings. A murmur, never
slackening for an instant, filled the narrow gorge with a pleasing
sound.
Bob Somers rode along a narrow space with the stream some four or five
feet below, while above towered a wall of dull slate-colored rock.
He saw with satisfaction, however, that a short distance beyond a
gentle descent led down to the water’s edge. There numerous pools had
formed, and a marshy stretch partly overgrown with weeds and tall grass
followed the receding base of the hill.
As he reached it the Rambler uttered an exclamation of surprise. Deeply
imprinted on this tract were impressions of horses’ hoofs.
“Great Scott!” cried Bob, leaping to the ground.
All thoughts of returning for the present vanished from his mind.
Here was exactly what he had been looking for so anxiously. A careful
examination, too, convinced him that the tracks were fresh.
“Well, this is certainly a great piece of luck,” he exclaimed,
joyously. “I haven’t the least doubt in the world that it was Mr. Hank
Styles’ friend who passed this way.”
Highly encouraged, Bob Somers resumed the trail, and presently made
another interesting discovery. Beside the fresh tracks were many others
clearly much older. A pathway, too, had been beaten through the tall
grass.
Satisfied that for the present at least there was no danger of his
going off the track, Bob traveled on, putting mile after mile behind
him. Occasionally he urged his horse through dark, somber ravines which
suggested the abode of wild animals, for nature here had contrived to
put on its grimmest aspect.
At last progress by the side of the stream was no longer possible. The
hills rose steeply from the water’s edge.
“Blocked from the creek, that’s certain,” mused Bob.
After taking the precaution to fill his canteen and give the horse a
drink, he surveyed the landscape carefully in all directions. From the
character of the ground he felt sure that the man had been obliged to
follow the stream on the same side, and, on further consideration,
concluded it to be quite possible that he had mounted the hill, either
there or at a point close by.
“So I’ll climb it myself,” he said, giving the reins a jerk.
Although the Rambler tried to keep close to the creek so many obstacles
were encountered that the distance between them seemed steadily to
increase.
“Well, now I’m certainly as badly off as ever,” soliloquized Bob
Somers, ruefully. “If I hadn’t come across those hoof-prints I’d
probably be a long way on the back track by this time. And--by
George--I really do believe I’m getting mixed.”
He raised himself in his stirrups. Everywhere ridge after ridge rolled
off to meet the sky, all looking monotonously alike.
“For the life of me I don’t know in which direction Hank Styles’
ranch-house lies,” he grinned. “It’s a good thing my saddle bags are
full of grub.”
A spirit of recklessness seized him.
“Of course,” he argued, “the fellows must know I’m safe; and as I’ve
stayed away so long a few hours more or less can’t matter. Get up, old
boy! I’ll give Larry Burnham a chance to say that this was the wildest
wild goose chase he ever heard of.”
About an hour later he drew rein at the bottom of a deep ravine. There
could be no question now that his task had utterly failed. The horseman
who had passed through the swampy section might have pursued a course
miles and miles away from his present situation. The Rambler was
reconciled. At least, he had made a faithful effort. His mistake had
been in allowing himself to be led on and on when common sense should
have told him the futility and absurdity of such a course.
“Oh, yes, I know it’s very dreadful,” grinned Bob. “Still, I guess
Tom’ll stick up for me against the stings and jibes of outrageous
tongues.” He laughed merrily. “Now for a bite of lunch.”
Realizing the importance of every minute, if he expected to reach the
ranch-house before nightfall, the lad satisfied himself with crackers
and dried beef. Then, consulting his compass, he set off in search of
the creek.
“And once there it won’t take me long to get my bearings,” he thought,
confidently.
Up and down hill he rode; but the stream persistently remained out of
sight.
To Bob Somers’ mind there was humor in the situation--but the humor was
of rather a grim sort. Weeks might be spent in that wild region without
encountering a single human soul.
“It’s a good thing I’m not a tenderfoot,” he grinned. He stroked his
pony’s neck. “I guess, though, we’ll be able to find our way out of
here before very long, old boy.”
Bob Somers’ hopeful prediction did not seem likely of fulfilment. He
could find nothing that looked familiar.
“Lost at last!” he muttered, with a smile.
His horse was plainly showing evidences of distress. The long, hard
climbs over steep and slippery surfaces, together with the heat of the
day, were exhausting the animal. So Bob presently dismounted.
“Poor old chap,” he murmured, commiseratively. “You certainly need a
rest.”
The lad looked over the oval-shaped valley and the line of encircling
hills, then, drawing a long breath, exclaimed:
“I guess my troubles are only beginning.”