A CRY FOR HELP
Too considerate of his pony to push the animal hard, Bob now made but
slow progress. His canteens were empty and his throat already becoming
parched. The horse, too, needed water. This, then, began to be a more
important consideration than a steady march toward the ranch-house.
From the top of a high hill he finally saw through his field-glass a
line of scrubby willows crossing a valley. Their presence suggested a
watercourse.
“By Jingo, I believe it’s the creek!” he cried, hopefully. “Hooray!”
After a long, arduous descent he reached the trees, finding that a
narrow creek coursed its way between their overhanging branches toward
a wide gash in the hills beyond.
“Ah, this is a fine sight!” exclaimed the Rambler, enthusiastically.
Rarely had clear, sparkling water held such a delightful appeal. The
very air seemed filled with its fresh, pleasant odor. The pony neighed
and tugged hard to pull away from his restraining hands.
“No, no, old chap,” whispered Bob. “You must rest a bit and cool off
first.”
How delightful it was to wash his face and hands in the stream and
drink the cool, refreshing liquid! And then, having satisfied nature’s
cravings, he began to figure out his position.
“Yes, sir, I believe this is the very creek,” he decided, at length,
“but miles beyond the place where the gorge pushed me aside.” He
glanced at the sun. His brow clouded over. “I’ll never make it
to-night,” he exclaimed, with finality. “So what’s the use of
exhausting this pony any more? No, sir--I won’t do it.”
Some distance further along, near the base of the hill, he discovered
an inviting little depression, and in the middle of this built a
fire. Then, while the coffee-pot simmered on a bed of red-hot coals
and frying bacon sent off a pleasant aroma, he reflected on the many
mysterious things which had happened, and on the ill-luck which had
attended all their efforts to solve them.
“It begins to look as though Larry Burnham was right,” he murmured.
“Still, somehow, I don’t regret having taken this chance.”
He strolled up and down for a while; then followed the creek quite a
distance as it wound its way among the hills.
“I have a pretty good idea how Robinson Crusoe must have felt in his
solitude,” he grinned, as he turned and began to walk back toward the
fire.
Finding inactivity trying to his patience, Bob Somers kept busy while
the end of the day approached. Even then time seemed to pass with
extraordinary slowness. He heartily welcomed dusk; and as the shadows
of night stole over the hills and crept into the valleys, gradually
wrapping the landscape in impenetrable gloom, he decided to seek repose.
“And I’ll hit the trail back on the very first signs of day,” he
concluded.
Being a good sleeper, and nothing occurring to disturb him, morning
found Bob Somers fresh, and eager to conquer the difficulties of
travel which he knew lay between him and the ranch-house.
His breakfast was cooked and eaten in short order. When the pony, in
response to the crack of his quirt, leaped ahead, Bob felt like giving
a shout of exultation.
“Mighty certain, after this, the crowd will stick together,” he said,
aloud. “By Jingo, I suppose the fellows must be pretty badly worried.”
He found the passage between the hills comparatively easy, so made
rather rapid progress.
Always an alert and careful observer, he noticed, when the hills began
to fall away, a beaten trail.
“By George!” he exclaimed, in some excitement. “I do wonder if this can
have any connection with the other? It seems very likely,” he argued.
“If I hadn’t lost the trail among the hills it would probably have led
me to this very place.”
His eyes followed the track, which, approaching from the distance, left
the creek rather abruptly and cut across the wide undulating valley.
He was in the grip of all his old feelings like a flash. An intense
curiosity to know where the trail led, if nothing more, stole over him.
The thought of possible discoveries kindled his imagination. A strong
allurement tempted him once more to brave Dame Fortune.
“Why not?” he asked himself.
Indecision lasted but an instant. The day was young; the broad expanse
seemed to beckon him on. He drew a long breath.
“Yes, I’ll do it!” he exclaimed, determinedly. “Get up, old chap!”
The horse broke into a gallop. No great amount of care was necessary
to keep the trail in view, though in places it was either faint or
entirely obliterated.
“I only hope things don’t turn out as they did before,” he exclaimed.
The opposite hills rose higher, ever cutting more sharply against the
sky. His pony, in a spirited mood, needed no urging. He swung over a
gently-swelling rise, then galloped swiftly down on the other side.
The trail was still before him. But instead of climbing the hill, as he
had expected, it skirted along the base.
Bob Somers was about to ride on when he observed a lesser track leading
around the slope in the opposite direction. He instantly halted.
“Shouldn’t wonder a bit if it goes to some cabin or house,” he said to
himself. “Perhaps it would pay to investigate.”
He wheeled sharply about, then rode slowly along, examining every foot
of the way with the keenest attention. In several places the earth was
considerably cut up by horses’ hoofs, some of the imprints having a
fresh appearance.
“Good--good!” cried Bob.
The trail presently led over a slope, through a patch of woods, and
kept luring him on until he soon found himself deep among the hills
again. On a rocky stretch all traces vanished, but a careful search
revealed it further along.
At last, turning into a dark and narrow gorge, the Rambler suddenly
reined up with an exclamation.
Between leafy openings in the trees his keen eyes had caught sight of
a log cabin. Yes, there was a cabin--somebody’s home. Triumphantly he
gazed upon it.
“I’ve found something, anyway,” he whispered softly. “But what a
curious idea to build in such an out-of-the-way place! I wonder if----”
He paused. Suppose the occupants of the cabin should prove to be some
of the rough and dangerous characters Teddy Banes had spoken about?
“Guess I’d better go a bit slow on this,” he reflected, picketing his
horse behind a clump of bushes.
Presently he stole ahead almost as silently as an Indian.
A few moments later he paused behind a thick bush, with the structure
right before him. He studied it earnestly. There were no sounds of
life, although the cabin did not bear the appearance of a place
deserted. True enough, the door was closed, one window boarded up, the
sash of another down; but there seemed to be plenty of evidences of the
recent presence of human beings.
“I suppose they’ve just gone away for a while,” mused Bob.
He waited for several minutes; then, straightening up, walked boldly
across the gulch.
“I know it’s scarcely worth while to knock,” he thought, “but here
goes--just for fun.”
The butt of his quirt came against the heavy door with force enough to
send a series of sharp echoes throughout the narrow confines.
The Rambler laughed softly.
“That certainly made an awful racket,” he began.
Then, as though an electric shock had passed through him, the
expression on his face changed to one of amazement.
The sound of a voice had come from within--and of a voice raised, as
though in a cry for help.