A TOBOGGAN TO DISASTER.
Pluckily forward plunged the pony, as if anxious to redeem his untimely
stumble.
"It'll take them some time to get to their ponies and unhobble them,"
thought Rob. "If I've luck, I may get away yet."
Keeping steadily to the direction the girl had pointed out, the boy
pressed on at as fast a clip as he dared. The farther he rode ahead of
the pursuing tribe, the better chance he stood of getting beyond their
earshot.
It was risky riding, though, through an unknown country on such a dark
night. What sort of going it was under foot, Rob could only tell by the
uncertain gait of the beast he bestrode. Bushes occasionally brushed in
his face, scratching it, and once in a while an extra strong bunch of
chaparral would press against his legs, almost brushing him from his
pony's back.
Suddenly the way took a steep downward pitch.
"I hope this isn't another precipice," thought the boy, as the pony
half-slid, half-clambered down in the darkness. Presently his hoofs
splashed in water, and Rob knew they were crossing a creek. He drew back
on his single rein and listened intently. Fortunately the wind, what
there was of it, set toward him.
Borne on it he could hear distant shouts and cries. To his intense
satisfaction, it seemed to him that they were farther off than when he
had first heard them.
"Gained on them!" muttered Rob triumphantly. "Now, if daylight would
only come along----"
But it was long to wait till daylight, and in the meantime Rob did not
dare remain where he was. The Indians probably knew the mountains like a
book, and would work them on a system. In such an event his only
salvation lay in keeping moving. All at once he stopped, with a sudden
heart leap, as his pony scrambled up the farther bank of the creek.
A shrill cry sounded close behind him.
Could it be possible that the advance guard of the Indians had
approached him so nearly?
The next instant Rob gave a laugh of relief. The shrill cry came again.
"Whoo-to-too, who-o-o!"
"Only an owl," exclaimed the boy. "Hullo, though, that's funny! There's
another answering it--and by George! there's another!"
From the woods to the right and left had come similar hoots to the
owl-like sound he had noted behind him. At the same instant, the
unmistakable sound of a dislodged stone bounding and rattling down the
steep incline he had just descended was borne to his ears.
"That's no owl," gasped Rob, "it's Indians!"
As he realized how badly he had been fooled, his pony topped the rise.
To any one below in the hollow, the outline of the pony and the boy
showed blackly against the stars. Suddenly a sound like an angry bee in
full flight hummed close to Rob's ear, and the next moment there came a
sharp report behind him.
Instantaneously the hoots to the right and left flanks redoubled, and
began closing in. All at once one of the birdlike cries sounded right in
front of the escaping white boy.
He was hemmed in by Indians!
The craft of the red men had proven too much for Rob. Even the darkness
had not prevented their unerringly tracking him. By their skillful
woodcraft and keenness of perception they had succeeded in discovering
him and surrounding him.
For an instant Rob's heart stood still. Then, as a second shot whizzed
by his ear, aimed by the unseen marksman below, he urged his pony on
over the rise.
The advance, however, over the rocky ground sounded as loud as the
approach of a squadron of cavalry. Wild cries and yells rang out on
every side of the boy. What was he to do?
One of those inspirations born in moments of keen stress came to him in
his extremity. If all went well, he would fool the Indians yet, hard as
they were to deceive.
Slipping noiselessly from his pony as he rode under a dark clump of
pinon trees, the boy turned it loose. The little animal, to his
surprise, immediately turned backward, heading round toward the camp.
But this turn of events, at first alarming, ultimately proved to be the
very best thing that could have happened for Rob, who had at first hoped
that the pony would trot forward.
The Indians, hearing its rapid footsteps galloping back, reasoned that
Rob, realizing that he was headed off, had turned his mount in a
desperate effort to escape that way. Yelling like demons, and
discharging their rifles in an almost continuous fusillade, the Indians
wheeled and rode after the retreating pony. Naturally, the more they
shouted and fired, the faster the little animal ran, and every step took
them farther from Rob, who was crouching under his pinon trees.
Not till they got back to their camp did the redskins discover that the
white boy had served craft with strategy, and outwitted them. It was
then too late to follow up the pursuit that night. The redskins knew
that any one cunning enough to have devised such a trick would not have
stood still while they were chasing a will-o'-the-wisp in the opposite
direction to their desired quarry.
And they were right in this assumption. Rob, as soon as the beat of
their ponies' hoofs had grown faint, had chuckled to himself at their
mistake, and silently as possible resumed his journey. If it had been a
hard ride, it was a doubly hard tramp he had before him.
Susyjan had told him that a trail lay not so very far ahead. In the
darkness it was possible that he might have lost it. If he had, without
food or water, he would soon be in a serious position. But Rob,
nevertheless, determined that his best course lay in pushing on, and
through the darkness he steadily and pluckily advanced.
Presently he began to ascend what he knew must be a hill or
mountainside. This complicated the problem. To go on along level ground
was one thing, but to attempt to continue his way over an acclivity as
steep as the one that faced him seemed foolhardy. Every step he took
might be leading him farther and farther astray.
"Oh, for a nice soft bed!" muttered Rob. "But not having one, a good
flat stone would do."
Soon afterward, following a lot of feeling about, he managed to find a
flat-surfaced rock which seemed to promise well for a rough and ready
couch. To the boy's delight, it retained some of the warmth of the sun
which had beaten on it all day, and had he possessed a blanket to throw
over it, might not have proved unacceptable as a sleeping place.
Casting himself down on it, Rob soon dozed off, nor did he awaken till
the blackness turned to the gray that preceded the dawn. Viewed by
daylight, Rob found his surroundings such that he was glad that he had
not proceeded any farther during the night. He lay on a hillside behind
a screen of chaparral. But what caused him to feel some apprehension,
when he thought of what might have happened had he continued his
journey, was the fact that below his rock quite a steep slope dropped
down to the valley below. It was a drop of some thirty feet, and while
in the daylight any active man or boy could have clambered down it
without injury, in the dark night it might have meant broken bones.
But Rob had little time to think of such possibilities. Something else
suddenly occupied all his attention, and that something was an odor of
frying bacon!
Mingled with it came the unmistakable aroma of tobacco. Somebody was
camped near him, that was a certainty. His first impulse was to shout,
but he checked it. It speaks volumes for the Western training that the
boy was rapidly acquiring when it is said that before he showed himself
from behind his chaparral, he gazed cautiously through that leafy
screen.
Below him he saw three figures seated about a fire, over which was
frying the bacon that had aroused his hunger almost to the exclamation
point. The three campers, whose ponies were tethered a short distance
from them, had their backs turned to Rob, but presently one of them
turned to reach something from a saddle bag. Rob came very near to
uttering a startled exclamation and betraying his hiding place as he saw
the man's features.
It was Hank Handcraft.
The former beachcomber wore Western clothes and had trimmed his once
luxuriant and scraggly beard, but he was none the less unmistakably
Handcraft. Nor, as almost simultaneously Hank's companions turned, was
Rob's astonishment at all lessened, for one of them was Bill Bender and
the other was the ranch boy to whom he had given a lesson in jiu
jitsu--Clark Jennings.
"Hurry up and stow your grub, Hank," Clark was saying. "We've got to
light out of this neighborhood for a while and stick around the ranch."
"You think that old Harkness is suspicious, then?" inquired Hank.
"No, our disguises were too good. I'll bet they're cussin' the Moquis
now."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Bill Bender. "That was a great idea, dressing up
like Indians. I guess we got even on old Harkness for driving those
sheep off his pastures."
"You bet! and we'll do worse to him before we get through," grunted
Clark. "It's pie for me. More especially as I can get even, at the same
time, with that young sniffler, Harry Harkness, and his friends from the
East--your old pals, Bill."
"No pals of mine. You can bet your life on that," grunted Bill. "The
best thing I'd heard for a long time was when you told me about Jack
Curtiss shoving that kid Rob into the river. I'd like to have seen it.
If it hadn't been for those Boy Scouts, as they call themselves, Hank
and Jack and I would have been East now, instead of in this God-forsaken
country."
"What are you kicking at?" laughed Clark. "You've done pretty well since
you've been here, and if we can get that bunch of mavericks of
Harkness's, we'll all have a pocketful of money."
"When are you going after them?" asked Hank, placing a big bit of bacon
on a hunk of bread and gnawing on it in a satisfied way that set Rob
half crazy to watch.
"Soon as they are turned out on the Far Pasture. When they get over the
scare of the stampede, they'll leave the place unwatched, and we'll have
our chance. We ought to get five hundred apiece out of it, anyhow."
"That would look good to me," grunted Hank.
"Oh, the scoundrels!" breathed Rob to himself. "They're plotting to
steal some of Mr. Harkness's mavericks. I remember now hearing him speak
of turning them out in the Far Pasture."
"Then we can clear out and get back East," concluded Bill, "and take
poor old Jack with us. He isn't making out very well."
"Sort of hanger-on in that gambling place, isn't he?" asked Clark.
"I guess that's what you'd call it."
Soon after the group saddled up their ponies and prepared to leave their
temporary camp. That they were on the trail, after having concluded
their dastardly attempt to stampede Mr. Harkness's cattle, Rob had no
doubt, judging by their conversation.
"Better put that fire out!" warned Clark. "Scatter the ashes. We don't
want any one trailing us."
The three worthies bent together over the ashes, while their saddled
ponies stood eying them at some short distance.
"Guess I'd better pull back out of this before they take it into their
heads to look around," thought Rob, who in his eagerness to hear what
was going forward below had thrust his head out through the bush which
screened him.
With the object of drawing back again, he braced himself on one hand and
pushed backward. How it happened he never knew, for he had been very
careful, but suddenly the small rock on which the pressure of his hand
rested gave way with a crash.
Clawing wildly at the bush, Rob sought to save himself from being flung
headlong down the hill into the camp below him, but it was too late.
Down the hill he shot at lightning speed, in the midst of a roaring,
rattling landslide of rocks and earth.
The men in the camp started and turned as the sudden uproar of Rob's
involuntary toboggan slide reached their ears.
"What the----" shouted Hank Handcraft.
"Who is----" began Clark, when Rob's feet caught him in the stomach and
cannoned him against Hank Handcraft. Clutching wildly to prevent his own
fall, Hank caught Bill Bender's sleeve, and the next instant all three
of the campers were rolling in a confused mass in the ashes of their
fire.
"It's a bear!" yelled Hank.
"Bear nothing!" bellowed Clark Jennings, as Rob scrambled to his feet
and darted off like a shot. "It's a boy!"
"After him!" shouted Bill Bender, snatching up a rifle and aiming it.
"That kid's Rob Blake."