THE UNDERGROUND PASSAGE
“Didn’t I tell ye it weren’t nateral ter fly? Didn’t I say ’tweren’t
never intended?”
Straight-backed Pete Sanderson, standing with his hand on the bridle of
his broncho, glared severely at the group of boys. Little Willie Sloan
sat on the turf, while Cranny had taken a place close beside him.
“’Tweren’t never intended,” repeated Sanderson, in decided tones; “an’
I reckon ye’ll believe me now. It’s a positive wonder none o’ you
younkers didn’t git killed in that stampede. Sure ye ain’t hurt none?”
“I was pretty near jolted into a jelly,” grumbled Willie, who, after
a half hour’s rest, was beginning to recover his composure. “An’
say--perhaps I didn’t have a hard time holding on to that old codger’s
tusks!”
“You did wonders,” said Cranny, heartily. “Bet you were scared stiff,
eh?”
“Who wouldn’t have been? Whew! It was simply awful. Seemed as if there
was about a million of the brutes behind me. Guess Somers has gone back
to the farmhouse in his old bird-plane. I thought the thing was going
to get smashed to bits.”
“Bob hovered overhead until he saw we were all safe,” said Dick.
“Wasn’t it bully, the way he helped mill the longhorns? What made him
come down in such an all-fired rush, Willie?”
“Somers couldn’t fly a kite,” growled Mr. Beaumont’s ward,
non-committally. “It was all Mr. Clifton’s fault. Goodness
gracious--it’s gone!”
“Gone?--What’s gone?” demanded Cranny.
“Oh, if that isn’t the awfulest--meanest luck!” Willie clapped his hand
frantically to each of his pockets in turn, then jumped to his feet and
looked hastily on the ground. “Sure as you look like a simpering idiot,
Cran Beaumont, it’s gone!”
“What is?”
“Why, that little red-covered book.” Willie seemed almost on the point
of blubbering. “I had it in this left-hand pocket. Look around, you
chaps.”
The chaps did as requested, but, naturally, without result. The little
red-covered book was lying, a shapeless mass, fully a half mile away.
“Oh, if I couldn’t paste old Doctor Clifton for this!” roared Willie,
highly exasperated. “It’s all his fault.”
“You’re a nice one, to talk like that, after the way we dived right in
among the longhorns to help you,” cried Tom.
“But I want my book,” wailed Willie. “It was such a dandy. Ginger--if I
don’t get square with you for this, Mr. First-aid-to-the-injured!”
“Oh, you make me worse and worse tired!” scoffed Tom.
“Come on right now--if you aren’t afraid.” Willie, with a flourish
of his fists, began to dance around. “I’ll make you more tired,” he
howled. “I’ll punch you for every page in that book.”
“Quick, fellows--get the arbitration board to working,” laughed Cranny.
“Let’s have the treaty signed.”
And at that instant Willie Sloan aimed a right hand uppercut at Tom’s
chin, which, as the tall lad straightened up, fell short.
“He’s scared to scrap,” howled Willie. “Get out of the way, Brandon, or
I’ll hurt you, too.”
A roar of merriment followed these words.
“Oh, you can laugh,” jeered the small boy, “but I’m not going to put up
with any more funny business from Bean-stalk. That book cost somebody
twenty-five cents.”
“Well, boys, I’ve got to git around the range,” broke in Pete. “Now
don’t forgit what I told ye--leave them thar arioplanes alone; d’ye
hear? ’Tain’t nateral ter fly; an’, what’s more, ’tweren’t never
intended. An’ ye’d best tote yerselves over to the ranch-house afore
the young un cleans up the bunch. It wouldn’t take much, nuther, ter
git these hyar longhorns goin’ ag’in.”
“Only hope you’ll punch some of ’em good an’ plenty for me,” piped
Willie. “Take a squint at Mr. Clifton, Sanderson--see him before and
after.”
The cow-puncher guffawed loudly, sprang into the saddle, and, with a
wave of his hand, galloped away.
Willie positively refused to mount behind any of the boys.
“Never--nix!” he said. “To-night, Doc Clifton, you’ll be jolly well
surprised.”
“Shall I?” sniffed Tom.
“You will!”
While they were still some distance from Lone Pine, Bob Somers rode
out to meet them. He was more than delighted at the fortunate outcome
of the exciting adventure, and, in answer to Dick Travers’ eager
question about the biplane, told the crowd that beyond a slight injury
to one of its propellers the machine had escaped injury. He laughingly
parried the questions which were fired toward him as to the reason for
the strange behavior of the “Ogden II.” So the boys, having a strong
suspicion of the truth, finally desisted.
Once again in the ranch-house, they set to work, and were soon busily
engaged in the disposal of a cold lunch.
Willie, during the course of the meal, sat hunched up in his chair, and
occasionally answered questions in monosyllables, but took no active
part in the conversation. Finally he slipped out of the room.
“Don’t wonder he feels a little grouchy,” remarked Beaumont, when he
presently noticed his absence. “Say, I never supposed the little chap
had so much spunk--showed a lot o’ courage to-day, didn’t he?”
“There’s something in that boy,” said Dave, decidedly.
“Lot’s of impudence, for one thing,” murmured Tommy.
“Come, come, Tom!” laughed Dave; “be generous--broad-minded. Why, he
may surprise us some day.”
“I’ll be surprised if he surprises us,” grinned Tom.
“Well, I shouldn’t. If you have ever studied the lives of famous
men----”
“Goodness gracious, David Brandon, can you imagine for a second that
William Sloan will ever become a great man?” cried Dick, his eyes
twinkling.
“Dave’s cold meal has given him a nightmare while he’s still awake,”
roared Tom.
“I suppose I must admit having been squelched again,” sighed the fat
boy. “Made a mistake in not yielding to that sleepy feeling the instant
I took the last bite. And I am more than uncommonly drowsy, so----”
“We all know what that means,” laughed Bob.
The boys soon went up to their rooms, some to add a few lines to
letters already partly written, others to read.
To their surprise, Willie Sloan was nowhere to be found.
As the afternoon wore on, and he did not appear, Cranny began to look
annoyed, then anxious. He walked to the window and threw it open.
“Hello, Willie!” he shouted.
“Where in the world can the little chap be?” he remarked, after several
of the others had called.
“Search me,” quoth Tim Lovell.
“A search all around might be better,” said Dick, dryly. “Perhaps he’s
taking a Marathon out on the prairie.”
“Not on your life,” scoffed Tom. “He’s too scary for that.”
All but Dave soon left the building in quest of Mr. Beaumont’s ward. At
the stockade they stopped to shout long and earnestly, but, as before,
no answering hail was borne on the gentle breeze.
“Depend upon it, he’s up to some funny business,” hinted Tom.
“I declare, I’m beginnin’ to get worried about him.” Cranny leaned
against the wall, and looked searchingly over the vast expanse of
plain. “What do you think, Bob?”
“That he may be in the house--somewhere down-stairs.”
“But after all this screeching he would have come out.”
“Well, we might as well look.”
It was rather dark in the big room, so Bob lighted one of the swinging
lamps which hung over a center table.
“Of course he isn’t anywhere in here,” said Cranny.
A few minutes’ search proved the truth of this assertion.
“Hello, what’s that?” cried Sam, suddenly. He stooped to pick up a
piece of brown wrapping paper which lay near the open fireplace. “Why,
it has some writing on it.” Sam’s eyebrows were arched in surprise.
“Goodness! bring it over to the light,” cried Tom, eagerly.
Sam obeyed; all, including Dave, who had just entered the room, crowded
closely around him.
They read, written in a large, scrawling hand:
“Extra! Look for the white trail. Search the underground passageway for
the truth.”
“Search the underground passageway!” cried Dick, wonderingly. “What in
the mischief does that mean?”
“Sounds like a mystery, all right,” murmured Cranny.
“And, to clear it, we’d better light a lantern and search,” suggested
Dave.
His advice was acted upon. Crowding at Bob Somers’ heels, the now
highly interested and mystified boys followed him toward a room at the
western end of the house, where a stairway led down to the cellar.
“Hello--look!” cried Tommy. “That must be the trail.”
They could see bits of white paper scattered about, forming an
irregular line that led to the doorway.
“What silly kind of joke is this, I wonder?” growled Tim.
“Follow the trail and find out,” said Sam, in a sepulchral whisper.
The stairs were old and rickety; the walls streaked with cobwebs. Every
footstep echoed in a most uncanny fashion, and sent up eddies of dust,
as the boards sprung beneath their heavy tread, while a smell of damp,
mouldy earth assailed their nostrils.
“Ugh! Isn’t this dismal?” remarked Tim Lovell.
“Twice over the limit--you can imagine what that means,” grunted
Cranny. “Just wait till I see that funny kid.”
At the bottom of the steps, Bob Somers paused. His swinging lantern
sent weird streaks of light through the blackness. Beams traveled
rapidly over rough, scarred walls, or brought into view piles of
rubbish.
A trail of paper led across the hard earthen floor.
“Forward, march! Fall into that awful black spot across the
cellar--it’s the underground passageway,” cried Dick.
“Watch yourselves, fellows,” cautioned Tom. “William may be up to some
mischief. Great Scott! What was that?”
“Only a badly scared rat,” laughed Bob.
“I’ll dent him some if he comes this way,” declared Sam.
Their voices and footfalls echoed weirdly through the dungeon-like
cellar.
“What a nerve he had, to come down here alone,” said Tom, awesomely.
“I told you there was something in that lad,” laughed Dave.
“But most of it ought to be beaten out with a flat piece of board,”
returned Dick.
They came to an abrupt stop at the entrance to the passageway. Bob,
holding his lantern aloft, sent its rays flashing upon musty walls,
thickly festooned in places with cobwebs.
“Whew! It’s kind o’ unearthly in there,” said Cranny, peering over his
shoulder.
“I should say rather too earthly, Cranny,” grinned Bob.
“This is enough to smother a fellow, too,” added Tom, with a sniff of
disgust.
“Follow the trail anyway,” cried Dick Travers, who was rapidly becoming
impatient.
They fell in behind Bob Somers.
“Maybe Willie is going to shut us in, as a joke,” remarked Tom, in
sudden alarm.
“How--you tall goose?” sniffed Sam.
“Hello--there it is!”
“Where--where?” cried Tom.
Bob Somers’ hand fell upon a large piece of cardboard covered with
writing. It rested upon a projecting stone.
“Right here, fellows,” he announced, calmly.