THE RESCUE PARTY
Low, scudding clouds were sailing fast across the sky; but the current
of air, blowing in an uninterrupted course for miles upon miles across
the open prairie, was comparatively steady. This gave the boys who
remained behind some encouragement.
Dave Brandon and Tim Lovell went back upon the roof of the ranch-house,
where they studied the movements of the balloon and aeroplane until the
telescope no longer possessed the power to separate either from the
gray background of sky and mountains.
The crowd had no intention of remaining inactive. Only a dash across
the prairie in search of their friends could relieve their impatience
and pent-up anxiety. The boys below, having saddled the bronchos,
finally yelled for the stout historian and Tim to come down.
But before the summons was obeyed the sound of the telephone bell sent
Dick Travers in leaps and bounds toward the house.
“Hello!” he was presently calling.
“Is that Lone Pine Ranch?”
“Yes!”
“It’s only me, pard.” Dick recognized Jed Warren’s voice. “Who’s that
a-talkin’?”
“Travers! Where are you, Jed?”
“Out on the range--two mile away, at Mr. Follett’s sub-station. ’Tain’t
much more’n a pile o’ boards throw’d together an’ a-standin’ on posts;
but it’s got a door an’ a winder, an’ a roof ter keep out ther rain.”
“I know!” exclaimed Dick, impatiently. “But what do you want, Jed?”
“I seen them thar air-skimmers a-kitin’ off ter beat all creation; an’
I know everythin’ weren’t all right. How ’bout it, Dick?”
The lad explained.
“I thought so! An’ a-goin’ ter chase ’em, eh? Wal, I don’t blame ye for
feelin’ kind o’ worked up. But ye’d best not wenture in them mountains
alone. Say, pard, I’ll meet ye at Roarin’ Horse Junction. ’Member the
place?”
“Sure thing, Jed. When the crowd was here before, we passed it.”
“Good! I’ve got a letter from that thar little maverick over to Border
City.”
“Willie Sloan?”
“The identical chap, pard. An’ I only hope he don’t come to no harm in
that skimmer. Now, don’t forgit, Travers; wait for me at Roarin’ Horse.”
Dick promised, and dashed away to tell his friends.
“That’s great!” cried Tom. “Let’s get right off.” He vaulted into the
saddle, while Dick raised his voice in another command to Dave and Tim.
The two boys came hurrying forward, and they all started immediately.
It was a long ride to Roaring Horse Junction, so the boys allowed their
bronchos to set their own pace.
At the rendezvous, they found not only Jed, but Pete Sanderson, as
well. The young cow-puncher had encountered the veteran on the range,
and Straight-backed Pete needed no urging to accompany him.
Guided by the cowboys, who were thoroughly familiar with the trails,
the party crossed the foot-hills, and at length reached the bolder
elevations.
Here they traveled from one point of vantage to another, spending
several hours in this way; but no trace of either aeroplane or balloon
could be discovered.
In the midst of a forest on the sloping side of a mountain their
bronchos were picketed, for night was coming on. A strong wind moaned
and whistled through the trees, and toyed with the pine cones, and sent
little eddies of dry leaves scurrying over the ground.
“The balloon seemed to come about in this direction,” declared Dave,
who had taken his seat on a partly decayed log.
“I only hope them thar fellers an’ the ones in the arioplane ain’t
been busted inter a thousand bits,” said Pete. “But didn’t I tell ye
it weren’t never intended for men ter fly?” The big cow-puncher glared
sternly from one to the other; and, as only gloomy silence followed his
words, began again: “’Tain’t nateral; an’ only a bloomin’ maverick ’ud
think as how it were.”
[Illustration: “WHAT IN THE WORLD HAS BECOME OF THEM?”]
“I do wonder what in the world has become of them,” wailed Tom.
“Ye sartinly couldn’t expect ter round them thar chaps up to onct,”
said Jed. “They might be a-sittin’ snug an’ comfortable on t’ other
side o’ a ridge, for all we know--eh, Pete?”
The big cow-puncher, not disposed to take so cheerful a view of the
situation, evaded this question.
“We’d best git a fire goin’, boys,” he said, “an’ cook some grub.”
Pete looked up at the sky showing between the dark, waving branches of
the pines and saw a procession of low clouds scudding across.
“I suppose you’ve got a weather eye as good as Skillet’s, eh, Pete?”
said Cranny.
“I ’low there’s sure goin’ ter be a change soon, younker,” answered the
cowboy, indirectly. “I kin see signs o’ its breakin’ a’ready.”
“If the moon would only be obliging enough to come out, we could keep
right on searching,” remarked Tim Lovell.
“Maybe it will, arter while. Git to hustlin’, lads. A bite o’ grub
won’t do nobody a bit o’ harm.”
Even Dave Brandon skirmished around, and soon the sound of hatchets
hacking and chopping away echoed through the darkening forest. A
pleasant scent of pine and other vegetation was borne on the wind,
which rushed along with scarcely a lull in its monotonous chanting. A
great part of Dave’s much prized and comfortable seat was reduced to
kindling wood while the stout boy was away gathering brush.
Behind the shelter of a moss-covered boulder, Pete Sanderson started a
fire, while several of the others opened saddle-bags, and from their
capacious depths took bacon, crackers and cheese, and great quantities
of corn-pones.
Jed Warren assumed the duties of chef, with none wishing to dispute his
authority.
It was pleasant to loll about and sniff an appetizing odor of things
cooking, and to see the big coffee-pot fiercely fuming and sputtering
on a bed of hot coals. But the lads did not feel in any humor to enjoy
it.
The fire threw out a ruddy glow, one minute picking from obscurity the
stamping bronchos, and the next dropping them back into gloom.
“Well, I didn’t have a chance to read the letter from Willie that Jed
brought,” remarked Cranny, suddenly. “Guess I’ll do it now.”
“I only hope he’s safe somewhere,” murmured Tom. “That little chap has
some mighty good points in him.”
“I reckon as how he’s found out by this time that it ain’t nateral ter
fly,” said Pete, straightening his tall, gaunt form. “How many times
hev I told ye it weren’t never intended?”
“Something less’n a thousand, I guess,” mumbled Cranny, holding
Willie’s missive up to the light.
“Read it,” said Tim Lovell, eagerly.
“DEAR CRAN:--” began the big lad:
“I have been thinking an awful lot about you and the old farmhouse.
With all your broncho riding, and sky-planing, and mixing in the
society of longhorns, it does seem to me, sometimes, that old Doctor
Clifton will get a chance at you yet.
“Walters said that you and a couple of chaps came over to the
hangar one day, and that you looked and talked just the nerviest
ever--honest fact, Cran.
“I explained that nerve cultivation is your specialty; and Walters
said: ‘His success is something wonderful.’ It’s true, Cran.
“I’m having lots of fun here. Major Carroll isn’t like the Ogdens;
he’s one of the finest men in the world, and has the greatest
collection of tools you ever saw.”
“Lots of fun!” broke in Dick, with a puzzled look. “Perhaps, by this
time, the Major thinks we have escaped from somewhere.”
“Willie Sloan is evidently beginning to find himself,” remarked Dave,
quietly.
“And I wish to thunder we could find Willie Sloan,” said Cranny. He
began to read again.
“He doesn’t put up an awful holler just because I touch a bit of
scrap iron, and, once in a while, bust something. Say, Cran, did you
know that they put gas in balloons?--It’s a fact.
“Major Carroll is going to take me up soon. Those old Ogden
air-skimmers are not in it with a ship like Major Carroll’s. I guess
one doesn’t feel as if he was sitting in a sieve, with the bottom
likely to drop out any minute.
“I told you I was going to write to my guardian, Cran; and it’s
done--fact. Say, that letter is enough to blister the air, or burn
the postman’s hands. It ought to make a sensation.”
The firelight flickering over Cranny’s face showed a sadly disturbed
expression.
“Odd kid!” he commented, “eh, fellows?”
“Awfully odd,” agreed Tom.
“An original,” drawled Dave.
“Major Carroll says he’ll be glad to meet our doctor, Thomas Cliffy;
but I told him his joy wouldn’t last very long. Here’s a bill for his
M. D.-ship:
“For the loss of one red-covered book
(I allow two cents off) .23
To one ride on longhorn--
damage to nerves 1.00
“ “ muscles .50
“ “ bones .10
----
1.83
Deduction on account of the crowd
diving in among the longhorns .55
----
Balance 1.28
“Remit by cowboy post.
“My regards to the bunch,
“WILLIAM BRINTON SLOAN, P. G. S.”
“Crickets, that’s a funny letter, all right,” declared Tim Lovell, as
Cranny finished reading.
“I should say more than funny,” added Tom. “Wonder what P. G. S. stands
for?”
“G--goose; S!--what does S mean?” came from Sam Randall.
“What does P mean?” said Dick.
“Maybe it ought to be P. S. G.--Pretty Slow Goose,” suggested Tom,
suddenly recalling the shafts of sarcasm with which Willie had
bombarded him on numerous occasions. Then, relenting, he added, “But,
after all, he’s a rather nice little kid.”
“Sure!” admitted Cranny.
A little later, they sat down to supper, and, in spite of their
troubled state of mind, managed to dispose of every scrap.
“Oh, but don’t I wish the weather was better,” said Dick, when the meal
was over.
“I reckon we’ll be able to scout around a bit, after all,” Pete assured
them. “The moon is beginning to light up the clouds.”
The cow-puncher’s observation was true; a faint silvery sheen soon
became sufficiently strong for the waving tree tops to be outlined
against it. Above the steady roar of the wind were heard weird snapping
sounds, as branches occasionally fell, or grated against their
neighbors; and the soft patter of leaves was broken by rustling noises
strangely suggestive of footsteps coming and going amidst the brush.
But the boys had long since become accustomed to the mysteries of the
night, and paid no heed. Perhaps eyes belonging to wild inhabitants of
the forest may have been, at times, intently fixed upon them, as they
sat about. The flames rose higher, sending a flickering glare far into
the depths.
“Clearing, at last!” cried Dick, whose patience had been sorely tried
by the long wait.
“There’s a big hole in the clouds, sure as I live,” said Sam,
exultingly.
“Then the scouting can begin mighty soon,” added Tom.
Half an hour later, Pete Sanderson gave the order to start, and, after
beating out every vestige of the fire, the boys sprang into the saddle.
A shadowy group of horsemen, led by the cow-punchers, picked their way
slowly between the trees. It was still very obscure, but occasionally a
silvery beam penetrated the darkness and streaked over the ground.
For several hours, the determined riders kept up a steady march. At
times, they were turned aside by impenetrable thickets, at others,
obliged to pass through dark and forbidding ravines, with beetling
cliffs hanging overhead. Their progress, too, was challenged by huge
boulders and rocks, and, here and there, a fallen tree.
Finally, at a lofty elevation, they reached the far side of the
mountain. There were plenty of gaps, now, in the flying clouds, through
which the moonlight streamed with weird effect. A scene of wild and
impressive grandeur was before them.
“Old Eagles’ Peak, boys!” exclaimed Pete, waving his hand toward a
snow-capped summit which rose high above the timbered slopes.
“Magnificent!” murmured Dave.
“Perfectly corkin’!” exclaimed Cranny.
“I reckon as how we might give a couple o’ good old cowboy yells,
fellers,” said Jed. “Sounds carry an awful long way in the mountains.”
The crowd halloed again and again, but there was not even an echo to
answer their calls. They looked eagerly about in every direction.
But in all that vast landscape of valley and mountain, timbered slopes
and areas of barren rock, there was nothing to reward their search.
“Now what’s to be done?” asked Tom, in anxious tones.
“Keep a-goin’, youngster,” answered Pete, gruffly. “I ain’t s’prised.
Many a time I told ye it weren’t nateral ter fly; an’ now I s’picion
ye’re beginnin’ to think so yerselves.”