CHAPTER XIIISMUGGLERS
Yes, Larry Burnham had outwitted the Ramblers. Smart as they thought themselves it proved a very easy matter to lead his horse outside the stockade, mount and gallop away.
So long as he kept within sight of Fool’s Castle he kept turning in the saddle; and each time, discovering no pursuers, his grin of satisfaction increased.
“I can just imagine how Tom Clifton’ll stamp around and roar,” he chuckled. “Here’s where little ‘Fear-not’ scores.”
There was nothing to disturb Larry Burnham’s peace of mind. He just had to keep riding straight ahead until the settlement was reached; then a train would speedily carry him back to the States and civilization.
“But for this miserable Jed Warren business I’d probably have stuck it out,” he soliloquized.“But such a long wild goose chase!”
What to do with his horse had at first bothered the boy; but he finally concluded to have the animal shipped to his father’s Wisconsin farm.
“All serene,” he laughed. “Even if the bunch are angry I’ll fix it up with them when they get back to Kingswood.”
Some hours later Larry’s troubles began. They loomed up in the shape of hills. He surveyed with dismay the barrier which nature had set against him. Accustomed to put responsibilities upon others wherever possible, he was at a disadvantage when compelled to depend entirely upon himself.
The long detours, the difficulties which beset him on all sides, were eating up precious time. Often he became confused, lost his bearings, and, in his impatience plunged blindly ahead, many times forced by steep declivities or obstructions to retrace his way.
A troubled look came into his eyes. It was exasperating to be so balked—to have his well-laid plans threatened with failure. The thought of Tom Clifton’s laughter, and thesarcastic remarks he would be certain to make caused Larry’s lips to tighten.
“Get up, get up!” he growled. “We’ll reach that railroad or leave our bones on the plain. Ha, ha, ha—that’s a good one! This situation is makin’ me feel dramatic.”
Before he at last managed to reach the river the rider had passed a most unpleasant period. His face was scratched and bruised; while the jolting and tossing about in the saddle added considerably to the soreness of his bones and muscles.
The lad, however, managed to stand all these things with some degree of patience until he found himself facing a stretch of water far wider than he had ever expected.
“Now what am I to do?” he cried, in utter disgust. “By Jingo, I’m blocked—blocked for fair. Horses are mighty good swimmers, I know; but trustin’ my safety to a nag when there’s no one around to give me a hand if anything happens doesn’t suit me.”
Larry’s impatience soon began to change into genuine alarm. He could discover no place, either up or down the river, where he dared to ford. At last, completely at a lossto know what to do, he sprang to the ground.
The thought of being obliged to pass the night alone filled him with dread. For the first time he began bitterly to regret his course.
“From the map I judged this river to be a small affair like some of the others the crowd crossed,” he grumbled. “But, hang it all, this might as well be the Atlantic Ocean.”
It was a long time before Larry’s unhappy frame of mind permitted him to get up sufficient energy to search for a camping place. About a hundred feet from the river a thick clump of bushes spotted the prairie; and their shelter, he decided, was more inviting than the broad open stretches.
After unsaddling and picketing his horse, he drew a hatchet from his belt and sallied out in search of wood. It seemed as though the irony of fate was plunging him right into the kind of work he so cordially detested.
“I reckon this would make Tom Clifton laugh,” he thought, with a smile which had little mirth in it.
The necessity for swift work if he wished tohave supper before dark put some action into his big frame; so, in a comparatively short time, an armful of wood was carried over to the camp. Larry was doubtful about his ability as chef, never having prepared a meal in his life. Still, he reflected, cooking bacon and potatoes requires but little skill. The quantity of coffee to use, however, puzzled him.
“I guess it isn’t more’n a cupful, anyway,” he remarked, aloud.
A roaring fire was immediately kindled and saddle bags unpacked. Larry, as might have been expected, soon succeeded in burning his fingers, as well as the bacon. The gravy caught fire, and in attempting to put it out he knocked several of the largest slices into the flames, thereby adding for a few seconds a furious sputtering and hissing.
The coffee had a strangely unfamiliar taste; nor were the potatoes any better, being burnt almost black on one side and nearly raw on the other. He was, therefore, obliged to depend almost entirely on the canned goods and crackers.
The ill success which attended his effortsserved to relieve Larry’s mind, for a short time, from his greater troubles. They returned, however, with added force when the tin dishes were cleared away. The light was fast fading; the hills had become dark and somber. Sounds of chirping insects, or an occasional cry from some far-away bird, increased the sense of utter desolation. How heartily glad he would have been to see the Ramblers about the fire. Even Tom Clifton’s oddities and annoying ways appeared to him in a different light at this particular moment.
While the landscape was in the full glare of sunlight no feelings of possible danger had worried him. But now his mind began to be occupied with thoughts of smugglers and cattle rustlers—men whom Teddy Banes denounced as rough and dangerous characters. And the two mysterious alarms in the night certainly proved that the half-breed had good reasons for his warning.
“Oh, I do wish I had stuck to the crowd!” exclaimed Larry, attempting to master a nervous feeling which now and again came upon him. “If I can’t get across this river somewhere it means a jaunt back to Fool’sCastle. And—and—suppose I can’t find the place?—or the fellows have gone?”
He abruptly paused. Such an eventuality quite staggered him. His stock of provisions would last only a few days. He possessed no knowledge of woodcraft, or of the ability to keep oneself alive, in case of emergency, by such edibles as might be found in the woods and fields. True, Larry carried a rifle; but he suspected, not without good reason, that any animal would have to be either very large or very close to stand in danger.
“Hang it all, I’m in a pretty mess!” he said, disgustedly.
It was the inaction—the impossibility of making any move for hours—which drove the usually indolent Larry to pacing up and down at a furious rate. As the dusk gathered around him he kept closer and closer to the fire, then, oppressed by the darkness, took a seat close beside it.
“Oh, how delightful life in the open is!” he thought. “To hear Tom Clifton chirp about it a chap might think it was one of the most glorious things in the world. I’m going to dream about this experience for a month.”
At last, hoping he might be able to forget his troubles in sleep, Larry spread a blanket on the ground and lay down. The long journey had fatigued him; and this, together with the softly-stirring air, brought on a condition which soon resulted in deep, heavy slumber.
Some hours afterward Larry Burnham suddenly awoke. The fire was practically out. A very faint light came from the rising moon. Vaguely uneasy, he raised himself to an upright position.
A sound had aroused him. It came again—a creak, as though made by wagon wheels. Then, following this, the faint thud of horses’ hoofs was clearly perceptible.
With a gasp of surprise, Larry looked eagerly about.
Over the top of the bushes, scarcely more than a darkish blur against the landscape, he detected an object moving slowly along. And in advance, and following, were several horsemen.
“Great Scott!” he muttered, breathlessly.
At first a thrill of joy ran through him. Here was relief—men, undoubtedly, whocould put him on the right track. But the impulse to make his presence known suddenly disappeared.
Who were they?
Wasn’t there something queer about a wagon and a silent body of horsemen passing across the prairie at such an hour?
Cautiously, Larry dragged himself nearer the bushes. He now began to feel thankful for having chosen such a secluded retreat, and that the smouldering remains of his fire were not bright enough to betray his presence. The horse, too, was lying down.
The words of Teddy Banes rang in his ears. He strained his eyes to make out the form of the vehicle. Its blurred outlines, now almost abreast the bushes, were sufficiently strong to enable him to see its canvas-covered sides and top.
“Judgin’ by the speed they’re makin’ it must be pretty heavily loaded,” thought Larry.
He listened intently, hoping to catch some stray bits of conversation which might give him some idea of the character of the men. Not a word, however, came from the little procession moving so methodically and steadilyby. This curious silence had a peculiar effect on Larry’s nerves. He felt convinced that he was seeing something entirely out of the ordinary.
Time seemed to pass with almost unendurable slowness. He longed to rise, to stretch his legs—but did not dare to do so until the wagon and its accompanying horsemen were almost indistinguishable in the distance. Then Larry Burnham rose to his feet.
“Score another one for Teddy Banes,” he said, softly. “Sure as I live it’s a band of smugglers!”