CHAPTER XITHE RIDER
Theconfusion which instantly reigned in that particular room of Fool’s Castle far outdid the same kind of performance enacted on the previous night. The boys, springing up, bumped into each other, wildly scrambling for points of safety, and by every action indicating that the night surprise had acted with terrific force on their nerves.
“Help, help!” yelled Larry.
The pistol shots and yells were ringing out again. Momentarily he expected to hear the whirr of bullets flying through the open windows.
What did it mean?
Bob Somers was the first to regain control of his faculties. Regardless of the threatened danger, he dashed out of the room. Stout Dave Brandon followed but a few feet behind.
Fairly leaping from the porch to the ground, the two, with muscles still twitching from theexcitement, gazed about them. The appearance of nature had changed. The moon was sending a soft silvery light over the landscape. It flooded the walls of Fool’s Castle, which rose white and ghost-like. The “Italian garden,” looking like some spot fit for the tread of fairies’ feet, seemed as deserted and quiet as a place could be.
“Nothing,” said Bob—“not a sign of any one!”
“Nothing!” echoed Dave.
A crowd of wildly-excited boys was now fairly tumbling out of the ranch-house.
“Who in the world could it have been, Bob?” cried Tom Clifton, striving hard to appear calm and collected.
“It was exactly like the rumpus we heard last night,” came from Dick Travers.
“And, by Jove, the same person or persons certainly made it!” exclaimed Sam Randall.
“Much queer—no understand!” said Thunderbolt. His bronze face showed unmistakable evidence of great bewilderment.
And every one of the group was as bewildered as he—astounded at an event which had happened two nights in succession.Tongues fairly hurled questions and answers. The cattle rustler theory seemed to be exploded.
Standing in plain view, easily exposed to attack, Larry Burnham’s nerves began to shake so violently as to interfere with his articulation.
“Come on, fellows!” cried Bob, suddenly. “They can’t be very far away.”
“H-h-hold on!” stuttered Larry. “Do you w-w-want to get shot? S-s-somebody may be h-h-hiding among those trees!”
“Then let’s find ’em!” yelled Tom, valiantly.
The lads, their eyes sparkling with excitement, dashed from point to point of the big enclosure, Larry dragging along unwillingly at the rear. Now they were by the deep shadows of the cedars; then close to the graceful columns of the little Greek temple, only halting a moment at a time to satisfy themselves that no other human beings were near.
“And yet,” said Bob Somers, voicing the thoughts of all, “those sounds were right close to the house.”
“They certainly were,” stammered Larry.
“I think men have time to get out of stockade,” declared Thunderbolt.
This reasoning seemed to be correct. The search was carried on with unabated vigor. But their eager eyes, now turned toward the immediate surroundings of the enclosure, failed to detect any signs of life.
“What—what’s to be done?” cried Larry.
“Let’s try to think it out,” suggested Tom.
“We’ve gone over almost every possible theory,” said Dave, wearily. “It’s uncommonly exasperating.”
“We never know,” murmured Thunderbolt.
“Confound it all—we will know!” shouted Tom. “Some kind of a crowd is following us.”
“Either cattle rustlers or smugglers,” declared Larry, positively. “You heard what Teddy Banes said about ’em.”
“But what object would they have in so rudely disturbing our slumber?” asked Dave, with a negative shake of his head.
“Just now we don’t know, and can’t know,” said Bob. “Let’s make another search.”
Fully an hour was spent before the boys were reluctantly obliged to confess their failure;and, more and more mystified, they finally reëntered Fool’s Castle.
“This ought to be a lesson to us, fellows,” announced Bob Somers. “We must never miss taking turns on guard.”
“It was my fault, Bob,” said Dave, magnanimously.
“And as a penalty I suppose you’ll take the first watch?” grinned Dick.
“A confession generally means a mitigation of sentence,” laughed Dave.
It was the stout boy, however, who presently left the room, rifle in hand, to begin his two hour stretch.
Larry Burnham was quite amazed to find the others lying down again as though nothing had happened. But sleep for him was utterly impossible. So, miserable in mind and weary in body, he lay listening to the soft footsteps of the sentinel outside, or gazing abstractedly at the moon, which sent its searching rays through the open windows.
About the time the sun rose the last sentinel ruthlessly disturbed those still asleep.
“Peach of a night, wasn’t it!” exclaimed Tom Clifton.
“The two nights made a fine pair,” grinned Sam.
“Ho for breakfast!” cried Dave.
“Well, well,” murmured the blond lad to himself, when he discovered that no attention was paid to him. “Looks to me as if so much excitement has put it all out of their minds.”
And in this he was quite correct.
“Ha, ha! I’ll be deserter number two,” he murmured, “What a peach o’ a little ‘Fear-not’ I am. Maybe I was a bit scared last night. But the idea of gettin’ a chunk o’ lead is enough to scare any one.”
After breakfast the crowd followed Dave Brandon into the ranch-house.
“I have some notes to make,” explained the “historian.”
“That settles it,” said Tom. “We’ve got to stay here until after dinner.”
Larry anxiously waited and watched. But no opportunity to slip away presented itself.
The lads, still full of the mystery, continued to speculate upon it as they walked briskly around the stockade, or wandered over the surrounding hills and prairie.
To the blond lad’s extreme annoyance, lunchwas late. He began to fear again that the fates were against him. He didn’t enjoy the meal. And the way the others lingered over it tried his patience almost to the limit.
Hope, however, asserted itself while the dishes were being cleared away.
“It’s never good to travel right after a big meal,” declared Dave; “so we’d better remain as guests of Fool’s Castle for another hour or two.”
“Well, it’s a nice cool place, anyway,” said Dick Travers. “Who wants to do a bit more exploring—you, Tom?—Good! Come along then.”
Larry sauntered leisurely toward the door.
Twenty minutes had passed, when a “Hello, Bob; hello!” in Tom Clifton’s voice brought the Rambler, who was talking to Dave, Sam, and Thunderbolt, to his feet.
“What is it, Tom?” he called.
“We can see a chap riding in the distance!” cried Tom, excitedly.
“Gee whiz! That’s interesting!” exclaimed Sam Randall. “Maybe it’s one of those fellows who serenaded us last night.”
To Sam’s great astonishment, Bob Somers,without replying, made a wild dash for the door. His eyes quickly ran over the tethered horses.
“Just what I was afraid of!” he cried, breathlessly.
Larry Burnham’s mount was missing.
“Suffering grasshoppers!” burst out Sam, staring with wide-open eyes. “He—he—has actually skipped!”
“Hurry up, Bob,” came from Tom. “Get your field-glass on him. He’s only a tiny speck now.”
“Outwitted!” grumbled Sam.
Bob Somers did not wait to listen. Leaping up the steps which led to the second floor he rushed into the room where the two lads were standing by the open window.
“Only wish he was coming this way,” began Tom. “Quick, Bob. I want a squint. We may learn something.”
“We have already!” cried Bob.
“What—what?”
Then, as Sam Randall and Thunderbolt burst in upon them, a belated suspicion of the truth flashed into Tom Clifton’s mind. His mouth opened; a deep scowl settled on his features; his fists were clenched.
“Oh—oh! What a dub I was, never to think of it! Oh—oh! It’s Larry—Larry Burnham; I know it is!”
Forgetting politeness in his eagerness Tom seized the field-glass from Bob Somers’ hands and leveled it hastily upon the tiny figure of horse and rider.
His fears were realized. There, in a bright circle of light, the high-power glass showed the image of Larry Burnham and his horse.