CHAPTER XVIIIASKING QUESTIONS
“Ifyou chaps are pining for adventure this certainly doesn’t look much like it,” remarked Larry Burnham.
The seven, led by Thunderbolt, were traveling in the direction of Jerry Duncan’s ranch.
“You never can tell,” grinned Dick.
“I’m afraid the Rambler Club won’t solve any mysteries on this trip,” insisted Larry.
“Don’t you fool yourself,” retorted Tom. “Wait and see.”
In another half hour the lads were approaching a range of hills, rather higher and wilder-looking than any encountered before. Great numbers of cattle bearing Jerry Duncan’s brand grazing on the plain and up over the slopes gave a cheering indication that somewhere among the rolling ridges his ranch-house was located.
Thunderbolt assured them that any one unacquaintedwith the topography of the country would have a hard task to find it.
“Why in the dickens did they ever build in such a place?” cried Tom.
“Much nice,” said Thunderbolt. “In winter wind no so strong. A creek close by and many trees.”
After skirting the hills for about a mile the young Indian halted, and pointed to a deeply-shadowed break in their rugged slopes.
“We go through pass,” he explained.
“It’s a rather wild-looking place,” commented Dave.
“I sort o’ think it’ll make me wild to ride through it,” murmured Larry.
In spite of his lesson he felt discontented feelings coming over him again. He longed for the camping-out time to arrive, when, lolling in the pleasant shade of some tree, he could read, or otherwise amuse himself.
On all sides of the gorge, which the lads soon entered, was a beaten trail made by the passing of countless horses and cattle. Though often turned aside by grim-looking boulders, groups of stunted trees, or thickets, they made good progress.
“I see it,” sang out Tom.
Just above a jutting crag the upper part of the ranch-house, glowing in the sun, had appeared to his eagerly searching vision.
“Jerry Duncan’s!” exclaimed Thunderbolt.
“Hooray!” cried Tom, spurring his horse into a gallop.
Now over a smooth grassy stretch, the seven swung along, and, sweeping around a rocky barrier, saw the solid, substantial home of Jerry Duncan rising before them. It was surrounded by a wide, cozy-looking porch, and not far in the rear stood a commodious stable.
Resting in a cup-shaped enclosure between the hills, the ranch-house suggested a pleasing retreat. The shadow of the opposite range was already beginning to steal across the grassy floor over which a number of horses and cattle were grazing. At their rapid approach the deep baying of a dog chained to a post echoed startlingly clear.
On the instant two men came running out of the house.
“Hello!” yelled Bob Somers. “Is Mr. Duncan in?”
A short, stout man, whose face, deeplybrowned by exposure to the weather, wore a most jovial expression, spoke up.
“My name’s Duncan,” he exclaimed. “For gracious sakes, boys, who are you, and——”
“I’ll finish the sentence,” laughed Tom. “Where do you come from? I never saw a parcel of boys traveling over the country like this before.”
“Exactly; you couldn’t have hit it better.”
The lads did not lose any time in acquainting Mr. Duncan and his cowpuncher with enough information to satisfy their curiosity.
“Jed Warren!” exclaimed the ranchman reflectively. “Why, to be sure, I know him. He was often around these hills, and, excepting for the border patrol which you mention, the very last man to see him was a chap back there.”
A comprehensive wave of the hand indicated that “back there” meant the same direction in which the boys had been traveling.
“What’s his name?” asked Tom, eagerly.
“Oscar Lawton. How far is it? Oh, about five miles. Easy to get there? Yes—in an aeroplane.”
The good-natured cattleman laughed.
“Let’s take a chance on it, fellows,” cried Tom, eagerly.
“Oh—oh! Just listen to him!” groaned Larry.
“A good detective never allows a single clue to get by him,” insisted Tom, with an air of superior wisdom.
“Oh, yes; I suppose that settles it,” returned Larry, wearily.
“I agree with Tom,” remarked Sam Randall. “Since we started out on this job let’s be able to say that everything possible has been done to clear it up.”
“That’s the idea!” exclaimed Bob, heartily.
“You’d better come in and rest for a while,” said Mr. Duncan, “and get a bite to eat.”
“Joy—oh, joy!” murmured Larry. “Of course we will.”
After spending over an hour in the pleasant shade of the porch, indulging in roast beef sandwiches, plenty of coffee and other good things, the crowd voiced an emphatic vote of thanks.
The cattleman insisted on their coming again. “Because,” explained Mr. Duncan, with a rather suspicious twinkle in his eye,“I want to know how this detective work of yours turns out.”
“We’ll certainly drop around and tell you,” cried Bob, heartily.
Then began a long, tedious march over high ridges where nature seemed to have put up many barriers, not only to endanger the safety but also to wear out the patience of unwary travelers. The young Cree, however, proved himself to be a most excellent guide. No difficulty was too great for him to overcome; and, as little time was lost in detours, the ranch-house for which they were seeking came into view long before Larry Burnham had expected.
The building rested in a broad, grass-covered valley almost midway between the hills. And on nearer approach its rather neglected appearance became strikingly evident.
But the boys, weary with their long ride, paid no attention to this. They were too eager to meet the owner, and then continue on their long journey southward to the border. A great disappointment awaited them, however.
Oscar Lawton, they were informed byseveral men lounging about, was miles away on the open range. And none could state the exact time of his return.
“Oh, this is perfectly awful!” cried Larry Burnham, in exasperation. “Won’t it ever end?”
“Jed Warren!” exclaimed one of the men, in answer to a question. “No; we don’t know nothin’ about Jed Warren. What in thunder are you fellers expectin’ to do—ketch up with that there scarlet jacket?”
“Our expectations cannot be measured in words,” drawled Larry.
“Is there another ranch near by?” asked Bob.
“Oh, yes; there’s several of ’em hereabouts,” answered a cowpuncher.
“Well, then, let’s go to one or two more, fellows,” suggested Tom Clifton. “If Mr. Lawton saw Jed perhaps some other people have, too.”
“Ah! Much good,” approved Thunderbolt. “Sure! Maybe we learn somethings.”
As long as they remained in sight the cowpunchers kept waving their hands in farewell.
“I don’t suppose you chaps feel a bit discouragedeven yet,” said Larry, satirically. “I’d call this perseverance and perversity.”
“Oh, we’ve just begun,” chirped Tom.
Another long ride followed. Sometimes the lads traveled over hills; then, again, across the undulating plain, or forded narrow streams. And Larry was as hopelessly mixed on their location as a boy could be. Herds of grazing cattle were often encountered, and left behind.
Even the sanguine, hopeful Tom began to lose his accustomed air of cheerfulness after several ranches had been visited without a scrap of information being gained. Things were not breaking very well, he reflected; and it made him feel angry and disgusted indeed.
“We go some more ranches?” asked Thunderbolt. “Not many mile from Jerry Duncan’s is one. What you say?”
“Don’t ask, but just go,” said Larry. “And when we get through there take a short cut to the next.”
Some time later they came once more in sight of the range of hills in which Duncan’s ranch was situated, though at a point considerably further to the east. The late afternoonsun sent a mellow glow over the landscape, touching boughs and branches with golden luster, and sending long purplish shadows down the slopes or trailing over the ground.
“No far now,” announced Thunderbolt.
He swerved to the right, leading them toward the base of a hill which jutted out a considerable distance on the prairie.
“And I, for one, propose to stay there for the night, if the owner is willing,” announced Dave.
“I’ll back you up,” cried Larry. “Who runs this ranch, Thunderbolt?”
“Him called Hank Styles,” answered the young Cree.
“And I do certainly hope to goodness Hank is in,” said Tom.
“He hasn’t much of a looking ranch-house,” remarked Bob, as the building gradually came into view.
Certainly the abode of Hank Styles and his cowpunchers was not calculated to impress the visitors with favor. It had a crumbling, neglected appearance. Everything about the place suggested age and decay.
“I hope Mr. Styles doesn’t correspond inlooks to his building,” remarked Sam Randall. “If he does, perhaps we’d better keep on to Jerry Duncan’s.”
“So say I,” laughed Bob.
“Ah! He come now,” said Thunderbolt, suddenly. “Him much little fellow.”
A man had appeared in the doorway, and after gazing long and earnestly at the approaching horsemen, stepped down and walked toward them with long, swinging strides.
“Thank goodness,” exclaimed Tom. “In luck at last. Good-afternoon, Mr. Styles,” he added, raising his voice. “We’ve come to see you on important business. What do you know about Jed Warren?”