CHAPTER XVII
A NIGHT IN THE OPEN
Only Tom Clifton’s presence of mind saved him from taking a headlong plunge down the slope. He had just managed to slide nimbly over the mustang’s neck when a veritable pile of horses stumbled over his steed’s prostrate body. With a quick spring the lad reached that point of safety—the underbrush.
Yes, he was actually safe at last. All the mustangs but his own had scrambled up, and on all sides, singly and in groups, were racing down the slopes, growing fainter every moment.
He hadn’t realized how hard it was raining. The water seemed to be coming down in sheets, thudding, beating and splashing; forming into little rivulets, which wound in twisting passageways to the base of the hill. The thunder was still rolling too, and every few instants the glare of lightning rent the darkness and revealed what lay behind the rain.
“Poor little duffer!” exclaimed Tom, all his thoughts on the horse which still lay where it had fallen. “I do hope to goodness he isn’t badly hurt.”
He sprang up the slope to the side of the mustang.
It was an anxious moment for Tom. His feeling of gratitude at his own fortunate escape was for the moment almost forgotten as he bent over the animal.
His blood-shot eyes and painfully heaving sides indicated a badly distressed condition. There was an ugly cut on its right hind leg, and several bruises caused by the horses falling upon him, but the Rambler could discover no injuries that seemed to be of a serious nature.
“Hooray!” he almost shouted. “Just all in! A mighty narrow squeak, though, sure enough! Ha, ha, Cranny, just wait till I see you again. I’ve got a tale that’ll make you open your eyes!”
Tom felt in a rare good humor. It was certainly an adventure which would sound well in Dave Brandon’s history of the club. Then his thoughts suddenly reverted to Bob Somers. Unmindful of the wind or rain he stood pondering deeply. He strove to reconstruct the scene in his mind at the instant his companion had shouted. What had been Bob Somers’ course?
“Oh! Of course, Bob’s all right,” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ll bet it never even ruffled his hair.”
Tom Clifton’s confidence in the other’s ability to take care of himself under all circumstances was so great that he was easily able to dismiss all worry concerning him and concentrate his thoughts on the situation that confronted him.
With a gunny sack he washed the mud from the animal’s body; then by a little gentle persuasion managed to get him up on his feet. He felt convinced now that his diagnosis was correct, yet, from the way in which the animal bore his weight on the injured leg, he realized that he would be in no condition to travel for hours.
At the base of the hill a thick grove of cottonwoods suggested a pleasant place for a camp. Tom, of course, well knew the danger of seeking shelter under trees during a thunder-storm; but, by this time, the lightning had passed far enough beyond for him to have no hesitation.
He began to lead the mustang down the incline, finding to his great satisfaction that it limped but slightly.
“That’s another fine piece of luck,” he reflected, gleefully. “Now if the rain would only let up a bit, I wouldn’t kick about a single thing.”
A few minutes later he made a discovery which added still more to his cheerful frame of mind. A tiny creek wound its way through the middle of the valley.
“Hooray! All the comforts of a Mexican hotel without the expense!” he chuckled. “I don’t mind, old boy, if we do have to spend a night all by our lonesome!”
Beneath the thick, spreading foliage of the cottonwoods he found relief from the steady drizzle.
After unsaddling the mustang and allowing the tired beast to rest for a short time, he conducted him to the creek where he was watered a little at a time until his thirst was quenched.
After returning to the cottonwoods, the Rambler got out his case of medical supplies, many of which were labeled “good for either man or beast,” and felt confident that with a little doctoring to assist the course of nature the pony’s wound would soon be healed.
This job of bathing and bandaging the sore spot, owing to the beast’s decided objections, took so long that by the time he finished the rain had ceased and the storm clouds were far away.
The active Tom still found plenty to do. He cleaned his garments, spread the heavy water-soaked saddle blanket over a limb to dry, cleared a generous-sized space for his camp, then set about gathering wood.
A short time later a fire crackled in a hollow and his meal was under way. The situation appealed to the romantic side of Tom’s nature; it also gave him a pleasant sense of manliness to reflect upon the ease with which he could look out for himself. He thought of Don Stratton. Don he felt sure would be filled with misgivings if placed in similar circumstances.
“Still,” remarked Tom loftily to himself, “he hasn’t had enough experience yet; confound these mosquitoes; it isn’t easy to find one’s way over such a whopping big country. A little miscalculation,” he smiled grimly, “and if a chap wasn’t well supplied with both food and water, he might have some pretty rough sledding.”
The lad gazed at the curling tongues of ruddy flames growing brighter; at the jumping sparks and the columns of smoke rising in whirling clouds against the dark rich foliage of the cottonwoods. It seemed very lonely. How nice it would be, he thought, if only all the crowd were there. He began to miss sadly the sound of their voices—the cheerful rattle of conversation.
This momentary weakness, however,—Tom considered it to be a weakness—having passed, he began to whistle cheerfully.
“I’m not even going to bother about Bob’s bothering about me,” he grinned. “He knows I can look out for myself all right.”
When his supper was cooked and eaten, the last traces of a rich after-glow had entirely vanished, and shadows were creeping steadily over the landscape, settling in deep, somber tones under the grove of cottonwoods.
After washing his tin dishes in the creek and gathering sufficient wood to last the night, Tom seated himself upon a large flat stone near the fire. As the darkness increased, so the leaping tongues of flame pierced it with greater brilliancy. Beyond the range of light nature looked very dark and gloomy. Only the irregular outlines of the hills and the vegetation crowning their summits could be seen with any distinctness, and these were gradually becoming blurred and mysterious.
Tom was gazing reflectively at the fire when his hand suddenly touched something in the pocket of his jacket. It was the book on cowboy life presented to him by Jimmy Raymond.
“Ah, ha! here’s another slice of luck,” he exclaimed with a grin of satisfaction. “This will help me pass the time.”
The Rambler became quite thoughtful when, on opening the little volume, he saw the young pianist’s name written in a bold, legible hand on the title page.
“Jimmy’s a dandy chap, all right,” he reflected. “Gee, I’ll never leave this part of the country without finding out something about him—no siree!”
The solitude of the night, with the incessant chant and hum of insects coming from all directions, was conducive to thought, and Tom allowed his to soar. Jimmy Raymond and the Texas Rangers became the central figures of a drama which he considered would have made a very interesting photo-play.
At last, however, tiring of this pastime, he drew up close to the fire, and began to read the cowboy story. It proved to be such a lively yarn of adventure that he sat up much longer than he had intended.
Just before the moon rose above the hills he rolled himself up in a blanket and stretched himself out on the ground. And when the satellite climbed high enough to flood the earth with its silvery light, its rays fell on the form of a peacefully sleeping lad.
Many hours later, as Tom Clifton once again looked upon the world, he discovered it to be a dimly lit and cheerless-looking place. A few wisps of clouds near the eastern horizon were not even tinged with the faintest color. Over the valley, over everything within the range of vision, a succession of long, thick streamers of whitish mist hung low. The early morning air was raw and chill.
Tossing aside his blanket, the lad rubbed his eyes and rose sleepily to his feet.
“Humph!” he muttered, after a long, earnest stare. “Not a very joyous sight, to be sure; one good thing, though, it’s jolly early.”
His first thoughts were for the mustang. The animal was contentedly lying down, but at his approach scrambled to his feet in a manner that indicated a great improvement in the condition of his injured leg.
“Fine and dandy, old chap,” declared Tom, grinning with satisfaction. “Let’s have a look.”
An examination increased his grin.
“Bully!” was his comment. “Nothing now to prevent us from making a quick get-away. A cold bite and then it’s the long ride for us.”
In the space of about twenty-five minutes his wants and those of the mustang had been satisfied. After this, the lad repacked the saddle-bags, filled the canvas water-bottles with cool water from the creek, and lastly saddled his pony.
“Now, little chap,” he exclaimed, springing into the saddle, “let ’er go!”
The landscape still presented the same cheerless aspect. Having carefully consulted his compass Tom headed in a direction which took him straight toward an impenetrable wall of gloomy mist.
To be once more actually on the way filled him with a huge sense of satisfaction. Over ridges, across valleys now enveloped in the thick vapors, jogging along in the half-light between, he made good progress. And all the while the appearance of the world about him was gradually changing. The clouds in the east had become tinged with delicate tones of purple and gold, the rays of the rising sun shot high above them.
Tom in a receptive mood halted on the top of a high ridge to study the glories of the awakening day. A glowing rim was rising above the eastern hills. Slowly the whole of the pale golden ball rose into view, and its rays, soon shooting across the wide landscape, transformed the heavy, leaden gray vapors into objects of ethereal lightness.
“Dave would certainly call that ‘glorious,’” mused Tom with a smile. His eyes followed a flock of birds circling high in the sky. “The chap who doesn’t rise early in the morning misses a whole lot!”
It was so pleasant to watch the changes of nature that Tom continued to stay until the mists were in full retreat before the strengthening shafts of light.
His eyes, wandering from place to place, suddenly came to a halt on a faint speck of dark far off in the valley.
Somehow or other, it did not have the appearance of a bush, or any other kind of vegetation, but rather suggested to his mind the form of some animal stretched at full length on the ground. His utmost efforts to make out the exact nature of the object were unavailing, which, to one who possessed as large a bump of curiosity as Tom, was a highly unsatisfactory state of affairs.
“It’s so early I guess I can afford to take a bit of time,” he reflected. “By George! I will!”
Having come to this conclusion, he set off down the incline, presently reaching a grassy valley. From this point the irregular character of the ground shut the odd-looking spot of dark from view.
It proved to be much farther off than Tom had supposed, and but for a dogged determination to carry to a successful conclusion any task once started, he might have faced about and ridden away.
“No, sir, I’m going to find out just what it is,” he exclaimed aloud. He patted his mustang’s neck. “Luckily for both of us, old chap, your leg’s nearly well.”
At last, skirting around a clump of trees to see a broad open expanse stretching before him, he uttered an exclamation.
“I thought so!” he cried.
The dark object, though still some distance away, could now be distinctly seen; and one swift glance proved sufficient to reveal the fact that it was a prostrate steer.