CHAPTER IX
LARRY HAS A PLAN
Larry Burnham didn’t get any more sleep that night. And, as he lay with eyes half closed, gazing at one “sentinel” after another, he often reflected that a country in which such startling things could happen was no place for him.
“These adventures are all right in books, or when some chap tells about ’em,” he murmured; “but when it comes to the real thing—excuse me!”
The boys were up with the twittering birds, and after breakfast a thorough investigation was made.
Daylight, however, did not aid them.
“I suppose,” drawled Dave, “that in my history of the Rambler Club this particular incident must be told with the explanation that no explanation could ever be found.”
“Saddle up, fellows,” laughed Bob. “En route to Fool’s Castle!”
Larry Burnham listened with a grim smile. This was the day he intended to carry out a certain resolution. With a perseverance quite extraordinary for him, the “promising football player,” by the aid of a small compass, had kept a pretty accurate record of their travels. Directly to the south, on the line of the railroad, was a settlement.
“No one could possibly miss it,” he reflected. And to keep going in a straight line would require no great skill. “If it wasn’t for Tom Clifton’s tongue, an’ that look he can put on his face, I’d come right out an’ tell ’em what I intend to do.”
Canteens were filled at the creek, and saddle bags repacked. The horses seemed fresh and mettlesome—quite ready for the journey before them.
“No good, hurry too fast,” remarked Thunderbolt. “Reach Castle this afternoon.”
“I’ll be mighty glad to see it,” commented Dave. “All men who have ideas above the ordinary should be respected.”
“They certainly made Walt Allen pay a jolly dear price for his originality,” remarked Sam Randall, leaping into the saddle.
With Tom Clifton at the head the seven riders picked their way through the woods, which were sweetly scented with nature’s perfumes. The dew of early morning glistened like diamonds on leaves and grasses, and through the openings in the trees came bright shafts of sunlight.
At a convenient place the creek was forded; then, sweeping out into the open, they saw before them once more vast monotonous stretches covered with waving bunch grass.
“If it was only a bit cooler I’d like to race the crowd,” said Tom. “Slow traveling never suited me.”
“White boy ride well,” commented Thunderbolt—“just like Indian brave.”
“A chap who has been in the saddle as much as I have couldn’t help riding well,” said Tom, modestly. “There’s nothing like a life in the open to bring out what’s in a fellow. A little later, Larry, you’ll thank us for letting you come along.”
“Will I?” said Larry.
“Of course you will,” laughed Tom, who had magnanimously decided to forgive the other for his impolite conduct on the night before. “I’ll bet you’ll even be glad to do your share of the work.”
“How joyful!” jeered Larry.
“Seem to be lots of cattle around,” interposed Sam Randall.
“I guess the rustlers were considerate enough to leave a few behind as souvenirs,” grinned Dick.
Soon they were riding in the midst of a great herd of browsing longhorns.
“Whoppers, all right,” said Larry, surveying the animals with much interest. “Chirping crickets! Think of what they almost did to us last night!”
“I shall always feel grateful to that patch of woods,” said Dave. “It probably helped to save us.”
“Stampede much queer,” put in Thunderbolt, shaking his head gravely. “I no understand.”
“It shows, for one thing, that Teddy Banes knew exactly what he was talking about,” said Larry, decisively.
When the crowd finally halted for lunch in the shadow of a barren ridge of hills Larry Burnham began to feel nervous. The time had come to act. Somehow twinges of conscience, which before had not troubled the lad, assailed him fiercely. Was it right to desert the crowd in such a manner?
Of course Larry knew the answer, and all his efforts to convince himself of the soundness of his position were unavailing.
“I don’t care; I’ll do it anyway,” he muttered savagely.
Luck, however, was against him. Many times he had let opportunities slip when he could have cantered away without attracting especial attention. But to-day the crowd seemed to hang around him with exasperating persistence. Always one or another was close at his elbow.
“Confound it!” he muttered angrily. “If I don’t get off within a couple of hours it’ll be too late. I don’t want to do any traveling in the dark.”
When they were again in the saddle, cantering leisurely over the prairie, a suspicion suddenly entered his mind.
Could the boys have suspected his scheme?
Larry reflected that on several occasions he had made pretty broad hints, not expecting, however, to be taken seriously.
“What a silly idiot I was,” he murmured, in great disgust. “I’ll find out mighty soon if it’s so.”
He immediately tested his theory by riding a considerable distance in advance; and, upon glancing over his shoulder, saw a Rambler cantering not far behind. In fact, their every act showed them to be clearly on the watch.
In proportion as Larry’s anger increased, so his scruples vanished. It was now a question of either declaring himself boldly or pitting his wits against the others’. He rebelled at the idea of the former. Wasn’t he his own master? Should he be forced to submit to Tom Clifton’s sarcasm, or the loud protestations and arguments which were sure to come from all?
No! In spite of everything he would choose the easiest way out.
And noting a peculiar grin on Tom Clifton’s face, whenever the tall lad glanced toward him, he often muttered: “I’ll fool ’em yet.”
A pleasant breeze sweeping for miles and miles over the vast expanse proved a great relief to the hot and perspiring boys. It enabled them to make better progress, too; for their mounts did not show the same traces of fatigue as before.
“I reckon, at this rate, we ought to reach Fool’s Castle late in the afternoon,” remarked Bob Somers.
“Yes,” affirmed the guide.
“And I’ll be uncommonly glad to see the place,” said Dave. “Can we go inside, Thunderbolt?”
“Sure thing. No door; no window,” answered the young Indian.
“I’ll bet Larry is just aching to make a tour of investigation,” grinned Tom.
“I’m simply hilarious about it,” snapped Larry. “I should think you chaps ought to fit pretty well in a castle of that name.”
“I’ll feel perfectly at home, anyway,” laughed Dave, gazing into Tom’s snapping eyes with a twinkle of amusement.
The blond lad, thoroughly disgusted at the failure of his plans, sometimes left the main body, feeling in no mood to take part in the merry conversation.
“He’s just as sore as can be,” confided Tom to Bob Somers.
It was, indeed, Tom who had first discovered what Larry had in mind. Of a very inquisitive nature, his curiosity was not satisfied until he had discovered the nature of the paper which appeared to interest Larry so greatly. This feat he succeeded in accomplishing by lagging behind and viewing the unsuspecting lad through a field-glass.
Tom, of course, immediately made a number of deductions and explained them to his companions, who were soon convinced of the correctness of his views.
“And to think of his wanting to sneak away!” went on Tom. “It’s a mighty poor way of treating us, I’m sure.”
“And I’ll bet Larry would always regret it,” said Bob.
“Sure thing! The funny part is, that I don’t think he suspects us of knowing anything about it.”
A long time after, the travelers, hot, dusty and tired, reached the top of an eminence which brought into view a vast stretch of country, broken here and there by low ridges of hills.
Thunderbolt halted. He turned toward the horsemen crowding closely behind him, his manner showing them that he had something interesting to communicate. The brown, muscular arm of the young Cree was extended in the direction of the now declining sun.
“Well?” cried Tom, his eyes wide open.
In a sort of bowl-shaped valley which nestled snugly at the base of the encircling hills a purplish spot formed against a shadowed background the outlines of a ranch-house.
“Fool’s Castle!” said Thunderbolt, impressively.