The Rambler Club with the Northwest Mounted

In the outpost barracks of which Sergeant Erskine was in charge a great crowd had assembled. It included the lads, Jed Warren, Billy Ashe, Witmar, and Teddy Banes.

The half-breed’s demeanor toward the boys had entirely changed. And the bluff old sergeant, too, often looked at them with an expression in which a great deal of admiration was apparent.

The rescue of Jed Warren had created a tremendous sensation. The stigma of “Deserter” was removed. And his superiors expressed as much regret for ever having suspected him as the dignity of their position would allow.

“Young men,” began Sergeant Erskine, in his crisp, businesslike tone, “you were ordered to report to me by Private William Ashe.” He smiled rather quizzically. “Of course I know, in view of the unusual circumstances, you would have done so anyway.”

“We certainly should,” affirmed Tom.

“Now, I should like to hear the details of your trip. Somers, kindly oblige.”

Bob immediately began; and in his sentences, directly to the point, recounted everything which had a bearing on the case.

As he concluded the sergeant nodded toward the half-breed.

“Banes,” he exclaimed, “I believe you can clear up some of these points. Begin, for instance, with those mystifying cries and pistol shots which so startled the boys.”

“Oh, that’s just what we want to hear about,” cried Dick Travers.

“I should say we do,” put in Tom.

Teddy Banes turned his impassive face toward the expectant Ramblers.

“I sure think I know,” he said, his harsh, guttural voice filling the room. “Boys go with me to Cree village. Sometimes I see cowpunchers there, and on that day three—four, maybe.”

“And so did I!” cried Tom.

For an instant a gleam of humor seemed to play in Teddy Banes’ eyes.

“An’ you talk much—very much,” he exclaimed. “You say: ‘No; never we leave the Northwest Territories until Jed Warren is found.’ And you say that very loud.”

“Oh!” said Tom, looking a trifle embarrassed. “Suppose I did? Wasn’t it true?”

“Ah—much true! But it do harm. Listen—I tell you how. Those men Hank Styles’ cowpunchers—but smugglers, too!”

“Thunderation!” gasped Tom, his expression indicating much surprise. “If I’d only known that——”

“Nearly all of us would make fewer mistakes,” interrupted Sergeant Erskine, in a kindly tone, “if we could only have information in advance instead of after something has happened. It is not always wise to speak our thoughts too plainly before strangers.”

Tom Clifton flushed. He realized that his actions hadn’t been altogether wise.

“Yes, smugglers,” went on Teddy Banes, in his imperturbable way. “They hear what you say. They see six big, strong boys. They get scare, maybe.”

“And I’m afraid the rest of the crowd did some hollering, too,” laughed Dick Travers. “I know I said the same thing myself. Everybody thinking Jed was a deserter worked us up a bit, I can tell you.”

“And we had determined to do everything possible to learn the true facts,” put in Sam Randall, quietly.

“Smugglers take no chances.” Banes was speaking again. “The men say: maybe these boys for us make trouble. They come too near where we work. But we fix ’em.”

“Banes’ explanation is undoubtedly correct,” interrupted Sergeant Erskine. “Of course, at that time, none of these cowpunchers was even suspected. They probably talked it over and decided upon a plan which they thought would speedily drive you back to civilization. Several of them followed on your trail and were responsible for the dreadful night alarms. But the men did not know that you are seasoned veterans of the plains.”

The sergeant’s eyes twinkled humorously, and the entire crowd joined in the laugh which followed.

“How about that man who attacked me, sergeant?” asked Tom.

“We have also a very ready explanation for that.” The officer stroked his iron-gray moustache reflectively. “From your description Private Ashe immediately came to the conclusion that he was one of the cowpunchers who had seen your party at the Cree village, and also overheard what was said in regard to Jed.”

“Great Cæsar!” murmured Tom.

“The smugglers with the wagon evidently saw your fire, and this man concluded it would be wise to investigate. So he reconnoitered. He knew well enough that if any one should happen to see the wagon there might be trouble. He was no doubt thoroughly alarmed when he discovered your identity. In his suspicious state of mind it must have appeared that you were already on their track.”

“Yes; there can be no doubt about it,” admitted Dick Travers.

“If your slumber had not been broken we may reasonably conclude that the man would, when the vehicle was beyond all chance of discovery, have simply rejoined his comrades. But you happened to jump up; and he, fearing recognition, concluded to take you prisoner.”

“You see,” put in Jed Warren, “Hank knew their game was up. They couldn’t keep me in the cabin indefinitely. So the idea was to wind up their business as quickly as possible, then skip out.”

“May I put a question to Mr. Ashe?” spoke up Larry Burnham.

“Certainly,” responded the sergeant.

“How did you happen to get on the trail of the wagon that night?” asked the blond lad, turning toward the trooper.

“Well, we were working in that locality, and on the lookout. I reckon the men were in a desperate hurry, or they wouldn’t have taken a chance on a night when the moon would be up. We didn’t know where the wagon came from or its destination.”

“What made you think they were the smugglers?” asked Sam.

“Their actions fitted in so well with other information we had that both Witmar and myself concluded there could be no doubt about it.”

“Aye, aye!” said Witmar.

“I will finish the story,” broke in Erskine, in his blunt, authoritative tone. “Private Ashe, armed with an excellent description of Clifton’s assailant, immediately reported to the superintendent of police at a post in the settlement. He conferred with him regarding his suspicions. What followed would make quite a story, boys, but the upshot of it was that they decided to make an early morning descent upon Hank Styles’ ranch-house and capture the entire band.”

“And the joke was on us,” murmured Witmar.

“One thing I don’t quite understand,” said Dave, “is this: if the wagon belonged to Hank Styles, why were the men so foolish as to return to headquarters, knowing that the finding of the vehicle must throw suspicion upon them?”

“There was nothing to identify it as belonging to the ranch. They were too sly to be caught so easily.”

“Oh, now it is all clear to me,” declared the “historian.”

“There is nothing else to say,” remarked Teddy Banes. “Everybody know everything.”

“On the contrary, Banes, I have a few remarks to add,” said the grizzled sergeant.

“We shall be very glad to hear them,” exclaimed Bob.

“In a way, you have proved good friends to the smugglers, who were cowboys and cattle rustlers between times. By a peculiar combination of circumstances you appeared at exactly the right time to enable them to escape the clutches of the law.”

“It was curious,” said Larry.

“But, on the other hand, you have proved a better friend to the police. If it hadn’t been for your clever work, Somers”—his stern eyes fell full on the Rambler’s face—“Jed Warren might not have been found for many days. Therefore we rather think the balance is entirely in your favor. So I take the opportunity, as an officer of the Northwest Mounted, to thank you and your fellow members of the club.”

“And I am sure we highly appreciate your kind words,” said Bob, while the rest of the crowd voiced their approval in the most hearty and spontaneous fashion.

“I know we shall never forget the great time we’ve had in Canada,” cried Tom, his face glowing with pride. He looked toward Billy Ashe, and a twinkle came into his eye. “And the police are certainly a mighty fine lot—even if they did place us under ‘arrest.’”

“What are your plans now?” inquired Sergeant Erskine, joining in the laugh which ran around the room.

“We shall probably camp out a bit,” answered Bob, “and perhaps try to get a sight of some big game.”

“At any rate. I hope you will mess with us to-night?”

The boys, heartily thanking the sergeant, accepted his kind invitation; then, not wishing to take up more of his time, withdrew.

It was mighty pleasant for the boys to see Jed Warren, resplendent in his scarlet coat, and to reflect how good fortune had aided them in their fight to bring out the truth.

Everything around the barracks was so agreeable that they not only stopped to mess that evening but remained for several days.

Not long before the time for their departure arrived, an unsigned note addressed to Sergeant Erskine was brought by a mail carrier. It stated briefly that the missing Jed Warren could be found in the cabin in the gulch, the location of which was accurately described.

“This shows,” commented Sergeant Erskine, exhibiting it to the boys, “that Hank Styles has some good in his make-up, after all.”

“Bob,” exclaimed Tom, suddenly, “I guess we’d better be on the move. You know the time is rushing around fast. I can almost see myself getting ready for that prep school now—and—and——”

“And we know you’re not thinking about school books, or examinations, or any of those things which tax a fellow’s head so confoundedly,” interrupted Dick, with a laugh.

“Of course not!” cried Tom.

Above a loud burst of hilarity which greeted his words, Larry Burnham’s voice rose high and clear.

“Hooray—hooray for the Rambler Club’s Football Eleven!” he cried.

And the others enthusiastically joined in.

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