CHAPTER IV
IN THE SADDLE
Once out of sight of the police barracks Larry Burnham began to question the wisdom of his course in accompanying the Ramblers to the Northwest Territories. It was a very different matter, he reflected, to sit in an easy chair and read about the kind of experiences they were having than it was to be an actual participant in them. Every bone and muscle in his big frame voiced a protest to the strain he had put on them the day before. Then, too, they had had so many difficulties in finding the way that the warnings of Teddy Banes began to be forced unpleasantly on his mind.
Suppose they did get lost? Suppose their canteens were emptied while they were in the midst of a wild and trackless country far from any streams or lakes?—what then? And, worst of all, suppose ill-fortune did throw them in the path of smugglers or other dangerous characters?
The big blond football player didn’t like to think about these things. But, in spite of his efforts, he often found his mind going over and over such unpleasant possibilities.
“It strikes me as foolish business,” he murmured. “Then, Tom Clifton always jumping on me is a trifle more’n I care to stand.”
The sound of a horse’s hoofs rising above the steady patter of the cavalcade caused him to look around.
Teddy Banes was rapidly overtaking them. With a six-shooter at his belt, a rifle resting across the pommel of his saddle, and the fringe of his buckskin coat flapping about, he seemed, in Larry Burnham’s eyes at least, to typify the country.
His gaze followed the half-breed as he swung toward the head of the column, and he could not help admiring the superb horsemanship which every movement of his lithe body expressed.
Although it was still early the day gave an indication of the heat that was yet to come. Not a cloud flecked the surface of the sky, which at the horizon became enveloped in a scintillating whitish haze that almost dazzled the eye.
“It certainly is a vast country,” thought Larry. He raised himself in his stirrups to gaze in all directions.
On every side it wore the same appearance—waving yellow bunch grass covering an undulating prairie, with here and there a low line of hills to break its monotonous uniformity.
And as he gazed upon this immensity of space it seemed to forcibly impress upon his mind the insignificance of all living things. How small the horsemen just ahead appeared!
“Great Scott!” he remarked, half aloud. “And yet Tom Clifton has an idea we may be able to strike that policeman’s trail.”
It all seemed so preposterous—so utterly without reason—that Larry burst into a peal of laughter, somewhat to the astonishment of Dick Travers who was cantering several yards in advance. Larry, however, without offering an explanation, spurred up his horse, soon overtaking Bob Somers and the half-breed at the head of the column.
“We’re forging ahead, Bob,” he said. “And gee, I certainly do hope we find some sort of shade by the time the mercury climbs up in the hundreds.”
“It’s going to be a scorcher, all right,” said Bob, cheerfully.
“What time ought we to reach this Cree village?”
“Late in the afternoon.”
Larry groaned.
“Gee whiz, Bob, I call this pretty hard work,” he groaned. “Yet I s’pose Tom Clifton’s thinkin’ he’s having the grandest time of his life.”
“You bet I am,” sang out Tom, who had overheard. “There’s nothing like having a good horse under you and plenty of space to gallop in, eh, Bob? Besides, there’s always a chance for adventure.”
“And if we really don’t run into a lot I’ll be surprised,” said Dave Brandon.
“So will I,” laughed Sam Randall.
“Most likely there are some ranch-houses not so very far from here,” said Tom; “and if so it means we’re likely to see big bunches of longhorns roaming over the prairie before very long. Then, perhaps, a smuggler or two may bob up to help make things interesting.”
Tom glared sternly toward the half-breed, who seemed to be totally oblivious of their presence.
This remark, however, had the effect of bringing his head sharply around, to reveal a curious light in his black, snappy eyes.
“Ah, you make fun of Teddy Banes,” he growled. “But you see! How long you been here?—few days, eh? Me lived here always; yet you know more already.”
“How could you expect it otherwise?” grinned Larry Burnham. “I sort o’ think it’s Tom Clifton’s privilege to know more’n anybody else.”
A long, low line of hills was looming up before the travelers. Here and there a dark, scraggly tree spotted their surface, while mingling in with the soft billowing folds of grass, which, under the effects of the faint breeze, seemed to ripple like waves of the sea, were stretches of purplish earth.
“An’ beyond them I suppose it looks just like this; an’ beyond some other hills just like this again,” grumbled Larry. “Whew, but it’s gettin’ hot! If there’s any shade on the other side, for goodness’ sake let’s take a rest. How do you know we’re goin’ in the right direction, Bob Somers?”
“By the aid of map and compass,” answered Bob. “Of course, though, Teddy Banes knows the easiest route; so I’m leaving it to him.”
“How far is he going with us?”
“To the Cree village.”
“Then me leave,” grunted the half-breed.
As the seven horsemen cantered swiftly through the tall grass, beating it under foot, the crest of the hills rose higher and sharper against the sky. Instead of making directly toward them, as Larry expected, Teddy Banes soon swerved to the left, and the blond lad finally discovered that he was leading them toward a point where gray masses of shadow indicated a deep cleft in the slopes.
Eagerly he kept his eyes on the grateful shade, watching it growing stronger with a feeling of intense satisfaction; and when at last his sorrel picked its way into a pass cluttered with underbrush and stones he gave a shout of approval.
By the side of an overhanging slope the half-breed drew rein.
“Much hot,” he said, using a gorgeously red handkerchief to mop his perspiring face. “But this is nothings. In a few days you see.”
“Well, I don’t think I’ll wait to see,” growled Larry.
“This isn’t anything,” said Tom Clifton. “And I’ll bet it isn’t going to be a bit hotter. Besides, when a chap’s on a roughing-it expedition he’s got to expect all sorts of things.”
“Another lecture from the scout-master,” grinned Larry.
“And if he can’t stand ’em, and gets grumpy and sour-faced he ought to stay at his own cozy little home.”
“Mercy! I suppose a broadside like that ought to bowl me right over,” said Larry. “When you get to be a doctor, Tom, you’re likely to scare your patients into recovering fast.”
Tom, with a shrug of his shoulders, turned toward Dave Brandon, the first to tether his horse and find a comfortable resting place. “Why so quiet, Dave? What are you thinking about?” he inquired.
The chronicler of the Rambler Club’s adventures made no reply until the others were sprawling in various attitudes in the most inviting places they could find. Then he said, slowly:
“Thinking about something serious, Tom.”
“Do let your musings find expression in words,” grinned Clifton.
“Well, you know, we graduated at the Kingswood High School last term——”
“Gracious sakes, I’ve been trying to forget school,” interrupted the tall boy.
“I can’t,” said Dave, solemnly. “Every once in a while it persists in bobbing up in my mind with fearful force.”
“Poor chap—but what’s the use of it now?”
“Well, isn’t the crowd going to enter the Wentworth Preparatory School next fall?”
“Of course.”
“And that means more hard study—athletics, perhaps, and——”
“Athletics! That’s so!” broke in Tom, his expression undergoing a wonderful change. “If I don’t become a candidate for a freshman team Larry isn’t a tenderfoot.”
“My foot isn’t very tender when it comes to kicking a pigskin,” laughed Larry. “By the way, fellows, I haven’t thought much about it, but I’d like to enter that school myself.”
“Bully idea! Why don’t you?” asked Sam Randall.
“Well, the fact is, my people aren’t very well fixed.”
“Work your way through school, then. Lots of chaps do it.”
“By George, I sort o’ think it would be a good plan,” said Larry, forgetting for an instant his usual drawl. “Honest—I’m just aching to tumble into football togs.”
“And with twelve feet of Clifton and Burnham any eleven ought to be a winner,” laughed Bob.
Larry was so pleased with the idea that he very nearly forgot the heat and clouds of insects which persisted in buzzing around his head.
All the discomforts, however, which nature held in store for him were forcibly recalled to his mind when the half-breed, with a sullen grunt, commanded them to mount.
The shade did not extend far. Soon, leaving the miniature canyon, they came out upon the yellow plain once more, to see shimmering heat waves between them and a hazy distance. The only living object was a flock of birds, but so far off that none could recognize their species.
Then followed a ride which Larry Burnham never forgot, and which, for the time being, completely effaced from his mind any pleasing thoughts of Freshfield Prep School or football.
At his home near Kingswood, Wisconsin, he had considered himself a pretty good rider. But an occasional jog to town or about the farm was not at all like spending entire days in the saddle. He looked curiously at his companions to see if they seemed to be affected in any way by the ordeal. But all appeared exasperatingly fresh and unconcerned.
Tom Clifton, indeed, wore such an air of joy that Larry felt positively aggrieved.
“This isn’t quite the thing I bargained for,” he reflected, grimly. “I imagined a nice camp in a patch of woods, an’ a bit of huntin’ an’ fishin’—not a crazy search after a policeman who has done the disappearin’ act. Of course he deserted—the chump! Everything points that way. Gee whiz! Another day o’ this, an’ I think I’ll get out.”
An hour later they reached the bed of a dried up creek fringed on either side by bushes and scrawny willows. And here Teddy Banes forgot his usual surly manner long enough to show them many evidences of ancient buffalo trails.
“Too bad they nearly wiped the poor creatures out,” said Tom.
“I guess you mean it’s too bad they didn’t let a few herds remain to be targets for the rifles of the Rambler Club,” said Larry, sourly. “How much further have we to go, Banes?”
“Many miles,” responded the half-breed. “We have just begin.”
“This is certainly the country of long distances,” said Sam Randall, smiling in spite of himself as he noticed the unhappy expression which flitted across Larry’s face.
The creek bottom, often overgrown with sage-brush, wound its tortuous course in a westerly direction toward another line of hills. From the nostrils and shaggy coats of the horses rose clouds of steam; and, as they did not wish to push the animals too hard, the aspect of the ridges changed with exasperating slowness.
Finally, however, they entered another gap, through which the former water route became strewn with rocks, decaying branches and other obstructions. All this necessitated slow traveling—a slowness which sorely taxed Larry Burnham’s patience. And every now and then a rather indiscreet remark of Tom’s served to further add to his troubled feelings.
“Yes, sir, I’ve had enough of this,” he muttered, disgustedly. “The first chance I get I’ll clear out an’ leave this bunch to keep up the chase all by themselves.”
And Bob, who surmised from Larry’s expression the state of his feelings, thought to console him.
“It isn’t going to be as bad as this always,” he said.
“I’m quite certain of that,” responded Larry, meaningly.
And nothing occurred during the afternoon’s ride to change a resolution he had made on a certain point.
It was decided not to halt for lunch, the travelers contenting themselves with crackers, dried beef, and a drink of water from their canteens.
At last the half-breed leader left the creek bottom and struck off once more through the bunch grass toward a third range of thickly-timbered hills.
On reaching them the boys this time found no convenient pass through which they might file. The odor of the fragrant balsam and fir filling the air, with other sweet scents from leaves and grass, was very delightful to inhale, and the cool bluish shadows trailing over the ground an agreeable change from the glare of the open spaces.
For the last hour the boys had carried on very little conversation. Larry himself felt too hot and miserable to utter a word. He was, therefore, totally unprepared for the view which met his eye upon reaching the top of the hills.
Down in a basin, or, rather, amphitheater, enclosed on three sides by the tree-grown slopes, he saw a large collection of Indian teepees. It was a sight which almost made him join in the exultant shout which came from Tom Clifton’s lips.