CHAPTER XXII
The Man at the Fire
“Our pony!”
Mr. Manley almost shouted it.
“Do you mean to say that’s the bronc that Marino stole?”
“Look at him yourself, Dad!” Teddy cried excitedly. “Wait, I’ll see if I can get him. He knows me—I broke him. Stay here.”
The boy rode rapidly forward. The horse did not turn and run, but stood, waiting. In a moment Teddy had hold of his bridle rein and was leading him back.
“See? Isn’t he?”
Mr. Manley looked closer.
“He certainly is, Teddy! Well, for the love of Pete! how’d he get here—an’ where’s The Pup?”
“Can’t tell you that, Dad,” Teddy replied. He turned to Roy. “Now are you so sure that we’ll never see Marino again? He’s around here somewhere, I’ll bet a plugged nickel! Maybe he got thrown. If it wasn’t so dark we could have a look for him.”
“By golly, it’s the pinto!” Pop exclaimed, riding up. “Where’d he come from, Teddy? I saw that horse out yonder, but I didn’t pay no attention to him. Thought he had a man with him. The pinto! The Pup must have followed up the river from the time we saw him! Snakes! wonder if he’s around?”
“That bronc of yours is a good watch dog,” Roy declared to Nat. “It was this horse he sensed, and the lowlands had nothin’ to do with it. Pop, you’re all twisted. Nat’s pony was calling in this pinto.”
“Meybe,” Pop agreed doubtfully. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Well, boss, do we camp? We can picket this hoss and come back for him later. He’ll stand, I reckon.”
“Won’t do much wanderin’ with his leg like that,” Bug Eye remarked. It was practically the first sentence he had uttered since they had left Jake Trummer’s place. “He’s got a sore there that seems as if it might have been made some time ago.”
“It was,” Teddy remarked laconically. “I brought Roy in to look at it the night he was stolen. That’s how I found he was gone. Wherever The Pup is, he’s on foot. Unless he got thrown, and is lying hurt somewhere.”
“And alone,” added Roy, with a note of pity in his voice.
The uselessness of attempting to find Marino in the dark was apparent to all, and, leaving the knoll on which he stood, Mr. Manley rode forward until he and Jake Trummer came to a spot which bordered on a group of trees.
“We can pitch camp here,” Mr. Trummer suggested. “There’s a spring in them trees, good an’ cold. In the mornin’ we can start at sun-up, and then, by golly, we’ll run them rustlers to earth. They don’t know we’re comin’, but they’ll learn soon enough. Tryin’ to lay the blame on me fer the cattle bein’ gone! Huh, I’m kinda anxious to meet Denver Smith an’ his gang!”
The horses were picketed some distance from the camping spot, a fire was built and blankets were unrolled. The night was cold, and the men huddled as closely as possible to the blaze, wrapped tightly in their thick coverings. The heavens were entirely obscured by clouds, and beyond the fire a blackness, like heavy velvet, covered the land.
Supper was soon concluded, for the party was “traveling light.” But three men had been told to carry rations, and, consequently, there was hardly enough from which to make a feast. But beans and bacon are filling, and no one went actually hungry.
There was little talk after supper. The finding of The Pup’s pony was commented upon, and guesses were hazarded concerning the whereabouts of Marino, but that was all. The men were tired, and tired men waste no time in idle talk. Definitely and directly they go to sleep.
Within an hour the only sounds to be heard were the uneasy neighings of the horses and the crackling of the fire as it burned brightly and then sank down again. Each man had his rifle by his side, in case he was awakened by a curious beast sniffing at his ear, but no one actually anticipated having to use the firearm.
Certainly they expected no human visitor. The rustlers, even if they were in the neighborhood, would avoid them studiously. True, each man there hoped that the ground they had covered brought them nearer their quarry, for a herd of cattle moves slowly. The only direction the thieves could have taken was the one in which they were traveling. Sooner or later they would come upon the missing cows, and, they hoped, also the beasts’ self-constituted guards.
The rustlers had certainly hoped to gain a long start on possible pursuers, because of the delay occasioned by reason of Jake Trummer’s being blamed for the disappearance of the Durhams. But their plans had miscarried, and this they did not know. Their conversation on the river had betrayed them.
Teddy’s sleep was troubled with dreams—dreams of cattle and huge bales of money and long knives with queer initials burned in the handle. Then he saw Gus, alone, weary, staggering over the prairie, shouting his name. So vivid was the impression that some one was calling him that he sat suddenly upright, with the word “Teddy!” still ringing clearly in his ears.
Then, as one aroused from a sleep gradually realizes the true state of affairs, the boy grinned, and once more lay down on the soft earth and pulled his blanket about him. Dreams are funny things, he thought. Sometimes they’re so real the rest of life seems unreal, and a dream itself.
“Getting poetical,” he muttered, and composed himself to rest, “just like old Roy.” The fire was still going, the embers glowing brightly.
Try as he would, Teddy could not sink again into slumber. He shut his eyes tightly and counted innumerable sheep, but sheep reminded him of cattle, and cattle brought a host of thoughts that were most disturbing. At last the boy sat up and threw his blanket from him.
“Guess I’ll chuck a few pieces of wood on the fire,” he said to himself. His mind formed clear sentences before him, describing his every movement, as is often the case of one who finds himself the victim of insomnia. As the boy made his way carefully from between the sleeping forms lying near, he murmured:
“Easy, now—mustn’t wake the others. Golly, it’s dark—cold, too! Glad the fire’s not out. I’m hungry. Listen to those horses whinny! Why don’t they go to sleep? I wonder where Gus is to-night? Funny how we came across The Pup’s horse and not The Pup. Here’s a stick that’ll do fine.” He threw it on the fire. “There, that’s better. Warmer! That Pop snoring? Must be. Sounds like a saw mill. Funny old geezer, Pop. Wish I could sleep like that.”
Small, unconnected thoughts kept buzzing through his brain. He walked around the fire, then seated himself near it, his knees drawn up, his chin resting on his hands. His dream came back to him, and he recalled that he had awakened with his own name ringing in his ears.
“Sure sounded as though some one was calling me,” he muttered, kicking a piece of wood further in to the heart of the flames. “Wonder what time it is? Must be after midnight. Snakes, there’s not a star out!”
He raised his head and stared vacantly up into the blackness. For a long moment he stayed in this position, then closed his eyes. He came to himself with a start.
“Well!” and he grinned. “Almost went to sleep sitting up. Guess I’ll seek my downy bed once more.”
He arose, and stretched. He stood there, his arms outstretched, staring at a dark form looming up on the opposite side of the fire—a strange, staggering form.
Teddy’s right hand leaped down to his belt and closed over the butt of his gun. But he did not draw, for at that moment the form of a man pitched headlong at his feet and lay still!