It was, indeed, the big Wisconsin lad. And although Larry felt almost staggered by surprise he overcame it by a tremendous effort.

“Good-evening, Tom,” he exclaimed, pulling up his horse with a jerk; “I thought I’d run over with these things. They seem to belong to you.” Whereupon he lowered to the ground Tom Clifton’s property.

Tom, not to be outdone, controlled his own astonishment.

“Thanks, Larry,” he said. “I was in a bit of a hurry, and so left ’em behind.”

“Why, these chaps seem to be spread out all over the prairie,” exclaimed Ashe.

“Aye, aye!” laughed Witmar.

Of course neither of the boys could restrain their impatience long. Larry simply burned with curiosity to learn what had taken place, and Tom was equally anxious to hear about “Little Fear-not’s” adventures. He even forgot to be disgusted with the big lad; while Larry, in his excitement and jubilation, entirely lost sight of his previous chagrin and disappointment.

The boys’ tongues flew rapidly. Larry touched but lightly upon his dismay at finding himself cut off from the settlement by the river; nor did he mention the dreadful moments passed behind the shelter of the bushes. Indeed one might have supposed that observing the movements of smugglers on a moonlight night was quite the most enjoyable thing in the world.

And at any other time he would have burst into peals of laughter at Tom’s thrilling description of his struggle with the mysterious assailant. But, under the circumstances, he was tremendously impressed with the seriousness of the encounter. In fact the two big lads seemed to have reached a better understanding of one another than they had ever had before.

“I was a dub to want to leave you chaps,” said Larry, candidly. “Jolly fine for you to come after me, Tom, an’ I won’t forget it.”

“We couldn’t think of losing such good company,” laughed the Rambler.

“Well, fellows,” put in Billy Ashe, “you’ve had a pretty lively night of it. Now I’m going to skip.”

“Where to?” asked Tom, interestedly.

“Over to the settlement. Witmar’ll stay here to guard the wagon.”

“Aye, aye!” said Witmar. “And a tiresome job, I call it.”

“Oh, we’ll stick by you,” said Tom. “Good company always seems to make the time pass faster.”

“How are you going to get across the river, Mr. Ashe?” asked Larry.

“Easy enough. The horse can wade. It isn’t over a man’s waist line.”

“Goodness gracious,” muttered Larry.

He felt half ashamed and half amused when he reflected how completely he had allowed the stream to block his plans.

“Still, it may be for the best,” he thought. “Honestly, I believe this experience has done me a pile of good. Besides, I’ve learned what a fine chap Tom Clifton really is.”

Billy Ashe, who had been conversing earnestly with Witmar, suddenly sang out: “So-long, fellows! Maybe I’ll see you again.”

“You certainly will,” laughed Tom. “Good-bye, and good luck!”

“Exactly my sentiments, too,” cried Larry.

The lads eyed the form of the trooper, rapidly growing smaller in the distance; then, when a patch of timber finally hid him from view, dismounted and picketed their horses.

“It’s a long time before daylight,” said Witmar. “I’d advise you to take a snooze.”

At first neither of the boys felt disposed to accept his suggestion. The excitement of the night had affected their nerves to too great an extent. But finally tiring of walking up and down, or endeavoring to draw the silent policeman into conversation, they spread out their blankets and lay down.

Tom was continually finding something new to relate about his adventures, and Larry, also, discovered several points he had omitted. Gradually, however, under the influence of the silent, peaceful night, their lively tongues began to be heard less and less, and in another hour Witmar alone was awake.

THE WHOLE CROWD WAS THERE

To Tom Clifton it seemed but an instant when his slumber was broken by the sound of voices and pounding of horses’ hoofs. He had a dim consciousness that this was but the part of a dream, until Witmar’s voice, raised as though in a loud hail, effectually startled sleep from his heavy eyes.

Tossing aside the blanket, he rose to a sitting position, then uttered a loud exclamation.

Several horsemen, riding at a good pace, were bearing down directly upon the wagon, and, to his unbounded amazement and delight, he recognized in the foremost the sturdy, athletic form of Bob Somers.

With a yell as loud as any Indian war-whoop the Rambler sprang to his feet, in his haste almost sprawling over the prostrate form of Larry Burnham, who, aroused in this startling fashion, added a weird cry to the din. This was about the last thing in the world the blond lad had expected.

He rubbed his eyes. Could it be possible? Yes, the whole crowd was there. The early morning sunlight bathed them in a rosy glow, while from revolvers and horses’ trappings came flashes and streaks of gleaming light.

“Bob Somers!” cried the delighted Tom, darting forward. “Great Scott, but this is jolly—a glorious surprise!”

“Aye, aye! It certainly is,” admitted Witmar.

“I’m nearly bowled over!” cried Larry.

A chorus of salutations came from the newcomers. They were all in a hilarious frame of mind. Thunderbolt’s coppery-hued visage, too, expressed the pleasure he felt.

“Didn’t expect us, eh?” laughed Bob. “Mighty glad to see you, Larry.”

Larry Burnham felt decidedly sheepish, for he realized that he had put the crowd to a great deal of trouble.

“They must think I played a mighty mean trick on ’em,” he mentally concluded. “Hang it all, I don’t see why I ever did such a thing!”

He waited in anticipation of either complaint or sarcastic remarks, but, to his surprise and gratitude, none came.

Of course it was some time before the excitement quieted down, and the Ramblers, on foot, gathered by the side of the wagon. Trooper Witmar surveyed the crowd with a quizzical smile.

“One might think,” he remarked, “that you chaps hadn’t seen each other for a month.”

“I guess it does look that way,” laughed Dave. He glanced at Tom. “I guess you’ve had a rather quiet time of it, eh?”

“Quiet time!” cried Tom. “Well, I rather think not! I had the fight of my life.”

This startling announcement immediately brought to a stop a volley of inquiries relative to the wagon and the presence of the trooper. Dick Travers, who had just uttered the word “Smugglers!” echoing a terse observation of the policeman, turned to stare at Tom in the utmost amazement.

“A scrap—a real scrap?” he cried, wonderingly.

“It certainly was a real scrap!” And Tom, who hugely enjoyed the sensation he had created, launched forth.

His tale held his listeners spellbound; and this time the Rambler did not forget a single point.

Numerous were the exclamations which punctuated his remarks.

“Well, that’s certainly a story with a punch to it!” cried Dick Travers.

Tom was bombarded with questions. The minutest particulars were insistently demanded. Like a lawyer cross-examining a witness, Sam Randall drew from him all the particulars he could in regard to his mysterious assailant.

“My, what a pity you didn’t get a good view of the fellow’s face,” he exclaimed, finally. “Think you’d recognize him again?”

“You bet!” cried Tom—“and lined up among a dozen.”

The crowd was not satisfied until Larry Burnham’s experiences were related; and not once during the whole recital did they make any unfavorable comment. Of course Larry could see that all this must have been arranged beforehand; but it increased his feeling of gratitude, especially as his companions highly praised his action in so courageously following the three riders.

“After such thrilling tales our own seems tame enough,” said Bob. “Several hours after you had gone, Tom, as things began to get rather dull, we decided to make a run over to the settlement ourselves. We camped on those hills yonder for the night. Sam, who was the early morning watch, sighted the wagon—you know the rest.”

“You’re a great lot,” laughed Witmar. “What’s the next thing you’re going to be up to?”

“I heard there’s been quite a bit of cattle rustling going on around here. So I suppose there must be ranch-houses within easy riding distance?”

“Aye, aye!” said Witmar. “The nearest is Jerry Duncan’s. A fine chap he is, too. Jerry’s lost quite a bunch of steers.”

“If there’s a house so close I propose we call on the owner,” put in Dave Brandon. “After such a long ride we ought to have a good rest before going on our trip to the border.”

The thought of a nice big room proved so irresistible to the comfort-loving Dave that he spoke eloquently on the subject. And the crowd, never liking to go against his wishes, finally put the question to a vote.

Tom, notwithstanding his anxiety to reach their destination, cast his ballot for the affirmative side, remarking:

“Who knows, fellows, perhaps Jerry Duncan may be able to give us some information about Jed Warren?”

Policeman Witmar, who had heard from Billy Ashe all about the amazing search of the Ramblers, much to the tall boy’s astonishment guffawed loudly.

“Well?” demanded Tom, in his gruffest voice.

Witmar diplomatically evaded a direct answer.

“There are lots of ranchmen and cowpunchers over in that direction who knew Jed Warren,” he said.

“That settles it,” declared Tom. “I’m glad we’re going.”