“That was a shame,” Dave insisted.
“I don’t think so. If six of us can’t take care of one stray tramp, not much larger than any of us, then we’re too tender, and ought to be sleeping in little white cribs at home.”
“Oh, stop that talk!” urged Dave.
“I mean what I said,” Dick retorted. “We’re big enough, and numerous enough, to guard our own camp.”
“Of course we are; but we’ll have to give up some sleep to accomplish that,” Dave contended.
“Whoever loses sleep in the night time can make it up in the day time. And now, Darry, get to bed!”
“But we’ve got to remain on watch.”
“You’ll feel bad, in the morning, if deprived of your sleep. I’ll stay up for a while yet, and then call Tom Reade.”
“So I’m no good for guard duty, eh?” snorted Darry.
“Not a bit,” said Dick cheerfully. “You’re as sleepy and as cross as can be, right at this minute. Go and tuck in, Davy.”
Darrin snorted again, then glared at Dick’s placid face. Suddenly Dave broke into a hearty chuckle, slapping his chum on the back.
“You’re all right, Dick,” he declared. “You know how to keep your temper, talk smoothly, and yet hit harder than if you used a club. No, sirree! I’m not cross, even though I may be tired. I’m not cross, and I can thrash into subjection any fellow who dares hint that I’m cross, or that my temper is on a rampage. You go and turn in, Dick.”
“Not yet.”
“Then we’ll both stay up and watch together.”
“I’ll tell you what,” proposed Dick.
“Well?”
“Bring your cot out here. I’ll let you sleep for an hour by my watch. Then I’ll call you, and you hold the watch and let me sleep for an hour. There is no sense in both of us losing our rest at the same time. Yet, if either fellow needs the other, he’ll have him right under his hand.”
“All right,” nodded Dave. “Anything, as long as I’m not accused of being a sleepy head.”
“A sleepy head?” Prescott repeated. “Why, when I called to you fellows for help you were the only one who responded. No; I wouldn’t call you an incurable sleepy head, Darry.”
Now wholly restored to good humor Dave went back into the tent, lifting his cot and bringing it out to within a few feet of the campfire.
“You take the first nap, Dick,” begged Dave.
“No; you take it.”
“But I’m not sleepy; honestly I’m not.”
So Prescott lay down on the cot, closing his eyes.
The sunlight, streaming into his face, awakened him.
“Why—why—where’s Darry?” thought Dick, sitting up straight.
The sound of deep breathing answered him. Dave sat with his back propped against a tree, sound asleep. He had slept for hours, evidently, having fallen asleep through sheer, uncontrollable drowsiness.
Rising from the cot Dick stretched himself for he was still drowsy. Then he tip-toed over to where the food was stored, peering in.
“I can’t see that our friend, the enemy, has been here again,” Dick smiled. He glanced at Darry, but did not awake that tired youngster.
As noiselessly as he could Prescott busied himself with starting a small campfire that could be made larger when needed. This done, he set water to boil.
“Ho-hum!” yawned Tom Reade, dressed only in underclothes and trousers, as he stood in the tent doorway half an hour later.
Dick placed his fingers to his lips, whispering:
“Don’t rouse the other fellows. They’re tired.”
“Darry certainly looks tired,” smiled Tom, regarding Dave in the uncomfortable posture by the tree.
Yet, though he must have been quite uncomfortable had he been awake, Darry slumbered on. Greg came out, looked at Dave and smiled. Then Hazelton, next Dalzell, came outside.
“What is the cot doing out here?” Danny Grin was the first to inquire.
“We had a visit from the prowler in the night,” Dick replied, “and Dave and I stayed on guard.”
“Was Darry as efficient all through the guard tour as he is just now?” demanded Reade ironically.
“That’s all right for you fellows,” retorted Dick, “who even slept right past my call for help. Let Dave alone. Let him finish his nap, no matter how long he sleeps.”
But at that moment Darrin opened his eyes, then leaped to his feet, a victim of red-faced confusion.
“What are all you fellows laughing at?” Dave demanded.
So far none had done more than grin, but now a very general roar went up.
“I’m a chump, on guard duty, and I admit it,” Darrin went on, looking sheepish. “Dick, when you found me asleep why didn’t you call me?”
“Because,” Prescott answered, “when you went to sleep I judged that you did so because you needed the rest.”
“I must have been sound asleep from at least one o’clock in the morning,” Dave went on ruefully. “Oh, I am a fellow to be trusted, I am!”
“If you’ve been sleeping, with your back against that tree, from one in the morning, you must be as stiff and lame as you could possibly be,” Reade suggested.
“I am pretty lame,” Darrin confessed.
“Are you fellows ever going to hustle about and make some moves toward getting breakfast?” inquired young Prescott.
“What have you been doing in that line?” Danny Grin wanted to know.
For answer Dick Prescott pointed to the merrily blazing campfire and the steaming kettle of water.
“I am ready to do a lot more, too,” Dick added, “as soon as the rest of you will show signs of life.”
At that there was a general bustling.
“Why didn’t you wake me up in time to save me from all the joshing?” Darry demanded, with a note of reproach in his voice, as soon as he got a chance to speak with Dick alone. “Tom Reade won’t be through all summer with tormenting me about being asleep at the switch.”
“No one would have known anything about it, if you hadn’t given it away yourself, both by look and words,” Prescott returned. “I hadn’t said a word that enlightened anyone.”
Breakfast was soon ready, for hungry boys, in the woods, are always ready to eat.
While the meal was being disposed of Prescott told his chums of the visit during the night, and of his own share and Dave’s in trying to nab the tantalizing prowler.
“How many such regiments of guards as Darry, would it take to guard this camp properly at night?” asked Tom dryly.
“It seems to me,” Prescott remarked, “that you fellows will do very well to sing mighty low about Dave’s drowsiness. When I had to call for help last night he was the only one with an ear quick enough to hear me and come to my support. What was the matter with the rest of you, sleepy heads, or did you hear and feel that it might be dangerous to turn out in the middle of the night?”
That last taunt had the desired effect. Darrin was allowed to eat his breakfast in peace.
After the meal was over the boys sat around the camp for a few minutes. Each hated to be the first to make a move toward the drudgery of dish-washing and camp cleaning.
“After we get things to rights,” inquired Reade, “what is to be the programme for the day?”
“There’s a pond east of us that is said to hold perch,” Dave answered. “I’m going to take fishing tackle and go in search of a mess of fish. Anyone going with me?”
“I will,” offered Danny Grin.
“As for me,” spoke up Tom, “I have a line on a place where blueberries grow in profusion. Harry, will you go along with me and pick berries?”
“If it isn’t over five miles away,” Hazelton assented cautiously.
“Then what are we going to do!” asked Greg Holmes, turning to Prescott.
“From the plans we’ve heard laid down,” smiled Dick, “I think we will have to stay right here and keep the prowler from dropping in to carry away the rest of our provisions.”
“Bother such sport as that!” snorted Greg.
“Humph! It may turn out to be the liveliest sport of all,” declared Dick dryly. “Certainly if that fellow turns up it will take two of us to handle him with comfort. He’s a tough customer.”
“Dan, you always were an artist with a shovel,” suggested Darry insinuatingly. “Suppose you get out the spade and see what sort of perch bait you can turn up in this neighborhood.”
“Me?” drawled Dalzell protestingly. “Shucks! I’m no good at finding bait. Never was.”
“Get the spade and try,” ordered Darry. “If you don’t find some bait we’ll have to put off fishing until some other day.”
That brought Dan to terms. He shouldered a spade, picked up an empty vegetable can and started away, while Dave began to sort tackle and to rig on hooks suitable for catching perch. Tom and Harry started in to unpack supplies from a pair of six-quart pails that they needed for the morning’s work.
“Say, hear that, fellows!” demanded Tom, straightening up suddenly.
From the distance to the northward came a dull rumbling sound.
“Thunder?” suggested Danny Grin, glancing wonderingly up at the clear sky.
“If there’s a storm coming it will upset a day’s berrying,” Reade announced.
“Fellows,” Dick broke in, “it’s a rumbling, yet it doesn’t sound just like thunder, either. It sounds more like—–“
“Cavalry on a gallop,” suggested Greg.
“Just what it does sound a lot like,” Prescott nodded. Then he dropped to the ground, holding one ear close to the earth.
“And, whatever the rumble may be,” Prescott went on, “it travels along the ground. Just get your ears down, fellows.”
“It’s something big, and it’s moving this way,” cried Dave.
“It can’t be cavalry,” Tom argued. “There are no manoeuvres on; there is no state camp ever held in this part of the state, either. What do you—–“
But Dick Prescott was up on his feet by this time. Furthermore, he was running. He stopped at the base of the trunk of the first tall tree. Up he went with much of the speed of a squirrel. Higher and higher he made his way among the branches.
“Say, be careful there, Dick!” called Tom Reade, warningly. “If you get a tumble—–“
“I’m not a booby, I hope,” Dick called down, as he went to still loftier heights. He was now among the slender uppermost branches, where a boy would need to be a fine climber in order to make such swift progress. Even Dick Prescott might readily enough snap a branch now, and come tumbling to earth.
“Stop!” warned Tom. “If you don’t you’ll butt your head into a cloud, the first thing you know.”
“Can you see anything?” called Danny Grin.
“I see quite a cloud of dust to the northward.”
“How far off?” asked Dave.
“About a mile, I should say, and it’s headed this way, coming closer every minute.”
“What’s behind the cloud? Can you make out?” Greg bawled up.
“I’m trying to see,” Dick replied. “There, I got a glimpse then. It’s some kind of animals, heading for this camp at a gallop.”
“It can’t be cavalry,” shouted Reade. “You don’t see any men, do you?”
“No,” Prescott called down, shielding his eyes with one hand. “Say, fellows!”
“Have you guessed what it is?” demanded Harry Hazelton.
“I know what it is—now!” Dick answered. Then he began to descend the tree with great speed.
“Careful, there!” shouted Tom Reade. “That isn’t a low baluster you’re sliding down.”
“Keep quiet, until I reach the ground,” gasped Dick. As he came nearer those below saw that he looked truly startled.
Then Dick reached the low branches, and began to look for a chance to jump.
“We’ve got to get out of here, fellows!” he called. “You know the trick that cattle—owners have in this part of the county of turning their cattle out to graze in one bunch. That bunch is headed this way—hundreds strong, and it’s going to rush through this camp, trampling everything in the way!”
CHAPTER VII
FIGHTING THE MAD STAMPEDE
“Nothing doing, and don’t get excited,” replied Tom Reade, shaking his head.
“There will be a lot doing in three or four minutes,” Prescott retorted excitedly. “The cattle are stampeded, and they’ll sweep through here like a cyclone.”
“The trees will break up the stampede,” Tom insisted coolly.
“Not much they won’t,” Dick answered. “The cattle are headed along a natural lane, where the trees are less thick than in other parts of the forest.”
“The trees will stop ’em before they get here,” Reade insisted.
“The trees will do nothing of the sort,” uttered Dick, glancing swiftly about him. “The cattle are among the trees already. Just hear that rumble. And it’s a lot closer now.”
“I reckon we’d better move, do it now, and do it fast,” cried Hazelton, who knew that Dick’s judgment was generally the best.
“And leave our camp to be trampled down and made a complete wreck by a lot of crazy cattle?” gasped Greg Holmes.
“I’d rather have the camp trampled than my face,” retorted Dalzell.
“I don’t want to flee from here and leave the camp to be destroyed, and our summer’s fun spoiled,” protested Greg. “We must stop the cattle, or split their stampede.”
“All right, Holmesy,” agreed Tom ironically. “I appoint you to do my full share in stopping a stampede of cattle.” Reade’s face had suddenly grown very grave as he now realized that the trees were not stopping the frenzied cattle.
Dick, who had been thinking, suddenly wheeled, making a break for the supplies.
“Get a box of matches, each one of you!” he shouted. “Then sprint with me for that patch of sun-baked grass just north of us.”
“What’s the idea?” Dave asked, but Dick was already running fast.
“Get your matches and come on!” Dick called back over his shoulder.
As speedily as could be done the others followed suit. Dick reached the sun-burned strip of grass, whose nearer edge was some two hundred yards north of camp.
“Hey! He’s starting a forest fire!” gasped Dan Dalzell, as he caught sight of young Prescott bending over the dried, yellowish grass.
“Scatter, all along the strip!” shouted Prescott, rising as soon as he had ignited a clump of grass. “Get this whole strip of burned grass blazing. It’s the only chance to save the camp—or ourselves!”
Dalzell shivered. Nor could Dan understand how such a course would serve to save their camp. But he saw the others following their leader’s orders.
“Get over the ground, Dan!” bellowed Dick, as he sprinted to another point. “Start a lot of blazes!”
So Danny Grin fell in line with the movements of the others, though he felt not a little doubt as to the wisdom of the course.
Flame was now spurting up over more than an acre of the sun-baked strip of grass.
“Get a lot more of the grass going, fellows!” panted Dick, who was working like a beaver and dripping with perspiration. “It’s our only hope. Hustle!”
With the flames arose a dense cloud of smoke. As the wind was from the southwest the smoke was in the faces of the onrushing cattle.
“There! We’ve done all we can!” bellowed Dick, running down the line formed by his chums. “Now, get back out of this roasting furnace.”
Close to the edge of the burning strip of grass the six high school boys now stood side by side gazing at their work.
“We’d better scoot!” counseled Danny Grin.
“Where can we go?” Dick shouted, in order to make himself heard over the crackling flames and the greater noise of the pounding hoofs. “If we’re not safe behind a curtain of flame, there is no other place near where we’d be safer.”
Danny Grin turned to bolt, but Darry reached out, catching him by the collar and throwing him to the ground.
“Don’t be a fool, Danny, and don’t be panic stricken,” Darrin advised. “We’re safer here, at least, than we can be anywhere else within a quarter of a mile.”
The bellow of a bull through the forest—a bellow taken up by other bulls—made all of the boys quake in their shoes. But none of the lads ran away.
Gazing between the trees they soon made out a stirring sight.
On came the stampede, cattle packed so tightly that any animal falling could only be trampled to death by those behind.
“My, but that’s a grand sight!” cried Tom Reade.
Not one of the six boys but longed to take to his heels. To them it seemed absolutely impossible for the cattle to turn aside as they must dash on through the blazing grass, such was the pressure from behind. Yet not one of Dick & Co. turned to run.
Suddenly three of the bulls went down to their knees, snorting and bellowing furiously. Half a dozen cows held back from the flames, only to be trampled and killed.
Somehow, the powerful bulls staggered to their feet, then broke to one side.
A dozen more cows plunged on into the blazing grass, then sank, overcome by the heat.
It seemed like a miracle as, following the bulls, the herd split, some going east, others west, and carrying the swerving cattle after them in two frantic streams.
In some way that the boys could not understand, the pressure of cattle from the rear accommodated itself to the movement of the forepart of the herd. The herd divided now swept on rapidly, going nearly east and west in two sections.
Not until some six hundred crazy cattle had passed out of view did the boys feel like speaking. Indeed, they felt weak from the realization of the peril they had so narrowly escaped.
“I think, fellows,” proposed Dave Darrin huskily at last, “that we owe a whopping big vote of thanks to good old Dick Prescott!”
“After we pass that vote,” proposed Hazelton, “we’d better make all haste to get out of these woods before the owner of this stretch of forest comes along to nab the fellows who set his timber afire.”
“Do you see any trees ablaze?” Dick demanded.
Now, for the first time, two or three of the fellows began to realize the value of Dick’s idea. The sun-burned grass, some three acres in extent, was a clearing devoid of trees. Here the July heat had baked the turf. On all sides, under the trees beyond, the grass was still green. Any boy who has ever been in the country knows that green grass won’t burn. Hence the blaze was limited to a small area. A few trees whose trunks were near the edge of the clearing were smoking slightly, but no damage was done to the timber. There was really no work to be done in extinguishing this fire, which, furious while it lasted, was now dying out.
“Let’s get back and see how our camp fared,” proposed Hazelton.
“We don’t have to,” Dick replied. “We saw the directions taken by the cattle, and they didn’t go anywhere near our camp. Let’s wait, and, as soon as the ground is cool enough, let’s get out to the injured cows, and see if we can help any of them.”
Hardly had Dick spoken when one of the cows, right at the edge of the blackened clearing, rose clumsily, then moved slowly northward. Presently another cow followed suit.
“We can get over the ground now,” said Dick. “Let’s go out and look at these animals.”
They counted eight dead cows, their unwieldy carcasses lying motionless on the burned grass.
“Probably killed by the hot air that they drew into their lungs,” commented Tom Reade.
“We killed the poor beasts,” said Danny Grin, with a catch in his breath.
“Perhaps we did,” Dick admitted. “But we had to do something. Anyhow, we broke the force of the stampede, and, if that hadn’t been checked, a still greater number of cows would have been killed. They would have fallen, exhausted, and then they would have been trampled on and killed by the plunging cattle behind them.”
“That’s true enough,” nodded Tom. “Even if we did kill a few, I guess we’re more entitled to praise than reproach.”
Two more cows presently got up and limped away, but there were four others still alive, yet too badly hurt to attend to themselves.
Nor could the high school boys help, further than by carrying buckets of water to the suffering animals. Dick & Co. had no firearms along, and could not put the injured cows out of their misery.
“Now, let’s get out of here,” urged Dick at last. “We can’t do any good here, and this is no pleasant sight to gaze upon.”
“It seems too bad to leave all this prime roast beef on the ground, doesn’t it?” hinted Tom. “And we fellows have such good appetites.”
“The cattle are not ours,” Dick rejoined. “We have no right to help ourselves to any cuts of meat from the dead animals.”
So they returned to the camp, which they found, of course, quite undisturbed.
It so happened that the four members of the party who had proposed going to other scenes for the forenoon forgot their projects.
CHAPTER VIII
VISITORS FOR THE FEAST
Bang! bang! sounded in the direction of the burned-over clearing.
“Let’s go over and see what that means,” proposed Tom.
He jumped up, ready to sprint over to the clearing.
“If you want advice,” Dick offered, “I’d say to wait until the shooting is over. You might stop a stray bullet not intended for us.”
“But what can the shooting mean” wondered Greg.
“When anyone is turning bullets loose,” remarked Darry, “I’m not too inquisitive.”
So the boys waited until the firing had ceased. Then they heard what sounded like the noise of a horse moving through the brush.
“Hello, there!” called Dick.
“Hello, yourself!” came the answer, and a mounted man rode into view. He did not look especially ugly or dangerous; his garb was plainly intended for the saddle. As he came into sight the man slipped a heavy automatic revolver into a saddle holster.
“What was up?” inquired Dick, rising and going forward to meet the newcomer.
“Stampede,” replied the other briefly.
“We know something about that,” Dick rejoined.
“Do you know anything about the burning of the clearing?” asked the horseman, reining up and eyeing the lads keenly.
“Yes, sir; we fired the grass,” Prescott acknowledged.
“To break the stampede?”
“No, sir; to save our camp, which would have been destroyed.”
“Shake,” invited the stranger, riding forward and bending over to hold out his hand. “Your fire cost us a few cattle, but I reckon it saved the destruction of a lot more, for there would have been many of ’em killed if they had charged on into the deeper forest.”
“Then the stampede has been stopped?” asked Prescott.
“Yes; two of my men followed the parted trails, and came back to report the two herds halted and grazing. My name is Ross. I’m the owner of about a fourth of the cattle in the big herd.”
“I hope you don’t feel angry with us for doing the best we could to save our camp,” Dick went on.
“You saved myself and the other owners a greater loss,” replied Mr. Ross, “so I thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Ross,” smiled Tom Reade. “But what was the shooting about?”
“I shot some of the cattle that appeared to be still alive, to put an end to their suffering. You boys haven’t any ice here, have you?”
“No, sir,” Dick replied.
“Too bad,” said Mr. Ross. “If you had ice I could offer you a prime lot of beef that it will hardly pay me to move, as I can’t get the animals cut up quickly enough and on ice, after the long haul I would have to make.”
“Are you going to leave the cattle on the clearing?” Dick asked in sudden concern.
“We’ll bury the carcasses,” smiled Mr. Ross. “If we didn’t the smell would soon force you boys to move your camp a mile or two. But see here! Ever have a barbecue?”
“No, sir,” Dick made answer, his voice betraying sudden interest.
“Would you like one?” went on the owner. “A barbecue, real western style, with a whole cow on the fire?”
“It would be great!” answered nearly all of Dick & Co. in concert.
“Then we’ll have one, as soon as I can call my men in,” replied Mr. Ross cheerfully. “I’m bound to get some good out of the dead cattle.”
“We’ll want a lot of firewood for that, won’t we?” asked Dick, his eyes gleaming.
“More than a little,” nodded Mr. Ross. “And big wood, at that.”
“Dave, you and Tom had better take the axes and get some real wood,” Prescott called. “Harry and Dan will help you and bring it in. Where shall we put the wood, Mr. Ross?”
“In the middle of the burnt clearing will be better,” replied the cattle owner. “Then the fire won’t have a chance to spread in any direction. Besides, you won’t want the heat of a great fire too close to your camp. After the meat is cooked we can bring it over here. Have you boys plenty of canned vegetables and the like?”
“Plenty, sir,” Dick answered cheerily, though his heart sank a trifle as he thought of how the cattle owner and his helpers might clean out their stock.
Dick and Greg busied themselves with carrying over to the clearing such things as Mr. Ross said that they would need. Then it was decided that the vegetables should be cooked at the camp.
“Let me see your stock of provisions and perhaps I may get another idea,” proposed the cattle owner. “I see that you have flour, and oh, yes; you have all that will be needed for a pudding, and one of my men knows how to make one of the best boiled puddings you ever ate out under the sky.”
Drawing a small horn from one of his side pockets, Mr. Ross blew a long, shrill blast.
“Jim will come in as soon as possible, after hearing that sound,” smiled the cattle owner.
Jim Hornby rode in within five minutes. He was a lean, long, roughened and reddened farm laborer, but when told that a boiled pudding was wanted he walked straight to the place where the supplies were kept.
“Everything here but berries,” Jim explained. “Any of you boys know where to get some blueberries?”
Greg knew, and promptly departed with a pail.
Crackle! Crackle! Two brisk fires were now going in the burnt clearing, started by Dick at Mr. Ross’ direction. By this time Mr. Ross’ other helper had come in, reporting that the cattle were quiet and grazing, and now this helper and his employer began to remove the hide from one of the cows.
“This cow was overcome by smoke and hot air as soon as it rushed into the blaze,” explained Mr. Ross. “Therefore, this will be safe meat to eat. When an animal, however, dies in pain, after much suffering, its flesh should never be used for food. Bill, now that we’ve gotten the hide off you mount and ride back to the wagon. Bring it along.”
Dan and Harry were still bringing in heavy firewood and stacking it up, while the ring of axes in the hands of Dave and Tom was heard. It was a busy scene.
“Prescott, you’d better begin piling on the big wood now,” suggested Mr. Ross, after noting the sun’s position.
Things moved rapidly along.
“You might as well halt your wood cutters, unless you want their product for your own camp,” suggested the cattle owner, and Prescott sent the word to stop chopping.
Within twenty minutes the big wagon, drawn by a pair of mules, came up with Bill Hopple driving and his horse tied to the tailboard.
With a speed and skill born of long practice, Mr. Ross began to cut up the carcass of the cow. Bill was busy making greenwood spits and arranging them over the two fires, Dan and Harry helping him.
Almost at a dead run came Greg Holmes through the woods, with two quarts of blueberries. Over at the camp, as soon as he saw the berries, Jim Hornby began mixing his pudding batter. He had already prepared his fire and had found a suitable kettle.
From watching the pudding game, Tom strolled through to the two fires in the clearing.
“This begins to look like a fine chance to eat,” sighed Tom full of contentment.
“Doing anything, Reade?” inquired the cattle owner, who had quickly learned all their names.
“No, sir.”
“Then suppose you take this heart of the cow over to your camp. Put it on the fire in a kettle of salted water, and let it boil slowly. By that means you will be able to serve up the heart for your evening meal.”
“Is there no end to this cow?” gasped Tom.
“Well, a good-sized cow provides several hundred pounds of meat,” replied Mr. Ross. “Oh, what a shame that you boys have no ice, and no way of getting it or keeping it! I could fix you for a month’s supply of meat!”
“Dick, do you remember what we came out here in the woods for?” queried Tom.
“To camp, and have a good time,” Prescott laughed. “And, so far, we win. We’re having a bully time!”
“What else did we come out here for?”
“To harden and train ourselves so that we can make a hard try for the Gridley High School football eleven this fall.”
“Will a week of training table undo the harm of to-day’s big feasts?” groaned Reade.
“No fellow is obliged to make a glutton of himself,” retorted Dick.
“Maybe not,” quoth Tom, “but everyone of us will be sorely tempted. You ought to see that pudding that Jim Hornby is putting up.”
“Young man, are you going to get that heart to cooking before it goes bad in the sun?” asked Mr. Ross sharply.
Tom meekly turned and started toward camp.
“What’s Greg doing?” Dick called after him.
“Holmesy is watching, learning the way Jim Hornby puts up a boiled pudding,” Reade called back.
Honk! honk! sounded an automobile horn from the rough trail of a roadway an eighth of a mile away. The honking continued until Dick, realizing that it was a signal, gave a loud halloo.
“Is that Prescott’s camp?” called a voice.
“It’s the camp of Prescott and his friends,” Dick shouted back.
“Get ready for visitors, then!” called the voice again, and this time Dick recognized the voice as that of Dr. Bentley.
“We won’t eat you out of supplies, though,” called the doctor, now heading through the forest. “We’re bringing with us our own cold lunch.”
“Cold lunch!” Dick chuckled back. “You won’t be able to eat it after you see what we have!”
Through the trees now the fluttering of skirts could be seen. High school girls were on their way to share the barbecue, though as yet they did not know of the treat in store for them.
CHAPTER IX
DICK’S WOODLAND DISCOVERY
“You couldn’t have come at a finer time!” cried Dick joyously, as he raced to meet the most welcome visitors.
“We’re barbecuing a whole cow.”
“Then I trust, Prescott, that you came honestly by the cow,” rejoined Dr. Bentley his eyes twinkling.
Besides Dr. and Mrs. Bentley, there were eight girls. The visitors quickly explained that, besides the Bentley touring car, that of the Sharps was being used on this expedition, Susie Sharp being one of the girls of the party. The Sharps did not employ a chauffeur, but their general man knew how to run the car, and he was now engaged in taking the cars to a spot well off the road.
“I’ll send one of the fellows to get him,” Dick promised, as he led the numerous though welcome guests to camp.
“Lucky I made a special big pudding,” grinned Jim Hornby.
“The girls may have my share,” gallantly offered Tom Reade, though he groaned under his breath.
“There’s pudding enough for a lot more people than we have here,” returned Jim. “I don’t bother making small puddings.”
The boys were all called in quickly to greet the girls and Dr. and Mrs. Bentley. Of course, the girls had to see the interior of the tent, and all the arrangements of the camp.
“I wish I were a boy,” sighed Laura Bentley enviously.
“I’m glad you’re not,” spoke Dick gallantly. “You’re ever so much nicer as a girl.”
Honk! honk! sounded over by the road. The noise continued.
“Greg,” said Dick, “that’s Miss Sharp’s father’s man. Evidently he wants something. You’d better run over.”
In less than five minutes back came Greg with three other men, all of them unexpected. Mr. Alonzo Hibbert, minus his four-quart hat, and wearing a flat straw hat instead, as well as light clothes and silk negligee shirt, came in advance of Tom Colquitt, the man from Blinders’ detective agency. Still to the rear of them was a third man, slightly bent and looking somewhat old, though there were no gray streaks in his light brown hair.
“How do you do, boys?” called Mr. Hibbert airily, as he came swiftly forward. “We saw a big smoke over this way, and so we stopped to find out what was the matter. Young Holmes has asked us to stop for your barbecue, but it looks to me like a terrible imposition on you, and so—–“
Here Mr. Hibbert paused, looking highly embarrassed as he caught sight of Mrs. Bentley and the girls coming out of the tent.
“You already have other company,” murmured Hibbert apologetically. “No; most decidedly we must not intrude on you.”
“How do you do, Mr. Colquitt?” was Dr. Bentley’s greeting. Then other introductions followed, and, ere he knew it, Hibbert and his friends were members of the party and destined to partake of the barbecue feast.
The oldish-looking man with the new arrivals proved to be Mr. Calvin Page.
“He’s the millionaire father of the missing boy that Colquitt and I are trying to find,” Hibbert explained to Dick.
“Have you any clue, as yet?” Prescott inquired.
“Nothing worth while,” sighed Lon Hibbert.
“It’s too bad,” murmured Dick. “Mr. Page is a fine-looking man, but he must be lonely.”
“He is,” agreed Lon Hibbert.
“His wife is dead, isn’t she?”
“Yes; and Page would give the world to find that boy of his.”
“Perhaps if he doesn’t find his son it may be as well,” Dick hinted.
“Why, as well?”
“The missing son, brought up by others, might have turned out badly,” Prescott suggested.
“Pooh!” quickly rejoined Lon Hibbert. “That missing son, no matter how wild or bad he may be, is still young enough to reform. Prescott, no matter how bad that son may be, it will be a blessing for my friend Page to find his boy! I pray that it may be my good fortune to run across that son, one of these days, and that I may be the first to recognize the boy.”
“Prescott,” broke in Mr. Ross, coming forward, “you don’t begin to have enough knives, forks and plates to take care of this crowd, do you?”
“I’m sorry to say that we haven’t,” Dick smiled. “But we’ll manage that all right. My friends and I will play waiters, and sit at second table after the dishes have been washed.”
“You won’t have to,” replied the cattle owner. “I have a folding table and dishes in my wagon, and I’ll send Bill Hopple after ’em.”
So the tables were set under the shade of the trees, not far from the campfire. The Sharps man came up, and was seated with Jim and Bill. Everything being now cooked, the feast began.
“I’ve never had anything as wonderful as this happen to me before,” cried Belle Meade, as she seated herself and looked over the two tables with sparkling eyes. “Girls, we didn’t look forward to such a treat as this when we left Gridley this morning.”
“You intended to look in on us, didn’t you?” inquired Darry.
“Yes; but we brought our own luncheons,” said Laura. “We didn’t expect you to do anything for us—unless you boys had happened to catch a mess of fish.”
“We were planning to go fishing this morning,” Tom Reade explained, “although we do not know whether the fishing near here amounts to much. May I pass you some of this sirloin, Miss Marshall?”
Gay spirits ruled, as they usually do and always should when young people are together out in the open, far from studies or from any of the other cares of life.
Dick told the story of the stampede, while Mr. Ross added much about the peculiarities of stampeding cattle and the impossibility of controlling the animals while their mad fright lasts.
“I am certain that this is the finest meal I have ever eaten,” declared Mr. Page, who, up to the present, had been rather silent.
“There is only one thing it needs,” rejoined Mr. Ross. “If we had about six roasted ears of corn for each diner then this barbecue would be a huge success.”
“Not even the corn could improve it,” declared Laura Bentley, as Dick helped her to more of the roasted meat.
“Don’t forget that pudding, ladies and gentlemen!” called out Jim Hornby, from where he sat. “That pudding is my best kind, and the best one of its kind that I ever turned out. When you have the pudding you won’t be thinking of a little thing like roasted ears of corn.”
“No more, thank you,” replied Clara Marshall, as Greg tried to secure her plate in order to help her to more food.
“Until the pudding comes on,” prompted Jim Hornby.
“Until the pudding arrives,” smiled Clara.
“But no one may think of having pudding yet,” insisted Mr. Ross, with mock gravity. “I forbid that anyone should have pudding, or even think of it, until we have tried the one really delicious dish of this feast.”
“And what may that be?” called Dr. Bentley.
“The best part of the cow,” replied Mr. Ross.
“A big rib roast, served with cracked bones with the marrow cooked in them. Come along, Bill. We’ll bring back the roast and the marrow.”
Ross and his man moved briskly out of sight. Only a few moments had passed when Mr. Ross’ voice was heard from the clearing:
“_Thieves_! The rib roast is gone—so is the marrow!”
Dick glanced swiftly at his chums. The same idea was in the minds of all the members of Dick & Co.
“Our friend, the prowler, has been here,” muttered Prescott, rising hastily. “This thing has got to be stopped. Come along, fellows! Friends, please excuse us for a few moments.”
At a dog trot Dick led the way to the clearing. There stood Mr. Ross, looking the picture of indignation.
“I didn’t know there were tramps in these woods,” muttered the cattle owner.
“Tramp, thief, or whatever he is,” exclaimed Dick Prescott, “that fellow must move on out of this part of the country. If he doesn’t we’ll catch him. After we get through with him, he’ll be glad enough to move on.”
“If he’s able,” added Dave Darrin significantly.
“Oh, what’s the use of making a fuss, this time?” demanded Tom Reade good-humoredly. “For once we have so much meat that we could spare a hungry man two hundred pounds and not miss it.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” muttered Dick, who was studying the ground intently. “That big, hulking fellow doesn’t care a rap whether we have plenty, or whether he takes all we have. We’ve got to suppress him. We must catch him, and put a stop to his thieving. See! Here’s where he went off through the woods. Come on! We’ll trail him!”
“And, if we find him?” asked Greg.
“We’ll try to reason with the fellow,” responded Prescott rather grimly.
Just as the boys started off on the trail that Prescott had discovered, other figures appeared on the scene.
“Now, may I ask what you girls are doing here?” asked Tom, his tone more agreeable than his words.
“We want to see the fun, whatever is going to happen,” declared Susie Sharp.
“Oh, there will be plenty of that, I promise you, if we can find the fellow,” asserted Darry bluntly.
“Come along, girls!” cried Belle Meade gleefully.
“But there may be something disagreeable happen, you know, girls,” Dick warned them. “If we overtake this fellow there may be a fight.”
“If you could call it a fight, when six Gridley high school boys attack one man, then I shall have to change my mind about our high school boys,” hinted Laura Bentley teasingly.
It was plain enough that the girls were bent on following them, so no more objections were raised.
“We’ll travel so fast that the girls won’t be able to keep up,” whispered Tom Reade to Dick. “We’ll lose ’em, and they’ll be glad to hike back to the table.”
This, however, proved to be not quite as easy as had been expected. The trail into the woods was rather a plain one, though it could not be followed at a run.
“Keep behind me, fellows,” urged Dick. “If you keep up with me you may blot out the trail.”
So his five chums came after him, with the girls in the rear, in a straggling line.
Into the deepest woods the trail led. “The girls will soon tire of this chase, and face about,” Tom told Darry.
Which was precisely what happened.
In the deepest part of the woods Dick parted a tangle of bushes through which the trail led. Then, in a voice vibrant with agitation, he shouted:
“Come on, fellows! Quick!”
CHAPTER X
SETTING A NEW TRAP
What Dick had caught sight of, and what had made him call to his chums was the figure of the camp prowler partially dressed seated on the edge of a pool of water fed by a forest brook where evidently he had been bathing.
He had heard Dick’s cry, however. These few instants of time had been enough for the bather to jump up, snatch up the remainder of his clothes and set off through the woods with the speed of an antelope.
“Come on!” cheered Dick Prescott. “Full speed! We’ll catch him. He hasn’t his shoes on, and his bare feet will soon go lame on the twigs and stones that he’ll step on in running. He can’t go far before we nab him.”
“Spread out, fellows!” called Tom Reade. “Don’t let the rascal slip through our line. Dick, did you get a good look at him?”
“A fine peep,” Prescott affirmed.
“Was he the thief?” Dave demanded.
“The very fellow!” Dick called back, for he was still in the lead.
“Don’t talk any more,” Reade warned his friends cautiously. “We’ll use up our wind.”
As he ran Dick had an important secret on his mind. This was not quite the time to impart it to his chums, however, so he held his peace and did his best to save his wind.
Thus half a mile, at least, was quickly traversed. By this time the high school boys, running as they had done, began to feel winded.
“I can’t go any further,” gasped Hazelton, halting and leaning against a tree.
“I’m in the same fix,” muttered Danny Grin. as he, too, came to a stop.
Reade, Darrin and Prescott ran on some distance farther, but at last Dick called a brief signal for a halt.
“Where are you, friend?” bawled Dick, using his last wind in one resolute vocal effort.
“Friend!” scoffed Reade.
“Of course the fellow will call and tell us where he is!” jeered Darry.
“We won’t hurt you—won’t try to,” Dick promised solemnly, again sending his voice as far as he could make it travel. “All we want to do is to talk to you—and we’re friends honestly!”
“Say, what are you trying to give that thief?” protested Tom, in an indignant undertone.
“Why are you telling him we’re friends, and won’t hurt him?” insisted Dave Darrin.
“Because I mean just what I say,” retorted Prescott, so crisply that, for the moment, no one pressed him with any more questions.
Dick continued his calls, but received no response.
“By this time that fellow’s a mile from here, and still running,” mocked Dave.
“Or else he doubled on us, somewhere, and is hidden where he can watch us, and laugh at us slyly,” suggested Tom, as the three high school boys turned to walk back to camp.
“If he’s hiding on our trail, the thief had better not let me catch him laughing at us!” growled Darry indignantly.
“Now, see here, both of you,” Dick Prescott went on, earnestly. “If we come across that fellow, don’t either of you make a grab at him. Just let me handle him—and I’ll do it by talking alone. We mustn’t use our fists.”
“You’ve changed your tune wonderfully within the last few minutes,” muttered Dave.
“If I have,” Dick answered impressively, “it’s because I know something now that I didn’t know a little while ago.”
“And what’s that?” asked Tom eagerly.
“I’ll tell all hands presently,” Dick answered mysteriously.
“Oh, fudge!” growled Darry, under his breath, for he was fully as curious as Tom Reade had been.
But Dick walked on as briskly as his almost winded condition would permit. So they returned to the place where Harry and Dan awaited them. To these two Dick repeated his instructions in the unlikely case of their meeting the thief during their walk back to camp.
Nothing was seen of the fugitive, however, and the boys picked up Greg Holmes close to the little swimming pool.
“I knew I could not catch up with you fellows,” explained Holmes, “so I took the girls back to camp and then put in my time prowling about here and trying to locate the marrow bones that the sneak stole.”
“Dick doesn’t want us to hurt the fellow, if we run across him,” said Dave grimly.
“Why not?” asked Greg, opening his eyes very wide.
“I don’t know,” sighed Dave. “Ask Dick.”
“I’ll tell you all by and by,” smiled Dick. “But now, let us hurry back to camp. I want to see Mr. Colquitt just as soon as I can.”
“Bosh! A detective like Colquitt doesn’t take up with such trifling mysteries as missing marrow bones,” jibed Reade. “Besides, we can’t afford to hire detectives.”
“I don’t want to hire a detective,” Dick replied enigmatically, “but I’d like about one minute’s talk with Mr. Colquitt, and I mean to have it. Don’t let us dawdle on the way back, fellows.”
So the six boys hurried on and soon came within sight of the camp.
“There they come!” cried Belle Meade. “Did you get the thief, boys?”
“No,” called Dave, “and it seems that the fellow is no longer a thief, but a distinguished fellow citizen whom we must honor at sight, like a bank draft.”
“What are you talking about?” half frowned Belle.
“I haven’t the least idea what I am talking about,” Dave admitted cheerfully. “You’ll have to ask Dick for the map to my few remarks.”
“Where are Mr. Colquitt and his party?” Dick demanded.
“Gone,” replied Laura Bentley.
“How long ago?” Dick asked, paling somewhat and looking troubled.
“About two minutes ago,” replied Dr. Bentley. “They excused themselves and went away in their car.”
“Can’t you take me in your car, Doctor, and help me to pursue them?” asked Prescott anxiously.
“Yes,” agreed Dr. Bentley good-naturedly, “if you’ve any idea which direction to take in looking for them. A mile to the east three roads cross; half a mile to the west four roads cross. Our friends may be on any one of the seven roads, or they may have gone by a trail of their own.”
Dick came to an abrupt stop, clenching his hands tightly.
“Isn’t that luck for you?” he demanded ironically. Then, suddenly, his face brightened.
“No matter,” he said. “They can be reached through the Eagle Hotel, in Gridley.”
“Why should you want to reach them?” asked Laura curiously.
“Will you mind if I keep that to myself, for just a little while?” asked Dick, so pleasantly that Laura took no offense at all.
“How about my pudding?” called Jim. “Anyone going to want any of it?”
Did they? It was enjoyed to the full, and there was pudding left over, to be heated for another meal.
“Now, you boys had better come with me, and I’ll show you how to keep some of the cooked meat over, in summer, without ice,” proposed Mr. Ross.
“And my party must be getting along, or night will overtake us here,” declared Dr. Bentley, rising from what had been a most hospitable board.
“Then fellows, please excuse me if I write a short note and ask Dr. Bentley to mail it,” urged Dick.
So Dave Darrin mustered the other chums, marching them off in the wake of Mr. Ross, while Dick hastily scribbled a note, placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to Alonzo Hibbert, or Thomas Colquitt, Eagle Hotel, Gridley.
As Dick came out his other chums halted their labors long enough to take leave of Dr. Bentley and his party. They escorted the departing guests to their automobiles, and saw them start away.
Such of the roast meat as was to be saved was packed in metal pails, covered, and then the pails lowered into a brook, where the cool water would to a certain extent take the place of ice.
Then Mr. Ross and his helpers removed the folding tables and other loaned articles.
“Thank you, boys, for what you did to break the stampede of the herd,” said Mr. Ross, waving his hand after he had sprung up into the saddle.
Once more Dick & Co. had their camp all to themselves.
“I wish we could have such visitors every day,” cried Darry enthusiastically.
“Yes,” grinned Tom, “but how long would our canned goods hold out? We’d have to be rich, fellows, to entertain so many people every day, even if the meat end of the feast did come to us without cost.”
“We want to make the camp shipshape again,” Dick remarked, looking about. “There’s a lot of refuse food to be burned. Greg, you start a fire. Dan you gather up every scrap of food that must be thrown away and burn it on said fire. Dave, you can set the tent to rights. I’ll take an axe and hustle after some firewood. Dave, suppose you help me. Tom might put the camp to rights.”
With the labor thus divided all hands set briskly to work. By the time that all the tasks had been performed the boys were glad to lie down on the grass and rest until it was time to prepare a light supper. After that meal was over Dave asked:
“We’re going to keep regular guard to-night, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Dick answered. “We’ll turn in at nine o’clock and keep guard until six in the morning. That will be nine hours—an hour and a half of guard duty for each fellow. Suppose we draw lots to decide the order in which we shall take our tricks of guard duty.”
This was done. To Prescott fell the second tour, from ten-thirty until midnight. Reade had the first tour.
At a few minutes after nine all was quiet in the camp. Five tired high school boys were soon sound asleep, with Reade, hidden in the deep shadows, watching outside.
It seemed to young Prescott that he had no more than dropped off into slumber when Tom shook him by the shoulder.
“Half-past ten,” whispered Reade, as Dick sat up. “Go out to the wash basin and dash cold water into your eyes. That will open ’em and freshen you up.”
“Have you seen anything of the prowler?” whispered Dick, as he got upon his feet.
“Not a sign,” declared Tom.
“It would be too early for him to prowl about yet,” whispered Dick, as he passed out into the Summer night. “Good night, Tom.”
Only a faint stirring of the light breeze in the tree tops, the droning hum of night insects, and the occasional call of a night bird—these were all the sounds that came to the ears of the young camp guard.
Dick dashed the water into his eyes, then felt wonderfully wide awake.
“If Mr. Prowler comes, he’ll probably go for the canned vegetables and the biscuit,” Prescott decided. “He must already have more meat than he can handle all day to-morrow—if it doesn’t spoil.”
So Dick posted himself where he could easily watch the approach of any outsider toward the boxes that served as cupboards for the canned supplies.
The time slipped away, until it was nearly midnight, as Prescott knew from stepping into the tent and lighting a match briefly for a swift glimpse at his watch.
As Dick came out of the tent he fancied he heard a distant step, crackling on a broken twig.
“If there’s anyone coming I’d better slip into the shadow of the canvas,” Prescott told himself, acting accordingly.
Presently the stealthy steps sounded nearer to the camp.
“Someone is coming, as sure as fate,” Dick said to himself. “Shall I rouse one or two of the other fellows? But they might alarm the prowler. I’ll handle him myself.”
CHAPTER XI
A HARD PROWLER TO CATCH
It was the prowler.
Close to the tent he stopped to listen to the heavy breathing that came from the sound young sleepers. Dick crouched farther back into the shadow.
Uttering a low grunt, that was half chuckle, the prowler slipped along in the darkness, making toward the cupboards.
“My friend, I want a little talk with you,” suddenly spoke Dick Prescott, slipping up behind the uninvited visitor.
The prowler wheeled quickly about.
“You don’t want anything to do with me,” he corrected, in a harsh voice. “I could eat two or three like you, and then have plenty of appetite left.”
“Perhaps,” smiled Dick Prescott undaunted.
“And I’ll do it, too, if you don’t stand back.”
“But I want to talk with you, my friend,” Dick insisted.
“I don’t want to talk with you,” snapped the prowler.
“You would, if you knew what I want to talk with you about,” Prescott continued.
“Is it about food?” demanded the young stranger grimly.
“Then it’s about jail,” sneered the other harshly.
“Why about jail?” asked Dick.
“Because that’s where you’d like to see me!”
“Why should I want to see you in jail?” Prescott demanded.
“Because I’ve been visiting your kitchen,” leered the other. “But you can’t stop me. Not all of your crowd can stop me!”
“Why do you wish to clean us out of food?” Prescott asked.
“Because I know how to eat,” replied the young stranger significantly.
“Is that the only reason you have for trying to clean us all out of food?”
“Why should I have any other reason? And why isn’t being hungry a good enough reason?” counter-queried the prowler.
“It has struck me,” smiled Dick, “that perhaps you don’t want us in these woods, anyway.”
“I don’t just hanker after your company,” admitted the stranger, with gruff candor.
“Are we bothering you any here?”
“No matter,” came the sullen retort.
“To return to the first subject, that matter about which I want to talk with you—–“
“Not to-night,” growled the young prowler. Turning on his heel, he started to walk away.
But Dick kept close at his side.
“Shake my trail, you!” ordered the other gruffly. “If you don’t you’ll be sorry!”
With that the stranger broke into a loping run. At first glance this gait didn’t seem to be a swift one, but it was the long, easy, loping stride of the wolf in motion. Young Prescott found that he had to exert himself in order to keep up with the other.
“Go back to your shack!” ordered the prowler.
“Hold on a minute, so that I can talk with you,” urged Prescott.
By this time they were at a considerable distance from the camp. Suddenly the prowler halted, wheeling about like a flash, glaring into young Prescott’s eyes.
“Now, I’ll learn you!” growled the prowler.
“Do you mean that you’ll _teach_ me?” queried Prescott. “What?”
“I’ll learn you,” growled the other, “not to keep on banging around me when I don’t want you!”
“Do you happen to have any idea,” Dick persisted coolly, “that your name is probably Page, and that you undoubtedly have a very rich father, who is trying to find you?”
“Where did you read that fairy tale?” sneered the prowler.
“Partly on your skin to-day,” Dick rejoined, “when I came upon you as you were dressing near that pool.”
“Stop kidding me!” commanded the other sternly. “And now back to you cosy little bed for you! Fade! Vanish! If you don’t then you’ll soon wish you had!”
But Dick held his ground, despite the very evident sincerity of the other’s threat, and gazed unflinchingly back at the prowler.
“Let me tell you,” Dick went on. “Of course I cannot be positive, but there is a missing heir who has, on his chest and one shoulderblade just such marks as I saw on you to-day when you were sitting by the pool putting on your shirt?”
“Oh, forget that thrilling stuff!” jeered the other. “Don’t you suppose I know who my father is? Old Bill Mosher hasn’t suddenly grown rich. How could Bill get rich when he is in jail for drunkenness?”
“So you think your name is Mosher?” pursued Prescott.
“I know it is,” replied the prowler harshly. “And, around this neck of the woods a fellow couldn’t have a harder, tougher name than Mosher.”
“But if your name were really Page—–” pressed Dick.
“No use stringing me like that,” snapped the other. Even in the darkness, lit only here and there by starlight, the scowl on his face was visible. “Tell you what,” declared Mosher, an instant later.
“Well?”
“Beat it!”
“I don’t under——“
“Yes, you do,” retorted the self-styled Mosher. “Vamoose! Twenty-three in a hurry! Make your get-away!”
“Until I’ve made you listen to reason,” Prescott insisted, “I won’t leave you.”
“Oh, yes, you will, and right now, or—–“
“No!”
“See here!”
Mosher held a hard, horny fist menacing before Dick’s face, but the high school boy failed to wince.
“Git! Now, or crawl later!” warned Mosher.
“I’m going to make you listen to—–“
“Put up your guard!”
At least Mosher was “square” enough to give warning of his intentions. He threw himself on guard, then waited for perhaps five seconds.
“Are you going to cool down and listen!” demanded Dick Prescott firmly.
Out shot the Mosher youth’s left fist. Dick dodged. It was a feint; Dick nearly stopped Mosher’s right.
Blows rained in thickly now. Not every one could Prescott dodge, though he was more agile and better trained than this more powerful youth.
At last, smarting from a glancing blow on the nose, Dick darted in and clinched with his adversary. It was bad judgment, but punishment had stung him into desperate recklessness.
“Stop it!” panted the high school boy.
“Won’t!” retorted Mosher, increasing his pressure about the smaller boy’s waist until Prescott felt dizzy. In that extremity the Gridley boy worked a neat little trip. Down they went, rolling over and over, fighting like wild cats until Mosher secured the upper hand and sat heavily on the high school boy.
“I gave you all the chance I could,” growled Mosher, planting blow after blow on Dick’s head, face and chest, “and you wouldn’t help yourself anyway. Now, you’ll take all your medicine, and next time you meet me you’ll know enough to leave me alone.”
Held as he was, without really a show, Dick Prescott fought as long as he could, and with desperate courage. But at last he felt forced to yell:
“Fellows! Gridley! Here—quickly!”
“They’re too far away, and, besides, they’re asleep,” jeered Mosher, to the accompaniment of three more hard blows. “Now, I reckon you’ve had enough to know your own business after this and let mine alone. If I had any cord I’d tie you here. As it is—–“
Leaping suddenly to his feet, Mosher turned and ran swiftly through the woods.
Dick badly hurt, yet as determined as ever, pursued for a few score of yards. Then realizing that he could hear no sound of the other’s steps to guide him in the right direction, the high school boy halted.
“I may as well give it up this time,” he said to himself grimly. “Besides, my main job is to guard the camp. If I go roaming through the woods, Mosher, as he calls himself, will double back on the camp and clean out our provisions while I’m groping out here in the dark.”
So Dick paused only long enough to make sure of his course back. Then he plodded along, wincing with the pain of many blows that he had received.
“I’m lucky, anyway, that I didn’t get an eye bunged up,” he reflected. “I smart and I ache, but I can see straight, and I don’t believe I’ve received any blow that will disfigure me for the next few days. My, what a steam hammer that fellow is in a fight! I wonder if he really is the son of that hard character called Bill Mosher?”
As Dick neared the camp he stepped more softly. He wanted to see whether Mosher really had come back.
But no figure was discernible in the clearing beyond the camp. Dick walked in more confidently. His first care was to examine the food supply.
“Nothing gone,” Dick murmured. Then he looked about for a stick large enough to serve as a weapon at need. While doing so his glance fell upon an axe.
“I wouldn’t use that,” Prescott told himself. “But there is no knowing what Mosher would do if he got cornered by more than one of us. Hereafter we mustn’t leave this thing outside.”
Dick carried the axe into the tent, hiding it without awaking any of the other sleepers. Then he went outside, searching until he found a club that he thought would answer for defense.
Taking this with him he went over to the wash basin, where, wetting a towel, he bathed his battered face.
“Almost one o’clock,” he remarked, after striking a match for a look at his watch. “I won’t call Dave at all, but will stay up and call Harry at half-past one.”
CHAPTER XII
“TAG” IS THE GAME—TAG MOSHER!
“Now, come in with the sprint!” Dick sang out to Hazelton.
“Greg, Dave and Tom, you block him. Get through, Harry—some way! Don’t let ’em stop you.”
It was three days later, and Dick & Co. were at work at their main task during this summer camping, which was to train hard and try to fit themselves for the football squad when high school should open again.
Hazelton came on, at racing speed. He ducked low, making a gallant effort. He nearly succeeded in getting through, but Tom’s tackle brought him to ground just at the right moment.
“Now, try that over again,” Prescott said.
So the work went on, vigorously, for another hour—until all of the boys were tired out, hot and panting.
“That’s the most grueling work I ever did in the same space of time,” muttered Reade, mopping his face.
“Yes; it’s the kind of work for which football calls,” rejoined Prescott, also mopping his face. “Dan, get up off the ground!”
“I’m hot,” muttered Dalzell, “and I’m tired.”
“Then rest on a campstool. Don’t chill yourself by lying on the ground when you’re so warm.”
After a few seconds of contemplated mutiny, Danny Grin rose and found a seat on a stool.
“As soon as you’re cool, three of you go to the water and wash off,” Dick ordered. “The other three of us will stay here until you get back.”
That was the order of the day now. At least two, and usually three of Dick & Co. always remained near camp. If Mosher planned to come again he would find a “committee” waiting to receive him.
There were more supplies, too, to guard now than there had been. On the morning after Dick’s encounter, a farmer had driven into camp. His wagon had been well laden with all manner of canned food supplies, even to tins of French mushrooms. These had come from Alonzo Hibbert, with a note of thanks for the entertainment of himself and friends.
“These provisions are mighty welcome,” Prescott had remarked at the time, “but I’m not sure but that I would rather have Hibbert himself here—I’ve so much to tell him.”
“He’ll come, in time, when he gets your letter at the Eagle House,” Reade had answered, for Dick had told all his chums his suspicions regarding young Mosher.
“What are we to do this afternoon?” asked Dave, seating himself beside Prescott as three of the chums started for the swimming pool.
“Gymnastics,” Dick replied. “Especially bar work. And some boxing, of course.”
“You ought to be excused from boxing for the present,” grinned Darry. “You look as though you had had enough for a while.”
For Dick’s left cheek was still decorated with a bruise that young Mosher had planted there. The boxing of Dick & Co., this summer, was real work. It was done with bare knuckles, though, of course, without anger or the desire to do injury. Boxing with bare knuckles was Prescott’s own idea for hardening himself and his chums for the rough work of the gridiron.
“I’ll take my share of the boxing,” Dick retorted. “Having a sore spot on my face will make me all the more careful in my guard.”
“Queer we don’t hear from Hibbert,” mused Greg Holmes.
“Not at all,” Dave contended. “Hibbert simply isn’t back at the Eagle House yet, and perhaps the hotel people have had no orders about forwarding his mail It may be a fortnight before we hear from him.”
“Thanks to the thoughtfulness of Hibbert we can remain in camp a good deal more than a fortnight longer,” observed Prescott, glancing over the greatly increased food supply. “Perhaps it was all right for Hibbert to repay our courtesy the other day, but he has sent us something like twenty or thirty times as much food as his party ate.”
“I guess Hibbert has more money than he knows what to do with,” mused Greg aloud.
“Even if he has,” Prescott smiled seriously, “there is no reason why he should feel called upon to keep us in food. I’d give four fifths of that food to know where to reach Hibbert, or any of that party, in a hurry. Jupiter!”
“What’s up?” asked Dave, eyeing his chum in astonishment, for Dick had suddenly leaped to his feet, and was now dancing about like an Indian.
“Say, but we must have fried eggs in the place of brains!” cried young Prescott reproachfully.
“What calls forth that severe remark?” demanded Darry.
“Why, we know well enough where to get hold of Hibbert’s party,” Dick went on.
“Do we?” asked Greg.
“Certainly,” cried Dick triumphantly. “Just send a note to Mr. Colquitt in care of Blinders’ Detective Agency. I’m going to write the note now!”
Dick was half-way to the tent when Darry called after him:
“By the way, in what city is the Blinders’ agency located?”
Dick halted short, looking blank.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Do you fellows?”
None of them did. Then they waited until the others came in from the pool. But none of them knew what city had the honor to shelter the Blinders’ agency.
“I’ll write the note, anyway,” Dick insisted. “If I can’t do better, I’ll put the address as simply the United States, with a request on the envelope for the post-office people to find the right city and deliver the letter.”
“Go ahead with the letter,” urged Tom. “After dinner I’ll walk over to Five Corners and mail the letter. Incidentally, I’ll make inquiries over there and see whether anyone knows the city in which the Blinders’ crowd has its headquarters.”
So Dick wrote the letter, while others were preparing the noon meal. At one o’clock in the afternoon Tom started, on his round-trip tramp of twenty-two miles.
“A trip like that will take the place of training for one half day,” Reade explained.
Hazelton offered to go with him, but Tom declined on the ground that he could get over ground faster without Harry.
It was an hour after dark when Reade returned that night, hot, tired, dusty and hungry. But he had found the correct address of the agency and the letter had started on its journey.
“Your supper is all ready,” Dick announced.
“And I’m ready to meet any supper more than half way,” Reade retorted. “Just a minute, until I wash up.”
The other five boys sat and chatted by the table while Tom ate.
“Dan, won’t you throw a lot more wood on the fire?” asked Dick, as the meal came to a close. “We ought to have the camp better lighted than this.”
Greg sprang to help Dalzell. Soon the flames leaped up, throwing their ruddy, cheerful glow over the camp and making dancing shadows beyond under the trees.
While they were still chatting over the day’s doings, steps were heard, followed by the arrival in camp of two rough-looking, stern-faced men. Dave Darrin sprang to pick up a club.
“You boys haven’t been doing anything wrong, have you?” questioned one of the men, with a trace of a smile.
“Of course not,” Dick indignantly replied.
“Then you needn’t be afraid of us, though I admit that we do look rough,” answered the same man, displaying a badge. “We’re officers of the law.”
“What can we do for you, sir?” Prescott inquired more respectfully.
“Do you boys know anything about Tag Mosher?” demanded the same speaker.
“Son of Bill Mosher?” Dick counter-queried.
“The same. Know anything about him?”
“Nothing, except that he bothered us a good deal when we were first camped here,” Prescott replied.
“Do you know him by sight, then?”
“We all do.”
“When was Tag here last?” pressed the officer.
“About three days ago,” Dick answered. “He stole quite a bit of our food supply.”
“That’s an old trick of that young tough,” rejoined the deputy sheriff. “That’s how the boy got the nickname of ‘tag.’ He won’t work, and lives on other people’s work. Anything that he can say ‘tag’ to he thinks belongs to him.”
“Then, in other words, sir,” asked Dave Darrin, “Tag Mosher is just a plain thief?”
“A good deal that way,” replied the deputy. “But with this difference: Up to date Tag never stole anything except what he needed at the moment for his own comfort. He never robbed people to enrich himself, but just to save himself the trouble of working. Now, however, we’ve a more serious charge against him.”
“What?” asked Dick,
“I don’t know whether the courts will call it felonious assault,” replied the deputy. “But Tag stole two chickens out of the chicken coop of Henry Leigh, a new farmer in these parts. Leigh trailed Tag to the woods and found him cooking the chickens. Leigh tried to grab Tag, but Tag caught up a big stone and just slammed it against Leigh’s head. Leigh is now in bed at home, with a fractured skull, and likely to die. He described Tag to us, and we’re after him. The county has put a reward of two hundred and fifty dollars on Tag’s head. After we’ve come up with him I guess it will be many a year before Tag Mosher will have a chance to do any more stealing or fighting. But if you haven’t seen him here in three days we may as well be moving on. Thank you. Of course, if you see Tag, you won’t tell him anything about our being here?”
“Certainly not, sir,” Dick answered. “By the way, do you want any help?”
“Meaning some of you boys?” asked the deputy.
“Some of us will help you, if we can,” Dick assured him.
“How many?”
“We ought to leave half our number to guard the camp, for Tag may show up here and wreck things. Three of us can go with you.”
“You may run into some ugly fighting, if you go with us,” warned the deputy. “Tag Mosher is no coward!”
“We’re not afraid of fighting, when we’re in the right,” Prescott replied promptly.
“Besides, we’ve got a grudge of our own against Tag Mosher, anyway,” Dave said.
“Not a grudge, I hope,” Dick rebuked his chum. “But we’ll stand by to help the law, if we get a chance.”
“I reckon maybe we could use three of you,” meditated the deputy aloud. “Boys can beat up woods as well as men. But we may not be able to get you back here before to-morrow noon.
“That will be all right,” Dick assured him. “Dave and Greg, you’ll join me in going with the officers, won’t you?”
Darry and Holmes both assented eagerly.
“If you’ve any extra grub, then, put it up and come along,” urged the deputy. “There’s room for five in the automobile we’re using.”
“How did you men know that we were here?” Reade inquired, while Dick and Greg made haste to get food together for the trip.
“Saw your campfire,” replied the deputy laconically. “We didn’t believe Tag would build such a large fire, but we took a chance and looked in. If you haven’t anything else to do, young Long-legs, you might pick out three stout clubs for your friends.”
Laughing good-naturedly at the nickname, Tom bestirred himself. Within three minutes all was ready.
Dick, Dave and Greg stepped away after the officers. Not far away was the road, where the automobile stood with the engine running.
“Does Tag know how to run a car?” Prescott inquired.
“Don’t know,” replied the deputy.
“If he does, and had happened to be about, he could have taken your car in good shape,” smiled Dick.
“True,” nodded the officer, “but there were only two of us, and nabbing Tag Mosher is two men’s work.”
“I ought to know that,” laughed Dick. “He gave me a stiff enough beating.”
“Here is where you can even the score,” laughed Dave grimly.
“I don’t want to even any score,” replied Prescott gravely. “I’m sorry for the fellow, especially when he was so close to a chance to turn about and make something of himself.”
“Do you mean to say that you don’t hold even a bit of a grudge for that severe beating you got?” demanded Darry wonderingly.
“Of course I don’t,” Dick retorted. “When two fellows fight one of them must receive a beating—that’s the sporting chance. All my feelings for Tag are of sympathy.”
“Not enough so you’d let him get away, if you met him?” put in the deputy quickly.
“Of course, not, sir,” Dick answered quickly flushing. “That would be as much as to say that I’m a bad citizen. If I find Tag I’ll do my best to hold him until help comes. You may be sure of that.”
“Then get into the car,” ordered the deputy briefly. “The back part of the car is for you youngsters. That reminds me. We don’t know each other’s names. Mine’s Simmons.”
The other deputy’s name proved to be Valden. The boys quickly introduced themselves.
Away went the car, over the rough roads. To avoid sending warning too far ahead the lights were turned low. On account of the condition of this rough forest road the speed was slow.
“If Tag hasn’t been to your camp within three nights,” said Mr. Simmons, leaning back while Mr. Valden ran the car, “then it’s because he isn’t in this neighborhood. So we’ll travel on a few miles before we stop to do any real searching.”
“I don’t understand how you can expect to find anyone out here in the night time,” Dick observed.
“I’ve some plans in my mind,” was all the explanation Simmons offered.
When the road became a little better, Valden put on a bit more speed.
“Better slow down,” advised Simmons presently. “There’s a bridge ahead that isn’t any, too strong.”
That bridge was closer than the deputy thought. Just then the automobile top brushed heavily against foliage in making a wooded turn in the road.
“There’s the bridge!” yelled Simmons almost excitedly. “Slow down—stop!”
Valden tried to obey, but the bridge was altogether too close for stopping in time. Out over the planks ran the car.
R-r-rip! Crash!
Some of the boards were already missing from the rude bridge.