“What’s your hurry, Rick? Going to a fire?”
Chot Benson called to his chum Rick Dalton who was racing down the Belemere street with every appearance of being in great haste. He was not going to a train—that was evident, for he was hatless and coatless—and though Rick and the other boys of the seacoast town often went without these pieces of wearing apparel, still they did not start train journeys in this style.
And there was no fire—Chot was sure of that, for he would have heard the whistle of the pumping engine at the water tank had there blaze.
Still Rick Dalton was in a hurry.
“Wait a minute!” called Chot.
“Can’t!” flung back Rick, over his shoulder. “I’ve got to see about Ruddy!”
“Whew!” whistled Chot.
This explained it then. Rick’s beloved dog, Ruddy the red setter that had been saved from the sea—Ruddy was in danger. No wonder Rick ran. But what threatened Ruddy? Chot was as anxious to know as any boy could be who had a chum with a dog.
“I’m coming!” cried Chot and then, he too, coatless and hatless, sped down the street after Rick.
It looked like a race, and in fact it was a sort of race, for Rick was urged on by a certain anxiety, and Chot wanted to overtake his chum to find out what it was all about. For a time the same distance separated the two lads—Rick in the lead. And then, because Rick had been running longer than had Chot, the latter began to forge ahead and soon he was his chum’s side.
“Hey, slow up, can’t you?” panted Chot. “What’s the rush? There isn’t a fire; is there?”
“No,” came in rather gasping tones from Rick, “but I just heard that a dog’s been shot and I was afraid it might be mine.”
“Who’d shoot Ruddy?”
“I don’t know—nobody—I hope. But I was afraid—”
“Who told you?” demanded Chot, jog-trotting with his chum at a little slower pace now, as their laboring hearts and increased blood pressure, together with a shortening of breaths began to cause pains in their sides.
“Tom Martin,” was the answer. “He says somebody’s going around killing dogs, and he says he heard shooting down near my house. It might be Ruddy.”
“I don’t believe so,” spoke Chot. “I been around here all morning and there wasn’t any shooting.”
“Might have been a silencer on the gun.”
“Sure—but—”
Chot clapped a hand to his left side, a look of pain came over his face and he stopped running.
“What’s the matter?” asked Rick, pausing.
“Got a fierce pain in my side. I got to turn over a stone. Go on, I’ll catch up to you.”
“I got a pain, too. We’ll each turn over a stone.”
The boys bent down very low and slowly turned over the nearest stones they could reach. Then they gradually straightened up again.
“Mine’s gone,” remarked Chot.
“So’s mine,” said his chum. “Funny, ain’t it, how that makes a pain go away.”
“Sure is,” agreed Chot.
They ran on again after performing this boyish rite, which, doubtless, you also have practiced, perhaps with some variation, as I have myself. I think that the turning of the stone, or whatever you might have done when you had a pain in your side caused by running, did not cause the sharp spasm to pass away. Rather, I think, the stooping over, and so compressing the muscles and the stomach organs, was what did it. But I may be wrong at that.
Anyhow, Chot and Rick, relieved of the stress of the side-pains, ran on, turning the corner from the main street and hurrying along the more quiet thoroughfare that led to Rick’s house.
“Why didn’t you take Ruddy with you?” asked Chot, for seldom was Rick seen without his setter companion.
“He wasn’t around when I started off, and I was in a hurry. I only hope he isn’t shot!”
“So do I!” murmured Chot.
The fear that had been in their hearts passed away as they raced into the yard and saw, under an old and gnarled apple tree, a man and a dog.
“There’s Ruddy now!” cried Chot.
“Yes,” said Rick with a sigh of relief. “As long as he’s with Uncle Tod he’s all right. I guess maybe it was a false alarm.”
Ruddy, who had been asleep with his head between his extended fore paws at the feet of Uncle Tod (who was also, apparently, slumbering) awakened with a start as the boys entered the yard. The dog sprang up, looked for a moment rather doubtfully at the lads, and then, as he caught their familiar odors (for a dog’s scent is much better than his sight) Ruddy sprang forward with delighted barks and frantic waggings of his tail.
This, of course awakened Uncle Tod who sprang from the bench under the gnarled apple tree, rubbed his dazed eyes and cried:
“Has it come? Has it come?”
“Has what come, Uncle Tod?” asked Rick in surprise as he tried to keep Ruddy from excitedly climbing all over him.
“Oh—nothing—nothing,” hastily answered the elderly man who appeared a bit confused at having asked the question. “I guess I was dreaming—yes, I must have been dreaming. But what’s the rush?” he asked, just as Chot had inquired.
“Rick thought Ruddy had been shot,” chuckled his boy chum. “But he’s pretty lively for a shot dog; aren’t you, Ruddy old fellow?” and he fondled the dog’s drooping ears.
“Ruddy shot? What do you mean?” demanded Uncle Tod. “Have those scoundrels—”
Then he checked himself and seemed rather sorry he had been so excited.
“Ruddy’s all right,” he went on more calmly. “He and I have been asleep here under the tree. But what do you mean, Rick—shot?”
“Oh, there’s a rumor down town that a lot of dogs have been shot lately,” said Rick, throwing himself down on the grass, an example followed by Chot, while Ruddy crouched beside them. “Tom Martin said he heard shots around this way, and I thought maybe they were after Ruddy.”
“Who?” asked Uncle Tod, and Chot wondered if the man was still thinking of “scoundrels,” and who these “scoundrels” might be. “Who would shoot Ruddy?” asked Uncle Tod.
“I don’t know,” Rick confessed. “Might be the dog catchers are starting in, now that summer is here, but I haven’t seen any warning in the paper about keeping dogs tied up. Anyhow, you’re all right; aren’t you Ruddy?”
Again there was a wild demonstration of affection on the part of the red setter and Rick had to hide his face in his arms to keep it away from the dog’s eager tongue.
“Oh,” murmured Uncle Tod, “I didn’t know but what it might be—I guess you got a bit excited; didn’t you?” he asked, and both Chot and Rick noticed the sudden manner in which he changed what he was going to say. Clearly Uncle Tod had been startled when the boys rushed into the yard, and his thoughts must have been along the line of shooting, though whether it concerned a dog or himself was not quite clear.
“Yes, I was excited,” admitted Rick with a laugh. “But I’m all right now. Oh, quit it, Ruddy!” he cried as the dog again sought to use his tongue as a wash rag. “Just because I don’t want you shot isn’t a sign that I want you to lap me all over! Quit!” he yelled, laughing, and he rolled over and over in the grass to get away from the loving demonstrations of his four-footed chum. Not very successfully, however, did Rick escape, for Ruddy followed, and he did not cease until Rick tossed a stick which the dog rushed down to the end of the yard to retrieve.
“You didn’t hear any shooting; did you, Uncle Tod?” asked Rick, when Ruddy, panting and with his red tongue hanging out over his white teeth, was resting on the grass more quietly between the two boys.
“Shooting? No, I didn’t hear any. I was asleep until you woke me up.”
Afterward Rick and Chot wondered why Uncle Tod had asked such queer questions about “scoundrels.”
“Do they use dog-catchers here in Belemere?” went on Uncle Tod, for he was somewhat of a stranger in the seacoast town.
“Sometimes,” answered Rick, “but they generally give you notice when they’re going to start to round up the homeless ones. Lots of times dogs with good homes get taken in, or killed by the catchers, and that’s why I was worried about Ruddy.”
“Um,” murmured Uncle Tod, which might mean anything or nothing. “Well, I guess everything’s all right. I’d better go in and see if your mother wants me to take any mail for her, Rick. I’m going to the post office and—” Uncle Tod suddenly ceased speaking, and Ruddy and the boys started up, the dog with a menacing growl, as something was thrown over the rear fence of the yard, landing with a thud on the ground not far from the apple tree.
“Hello!” exclaimed Rick. “What’s that?” It was a green object, tied with cord into a round shape and it rolled toward Ruddy after it landed. The dog sprang toward it.
“Look out! Maybe it’s poisoned meat!” exclaimed Chot.
Rick caught hold of his dog’s collar and pulled him back. Uncle Tod looked at the object for a moment and then picked it up. The boys could now see it was a cabbage leaf wrapped about something and tied with string.
“Somebody’s playing a joke!” laughed Rick.
“One of the fellows,” was Chot’s opinion. “Tom Martin, I reckon.”
Uncle Tod slowly opened the cabbage leaf. There dropped from it a stone and another small object which Rick picked up.
“It’s a bullet!” he cried. “What does this mean?”
There was a strange look on Uncle Tod’s face.
“Let me see that!” he cried.
Rick handed over the bullet—it was not a cartridge, but a leaden missile from one and as he passed it to Uncle Tod the boy noticed some peculiar marks on the bit of lead.
“Whew!” whistled Uncle Tod. “It came—sooner than I expected,” and then, gathering up the parts of the mysterious message—the string, cabbage leaf, stone and bullet, he hurried into the house.
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Rick and Chot gazed curiously at one another, and even Ruddy seemed a bit puzzled by the strange behavior of Uncle Tod. The three friends—for surely the dog was in that class—looked at the retreating form of the man.
“What do you know about that?” asked Chot. “Do you s’pose—”
“I don’t know what to suppose,” answered Rick, not giving his chum a chance to completely form his question. “It’s mighty queer. Maybe we’d better—”
But he, in turn, was interrupted by shouts just beyond the same rear fence over which the mysterious message had been tossed.
“Ho, Rick!” called the voices of several boys. “Come on for a swim, Rick!”
Ruddy barked his answer—he was always ready for fun.
“Hey, Whistle Breeches!” shouted Chot, recognizing the tones of a lad who had been given this nickname because, once upon a time, he wore corduroy trousers, the ribbed cloth producing a peculiar whistling sound as the boy’s legs rubbed together.
“Oh, you Chot!” came the answering hail. “Let’s go swimming!”
“Sure!” answered Rick.
They were over the fence in a scramble and bound. Ruddy following in a magnificent clean leap, and, a few minutes later the lads, half a dozen of them, were hurrying toward the inlet where the best swimming was to be had, away from the pounding surf of the salty sea.
With the prospect of invigorating sport ahead of them, in the water, Chot and Rick forgot, for a time, the incidents of the last half hour—the unfounded fear of harm to Ruddy and the tossing over the fence of the mysterious message—something like the rattle-snake skin of powder and arrows, that, in Colonial days, was thrown into the blockhouse of the early settlers to indicate that the Indians intended to open war again.
“Last one in’s a rotten egg!”
“Whoopee—that doesn’t mean me!”
“No fair goin’ in with your clothes on!”
“That’s right—every fellow’s got to put on trunks!”
These shouts, and this decision, rendered while running at full speed, brought the lads and the dog to the sandy beach of the inlet, where, in a secluded spot, the lads quickly undressed and slipped on old trunks—some donned parts of bathing suits and others sections of cut-down trousers.
“I’m no egg!” declared Rick, as he dived in, disappearing beneath the blue, salt water.
“Nor I,” added Chot, as he bubbled down beside his chum, while Ruddy splashed and barked along the shore edge in a frantic ecstasy of delight and the other boys, eager to escape the laggard designation, followed.
“Tom and George are both rotten eggs!” was the decision of the majority as they arose, snorting from the water, flipping the drops from their eyes with quick shakes of their heads. These two lads, the last ones in, struck the water at the same time.
“I don’t care, as long as it’s a tie,” laughed George, and then the water fun began. It was only one form of amusement for Rick and Ruddy, those inseparable boy and dog chums. Though living at the seashore, as he did, Rick perhaps found more enjoyment in the water than he did on land.
Some of his adventures, and those of his four-footed chum, I have set down for you in the first book of this series, called “Rick and Ruddy,” telling how Ruddy came to his young master literally out of the sea. For Ruddy was swept overboard from a vessel in a storm, and was rescued by a coast-guard, the dog later adopting Rick as Rick adopted Ruddy.
The boy and dog grew, loving each other more and more. They went to camp together, as related in the book of that name, and their last experiences had been while cruising with Uncle Tod in the Sallie, told of in the volume “Rick and Ruddy Afloat.”
Uncle Tod, after having established his salt industry, had come to stay for a while with Rick’s mother, whose uncle he was, rather than Rick’s. But Rick claimed him as his own; and so did Chot and Ruddy, the dog dividing his affections fairly among all three.
“Well, fellows, this is my last dive,” announced Tom Martin, as he stood on an old pile and poised.
“Same here,” echoed Rick. “Stump you to do it backward,” he added.
“Right!” answered Tom, and, turning, he went with a clean-cut dive into the water that way, a feat matched by Rick. None of the other boys would dare this, though it was comparatively simple. Then, one after another, they climbed out, raced around in the sun a bit to dry and donned their regulation clothes, which did not take much longer to put on than had their swimming trunks. The boys believed in simplicity—especially on hot days.
“What you going to do to-night, Chot?” asked Rick, as they were about to part, for their homes were on different streets.
“Oh, nawthin’. What you going to do?”
“Same thing I guess,” chuckled Rick. “Can you come on over?”
“Sure! No lessons now.”
“Oh, boy! That’s right—no lessons now! It’s grand—what?”
“Best ever! All right, I’ll come over. Maybe your uncle’ll tell us something about that cabbage leaf and bullet.”
“And the stone, too,” added Rick. “I wonder what it was?”
“Maybe some of the fellows did it,” suggested Chot. “I meant to ask ’em if they chucked it over the fence but I forgot.”
“I don’t believe they did, or we’d have heard something,” said Rick. “Anyhow, if they had, Uncle Tod wouldn’t have acted that way. He seemed real worried.”
“Scared I’d call it,” was Chot’s opinion.
“Well, maybe he seemed scared, but he really wasn’t,” said Rick, in defence of his uncle. “You ought to have seen him the time I was with him last summer.”
“You mean when you went with him on the Sallie?”
“Yes, when he had that fight with Bucktooth Slither, and Johnnie Green and the Indians beat the war drum. Then I thought Uncle Tod was frightened, but it was only put on. He had a reason for it.”
“Then you think he has a reason now?” asked Chot.
“I reckon so. But still it’s kind of funny—that marked bullet and the stone and the cabbage leaf. But come on over to-night and maybe he’ll tell us about it.”
“I will,” promised Chot. “So long!”
“So long! See you later! Here, Ruddy, you let that cat alone!” and Rick shouted at his dog who showed a desire to chase a lone feline up a tree.
Disappointed, Ruddy turned back to join his master and soon boy and setter were on their way home in the pleasant afternoon sunshine.
“Hope they have a good supper,” murmured Rick to himself as he trudged along. “I’m as hungry as a dogfish!”
His exercise in the salt water, the tang of the air that blew in from the sea and his general hungry condition at this time of day combined to make Rick aware of a gone feeling in his stomach.
“Hello, Mazie!” he called to his sister as he entered the kitchen and saw her busy setting the table. “Give us a cookie; will you?” he begged.
“You shouldn’t eat just before supper,” objected Mazie.
“Um!” mumbled Rick, for he had reached over and taken a cookie from a plate filled with them. “You heard Ma say that!” He tossed the expectant Ruddy part of a cookie, took another one himself and rushed out again as Mazie, with uplifted broom, started after him.
“You can’t spoil my appetite with one cookie, nor with half a dozen,” challenged Rick as he went to his room to “slick up,” before the coming meal. The faithful dog followed.
“Ruddy, I’ll have to be extra careful of you, now that the dog-days are coming,” said the boy aloud, talking to his pet as he often did, for Ruddy seemed to understand. “I’ll have to keep you on a leash or leave you chained up when I go off without you. Can’t take any chances these dog-days.”
Rick, like many other boys and grown persons, also, had a mistaken notion about the so-called “dog-days.” Some of you may have the idea that “dog-days,” are those hot days in summer when dogs are most likely to go mad, are apt to be inflicted with rabies, when their bite may cause human beings, or other animals attacked by a dog so suffering, to become infected with the germs.
It is true that the “dog-days” come in hot weather, from the beginning of July to the middle of August, but they are not so named because dogs go mad on those days. The “dog-days” are so called because during that period, from the beginning of July to the middle of August, Sirius, the Dog-Star, in the constellation Canis Major as its Latin name is, rises and sets with the sun. That is, the sun and the Dog-Star keep pace, rising and setting together.
That’s why those days are called “dog-days,” and not because dogs suffer from the heat and go mad then. It is true that more dogs go mad in summer than in winter, but that is only because of the heat—since all germs increase with heat and moisture—and not because the days have been called after a dog.
But Rick, like many other lads, had this notion and he began to worry lest some of the town officials, thinking of the danger of mad dogs, might try to get rid of Ruddy.
“I’ll have to look after you pretty sharp,” he said to the dog.
Ruddy wagged his tail, for he knew he was being talked about, and tried to get up on the bed to lick Rick’s face with his tongue, but was sternly though laughingly repulsed. For Mrs. Dalton had a strict rule about Ruddy keeping off the beds.
“Oh, Rick! Supper!” called his mother a little later, when he was trying to make a refractory lock of hair, or his “cowlick,” remain where he plastered it down.
“All right!” he answered.
“And call Uncle Tod,” she went on. “He’s in his room.”
“All right,” answered Rick again.
He made his salt-encrusted hair as neat as possible, and walked down the hall to his uncle’s room. He knocked on the door but, getting no answer, pushed it open and looked in.
Uncle Tod was not there, a fact which Rick soon discovered. He called the information down the back stairs to his mother.
“Why he must be there,” she said. “He went up a little while ago.”
“Well, he isn’t here now,” declared Rick. And then, as he looked around the bedroom—clean and neat after the skipper’s seafaring notions—Rick discovered something on the bureau. It was an envelope weighted down with a bit of rock.
“Are you sure he isn’t up there, Rick?”
“Sure! he’s gone and he’s left a note for you! I’ll bring it down!”
With a curious feeling that something strange and mysterious had happened, Rick picked up the missive and started down stairs.
Rick’s mother was waiting for him. With a wondering look on her face she took the letter he held out to her, and the boy watched her read it.
“This is very strange,” she murmured as she glanced through the short note.
“Mother, what is it?” asked Rick. “Has anything happened—anything to Uncle Tod?”
“Nothing serious I think—at least not yet,” added Mrs. Dalton as once more she glanced over the letter. “He’s just gone, that’s all. He left in a hurry, too. I didn’t notice him go. I wonder if he took any of his things with him?”
“I didn’t look to see,” the boy answered. “I just hurried down when I saw the letter. Say, what has happened, anyhow?”
“You may read the letter,” offered Mrs. Dalton as she started up stairs toward Uncle Tod’s room. “Don’t let the potatoes burn,” she called to Mazie who was in the kitchen.
“All right, Mother, I won’t,” was the answer. “But what’s the matter? Why don’t you all come to supper? Here’s daddy,” she went on, as she caught a glimpse of her father coming in the front gate.
“I hope he can puzzle this out,” murmured Mrs. Dalton, as she entered Uncle Tod’s room, while Rick remained in the hall outside to read the letter left by the man whose strange actions, following that mysterious message, had created a worry in the family.
The letter that Uncle Tod had left for his niece was short. Rick read this:
“Dear Schotzie: I’m sorry I have to leave this way, but it has to be. If any one inquires for me don’t tell them anything. Don’t even tell them I’m gone! You will soon receive a telegram. Just believe in me.
Your affectionate
Uncle Tod.”
“He took some of his things,” declared Mrs. Dalton, after a hasty look through the closet. “He must be going to stay for a while.”
“But where has he gone?” asked Rick.
“You know about as much as I do,” his mother replied. “I never was more surprised in all my life! I can’t understand it. Oh, what’s this?” she exclaimed as something fell with a thud from the top of a closet shelf where Uncle Tod kept his clean shirts—some of which he had taken with him. “What is it?” she repeated, and she stepped back from a green object that had rolled to the middle of the floor. “Is it a rat, Rick?”
“No, it isn’t a rat,” the boy answered with a laugh. “It’s a cabbage leaf and rolled up in it is a rock and a bullet, and—”
“Oh, Rick, a bullet—”
“Don’t be afraid, Mother, it’s just the lead part, and can’t go off. See.”
He opened the now wilted cabbage leaf and showed the curious rock, which, as he now noticed, had some shining bits of metal imbedded in it. He took the lead bullet in his hand and held it out to show his mother it was harmless for it was out of the explosive cartridge shell.
“But what does it mean?” asked Mrs. Dalton.
“It’s the message Uncle Tod got over the fence to-day,” said Rick.
“A message? Over the fence? Why—”
“Yes. It was thrown over soon after I ran home because I was afraid the dog-catchers were out again and might get Ruddy. Uncle Tod didn’t say what it meant—”
“I don’t see that it can mean anything sensible—just a cabbage leaf and a stone,” interrupted Mrs. Dalton.
“Oh, it means something!” insisted Rick. “If you’d ever read any Indian stories—”
“Nonsense!” she laughed. “It’s my opinion Uncle Tod is playing a joke on all of us.”
“No, sir!” exclaimed Rick. “If you had seen his face—”
“Say, what’s going on up there?” called the voice of Mr. Dalton from the lower hall. “It’s too early to be hiding Christmas presents. What are you doing? I’d like my supper!”
“Oh, Dick!” exclaimed his wife. “Uncle Tod is gone!”
“Gone!” there was a note of alarm in Mr. Dalton’s voice.
“I mean he’s gone away, and he didn’t say where, and he doesn’t want it known and he got such a queer message—”
“I’ll show it to you,” broke in Rick, racing down the stairs with the cabbage leaf, the rock and the bullet.
“Hum!” mused Mr. Dalton when he had looked at them. “Some of Uncle Tod’s jokes!”
“No, I think not,” was Mrs. Dalton’s opinion. “Here’s a letter he left.”
Mr Dalton whistled softly when he had read this.
“Tell me all about it,” he suggested. “We can talk while we eat supper.” And when the story was told him, from the time of Rick’s hasty run home in alarm over Ruddy, to the discovery that Uncle Tod had secretly disappeared, Mr. Dalton agreed that it was rather puzzling.
“Well, I take it that the scare about the possibility over Ruddy being shot, poisoned or stolen away has nothing to do with Uncle Tod’s going,” said Rick’s father. “How about it?”
“Ruddy is all right, and the dog catchers haven’t been around,” answered Rick. “That was a false alarm of Tom’s.”
“Then as to this ‘message,’ as Rick calls it,” went on Mr. Dalton, turning over the piece of rock, “we have here a bit of copper ore.”
“Is that what it is?” asked Rick.
“That’s what it is—copper ore. It didn’t come from around here unless it came on a railroad train as part of a shipment, and I don’t believe that could have happened for there are no smelters in this locality. So much for that.”
“The cabbage leaf doesn’t tell much,” said Mazie. “But it’s awfully interesting—quite hectic, I should say.”
“Hectic! Where do you get that word?” laughed Rick.
“All the girls at school say it,” answered Mazie with just the least up-tilting of her nose, for Mazie was growing fast.
“If you mean ‘hot’ why don’t you say so?” demanded her brother.
“Hectic is a much nicer word than hot,” declared Mazie, “and our teacher said we should try to increase our vo—vo—vocabulary.”
“Well, you’re doing it all right!” chuckled Rick. “Anyhow the cabbage leaf doesn’t mean anything; does it, Dad?”
“Unless it’s meant for part of an Indian sign message as you at first suggested, Rick.”
“That’s what I thought,” the boy said. “You know Uncle Tod knows a lot about Indians. I don’t mean those tame ones up at his salt mines,” he added. “Indians, like old Johnnie Green, with his ‘kickum hard—two bits,’ wouldn’t send such a mysterious message as this.”
“No, I think not,” agreed Mr. Dalton. “Besides, everything at Uncle Tod’s salt mine is progressing quietly, since he got rid of his rascally partner Slither. And, as a matter of fact, Uncle Tod has sold most of his salt mine stock, just retaining a small block. So I think Johnnie Green and his Indians had nothing to do with this.”
“But what does it mean?” asked Mrs. Dalton. “I’m beginning to get worried.”
“It’s great!” exclaimed Rick. “It’s like a detective story! I’m going to see if we fellows can’t puzzle it out.”
“No, you mustn’t!” said his mother.
“Why not?”
For answer she held up the letter Uncle Tod had left.
“Oh, yes, he said to keep it secret; didn’t he,” remarked Rick. “All right, I will. Well, we’ll have to pass up the cabbage. But there’s the bullet,” and he pointed to where it lay on the table.
“Yes,” said Mr. Dalton, “there’s the bullet. Get me my magnifying glass from my desk, will you please, Mazie?” he asked his daughter. And when the powerful lens was brought, Mr. Dalton, under it, studied the leaden missile.
“There are some letters scratched on this,” he said, after a while. “There’s a c and an o. Wait, I’ll write them down as they appear.”
On a piece of paper he set the letters down in this fashion
C
M E
O
“What do they mean?” asked Mazie, looking over her father’s shoulder.
“Maybe that’s the Indian’s weather vane,” suggested Mrs. Dalton, “and the letters stand for the points of the compass, like our N for north, and so on.”
“I don’t believe so,” spoke Mr. Dalton. “If they intended this for a weather vane there would have been an arrow or a cross or something like that.”
Mazie was busy with pencil and paper, putting down the letters.
“What are you trying to do?” asked Rick.
“Seeing what they spell,” she answered. “But ocem, mcoe, oemc or moce doesn’t spell anything in English. Maybe it’s an Indian word and meant danger for Uncle Tod!” she eagerly exclaimed.
“You’re getting as strangely mysterious as Rick,” laughed her father. “Wait a moment, though,” he exclaimed as if a new idea had occurred to him. Quickly he set the letters down on paper, and then he wrote them in a new combination.
“I have it!” he cried, as pleased as a boy or girl would have been over the solution of a puzzle. “This is the word!”
He held out a paper on which he had written:
COME
“That’s what it is,” he said. “It was a summons to Uncle Tod. The word is ‘come,’ and on a bullet means ‘come in a hurry,’ I take it. I think we have solved that much.”
“Huh! Come,” murmured Rick. “I guess that’s it. But say, what a lot of combinations you can make out of four letters!” he cried. He wrote,—meco, ocem, cmoe, moce, eomc, mcoe—until his mother cried:
“Oh, Rick, stop it! You’re getting on my nerves!”
But it is rather surprising to see how many combinations, other than the right one, can be made from those four letters.
“It seems, then,” went on Mr. Dalton, “that Uncle Tod was summoned away by this mysterious message, tossed over the back fence by some one unknown. Why this form of summons should be chosen, rather than an ordinary letter I don’t know. But as long as Uncle Tod has gone, and the letter he left seems to confirm this, we might try to find out how he was able to slip off without any of you seeing him,” and he looked at his wife, daughter and son.
“I was swimming,” said Rick.
“I only came home a little while ago,” Mazie said. “I was over to Helen’s house.”
“And I’ve been so busy that all I remember is that Uncle Tod came in,” said Mrs. Dalton. “I didn’t hear him go out.”
However the fact remained that Uncle Tod had gone out, and had taken a few things with him in a valise, which would seem to indicate that he intended remaining some time.
“He must have come down the back stairs when I was in the front of the house,” decided Mrs. Dalton.
“And he could easily get over the back fence and go to the station that way,” added her husband. “I think I’ll make some inquiries at the railroad station.”
He did this, with the result that it was easily established Uncle Tod had met a man there, and had bought a ticket for a western city. But this was all that could be learned.
“I guess we’ll just have to wait until he sends that telegram he speaks of in his letter,” said Mrs. Dalton.
“Yes,” agreed her husband. “But I don’t see the need for all this mysteriousness.”
“Uncle Tod knows what he’s doing,” said Rick. “I thought he was crazy when I was cruising with him on the Sallie, but it turned out all right, and I’m sure it will now.”
“Of course he may have had his reasons,” admitted Mr. Dalton, “but I can’t guess at any to make him leave so quickly and so secretly. It’s just as if he were afraid.”
“Maybe he is afraid,” admitted Rick, “I mean afraid of getting us in trouble. He isn’t afraid for himself, but some danger might be hanging over him and he didn’t want us mixed up in it.”
“Oh, nonsense!” laughed Mr. Dalton. “I guess you Boy Scouts have been playing too many Indian games.”
“No,” said Rick, for he and Chot were now full-fledged Scouts, “we only do the best things the real Indians once did. Of course some of them were mysterious, and Uncle Tod may know about them. But I would like to know what all this means.”
“So would I,” agreed his mother with a sigh. “I hope nothing happens to Uncle Tod.”
“I reckon he can look out for himself,” said her husband, and Rick murmured:
“He sure can!”
The family agreed that nothing was to be said to outsiders concerning the strange leaving of Uncle Tod. If questions were asked they were to be evaded, or it could be said, with perfect truth, that Mr. Belmont (his name was Toddingham Belmont) had gone away for a few days.
“And when that telegram comes we’ll know more about it,” suggested Rick. Meanwhile he and Ruddy pursued their usual line of activities about Belemere, going swimming, fishing, crabbing or off on joyous excursions in the fields and woods.
And then, one day, the expected message came. Uncle Tod had been gone nearly a week, without a word as to his whereabouts when, one afternoon, the colored boy from the telegraph office, riding his ramshackle and rattling wheel, stopped at the Dalton home.
“Oh, Mother!” cried Mazie. “Here’s a telegram!”
Mrs. Dalton’s hand shook a little as she signed the book, for telegrams were rather unusual, and she told Mazie to give the boy ten cents for himself.
“Is it from Uncle Tod?” asked Rick eagerly, as he quieted Ruddy, with whom he had been romping in the yard.
“I don’t know, my dear. I’ll tell you in a minute,” his mother answered.
With still trembling hands she tore open the envelope. It was a telegram from Uncle Tod, dated from the western town of Bitter Sweet Gulch, and the message read:
“Arrived safe and sound, but need help. Let Rick and Ruddy come West. I want them. Also bring another boy. They’ll have a good time and be of service to me. Will explain later. Come soon, and don’t forget Ruddy.”
“Whew!” whistled Rick as he sensed the import of the message. “Ruddy and me for the West! Hurray. Oh, boy!”
Eagerly Rick read over again the message that his mother surrendered to him. At first he could not grasp it all, but gradually the import came to him.
Uncle Tod had strangely, quickly and mysteriously gone out west, and now he wanted Rick and Ruddy to follow—that much was clear at all events. What he wanted Rick to do was still a mystery.
“I guess he wants me to help him, same as he did when he had trouble with Bucktooth Slither,” suggested Rick, in answer to his mother’s suggestive glance.
“But I thought that Slither went away,” said Mrs. Dalton.
“He did, so this must be somebody else,” spoke Rick. “Oh, Mother, may Ruddy and I go?” he pleaded.
“We’ll have to see about it,” was her answer, “and talk it over with your father. Of course there is no school now, and you always wanted to see the west. But as for taking Ruddy—”
“Oh, I couldn’t go without Ruddy!” cried Rick. “Could I, old boy!” and he flung his arms around the shaggy head of his beloved dog.
“Well, we’ll see,” was all Mrs. Dalton could say. “Where is this Bitter Sweet Gulch, anyhow?”
“Out west—that’s all I know,” answered Rick. “Oh, boy! Out west! And Uncle Tod says for me to bring another fellow!” he added.
“Whom will you take—that is providing you can go?” asked his mother.
“Chot, of course,” was the ready reply. “He and I are better chums than any of the other fellows, though I like ’em all. But Ruddy will mind Chot almost as good as he does me. I’m going over and tell Chot to get ready.”
“No! Not yet!” commanded Mrs. Dalton, catching Rick as he would have rushed from the house. “Maybe you can’t go, and there’s no use getting Chot all worked up and then disappointing him.”
“Oh, I hope we can go! I hope we can go!” murmured Rick. “Don’t you want to go, Ruddy?” he asked his dog. And if the joyous activity of the setter was any indication, he most certainly did want to go.
“Hum,” was all Mr. Dalton said later, when told of the new turn in events. “Well, at any rate, Uncle Tod telegraphed as he said he would. But I’d like to know considerable more of what it’s about.”
“He says he’s going to explain later,” remarked Rick. “But if you let me and Chot and Ruddy go out there, Dad, we could write back all about it.”
“I’ll see,” was all the satisfaction Rick got from his father.
“But when will you see?” persisted the lad. “Uncle Tod wants us in a hurry, or he wouldn’t have telegraphed. When will you see, Dad?”
“Oh, I’ll send him a night letter asking for more explanations,” was Mr. Dalton’s decision. “If it’s all right you can go.”
And in the morning, following the despatch of the night letter to Bitter Sweet Gulch, there came another telegram from Uncle Tod to Mr. Dalton. The contents of this message Mr. Dalton did not tell his son, but it seemed to be satisfactory, for when Rick, with eager voice asked again:
“Can we go?”
The answer was:
“Get ready!”
“Whoop!” yelled Rick. “Now I can tell Chot!” and away he and Ruddy raced to the home of his chum. “Chot! Chot!” yelled Rick. “We’re going out west!”
“Who is? You and Ruddy?”
“Yes, and you! Oh, boy! It’s too good to be true! Listen!” And Rick breathlessly told as much of the story as was needful.
Chot clasped his chum firmly by the hand and led him into the presence of Mrs. Benson.
“Tell her, Rick,” besought Chot, with pathetic eagerness. “And then say I can go, Momsie! Oh, say I can go!” he pleaded.
“Well, what’s all this about?” asked Chot’s mother with a laugh.
And when she had been told she looked a little serious and said, as Mrs. Dalton had said: “I’ll see.”
However, not to go into too many details about the discussion of the questions, pro and con, let it be said that finally permission was given for Chot to accompany Rick and Ruddy out west.
And then, as you may well imagine, busy times began in both households, for though, as compared to girls, boys are not difficult subjects to prepare for a journey, in this case there was Ruddy the dog to be considered.
“I don’t really see how you are going to take him,” said Mr. Dalton, when the arrangements had been pretty well settled as to Rick and Chot. “Ruddy will have to ride in baggage cars, and he ought to be put in a crate. He’s bound to be miserable and he may get loose and jump out.”
Rick looked serious on hearing this.
“You’d better leave him behind,” suggested Mrs. Dalton.
“Nope!” declared Rick. “If Ruddy can’t go I don’t go—besides, Uncle Tod asked specially for him.”
“Well,” began Mr. Dalton, “I don’t see—”
And then Mazie interrupted with a joyous cry of:
“Oh, I’ve just thought of something! They could all go out in an auto; couldn’t they; Rick, Ruddy and Chot?”
“We could if we had a car,” answered Rick, a bit gloomily.
“It would be swell!” declared Chot. “But we can’t drive a car away out beyond the Rockies. Besides, we haven’t any.”
“No, but Mr. Campbell has,” said Mazie. “He’s going to go out west in his touring car, and Mabel Campbell was saying to me yesterday her father wished he had some one to make the trip with him, as none of them can go and he doesn’t like to travel alone.”
“Is that so?” asked Mr. Dalton, and some of the perplexity faded from his face. “Well, if Mr. Campbell would take the boys and dog—Oh, but it’s too much to ask.”
“I think he’d like it,” suggested Mrs. Dalton. “He’s always very friendly with Rick and Ruddy. Why don’t you call him up and ask him?”
“Please do!” begged Rick.
“All right,” assented his father, rather reluctantly. “But it seems to me like a pretty large order.”
However Mr. Campbell, who lived a few houses down the street, was soon talking over the wire to Mr. Dalton, and the upshot of it was that he readily agreed to take the boys and dog with him in his large touring car. He was going all the way to San Francisco and Bitter Sweet Gulch was not much off his trail, he said. He would be glad to leave the boys and Ruddy there.
“Well, this looks better,” said Mr. Dalton, when he had expressed his own thanks and those of the boys. “It will be a lot easier going by auto, especially with the dog. Of course it may take a little longer, but that can’t be helped. I’ll telegraph Uncle Tod you are coming.”
Rick and Chot did an impromptu war dance about the room, and Ruddy joined in while Mazie smiled happily, glad that she had been the means of solving what had been a difficult problem.
Reservations that had been asked for in regard to railroad tickets and sleeping car berths were cancelled, and the boys began to go over again the lists of things they were going to take with them. Mr. Dalton went to call on Mr. Campbell to get the names of the different cities, where stops would be made, so he could get in touch with Chot and Rick on the way out.
“Oh, boy! Isn’t this the best ever!” cried Rick to Chot each time they met in the days that intervened before the start.
“Couldn’t be better!” was the answer.
Mrs. Dalton shook her head and sighed once or twice.
“I’m sure I want you boys to have a good time,” she said, “but it is all so mysterious. What is Uncle Tod doing out there, and if he was needed why couldn’t he have been sent for in the regular way, instead of being summoned by a cabbage leaf and a bullet?”
“That’s the best part of it,” chuckled Rick, “the mystery.”
“You must tell me all about it,” begged Mazie.
“We will,” promised Chot. “When we find it out ourselves.”
At last the preparations were completed, the boys’ bags were packed, Mr. Campbell had had his car inspected and “tuned-up,” and on a fine, sunny morning the little party started for the west.
“Good-bye! Good-bye!” was called again, and in the eyes of Mrs. Dalton and Mrs. Benson were traces of tears.
“Well,” said Mr. Campbell, as he shook hands with Mr. Benson and Mr. Dalton, “I’ll look after the boys all right—don’t worry.”
“I won’t,” said Mr. Dalton, and Chot’s father nodded in assent.
They had fairly started but stopped as Mrs. Dalton cried:
“Here comes the telegraph boy! Maybe there’s a message from Uncle Tod! Wait a minute!”
Rick and Chot felt a sinking sensation in the region of their hearts as they thought perhaps this might be a message telling them not to come.
With a quick motion, Mr. Dalton tore open the envelope and rapidly scanned the telegram. By the smile that spread over his face the boys knew it could be nothing serious.
“What is it?” asked Mrs. Dalton. “Who is it from?”
“Uncle Tod,” answered her husband. “He says: ‘Tell Rick not to forget Ruddy!’”
“As if I would,” murmured the dog’s young master.
“Oh, boy!” whispered Chot in his chum’s ear. “I was afraid he was dead or something, and we couldn’t go.”
“So was I,” admitted Rick.
But after this slight delay the start was made again, though “Sartin Sure,” the colored man of all work about the Dalton place, sighed and shook his head dubiously as the auto went down the street.
“What’s the matter, Sartin Sure?” asked Mazie. This odd name had been given the faithful negro helper because of his habit, whenever asked if he could do anything, of answering: “Sartin, sure I kin do it!”
“Bad luck, Missie,” he answered.
“Bad luck, Sartin, what do you mean?” asked Rick’s sister.
“Dey is suah t’ hab bad luck, fo’ didn’t dey start off an’ den stop t’ read dat tellygraft? Dey did, an’ dey suah will hab bad luck!”
“Isn’t there any way of stopping it, Sartin?” asked Mazie, more to please the old man than because she really had any belief in his many superstitions.
“Well, Missie, if dey had got out an’ turned around free times arter dey done stopped when dey had once started, dat would hab scairt de bad luck off. But now de only t’ing t’ do is fo’ somebody t’ hide a black hoss hair under a stone an’ say, free times: ‘Bad luck ride away!’”
“Couldn’t you do that, Sartin Sure?” asked Mazie.
“Why, ob course, Missie, Ah kin ef yo’ wants me t’.”
“It might not be a bad idea,” agreed Mazie, more to take the old man’s mind off his superstitious brooding than for any other reason.
“Den Ah’ll do it!” he declared. “Ah suah will!”
And he did, for some time later that day Mrs. Dalton saw him muttering and puttering away over a flat stone in the garden.
“What in the world is he doing?” Mazie’s mother asked her.
“Driving away Rick’s bad luck,” was the laughing answer.
“Oh, Mazie, you shouldn’t tease him or encourage him that way,” her mother objected.
“He’s got to have something to amuse himself with,” said the girl with another laugh, “and as long as I don’t believe in it, no harm is done.”
“But you shouldn’t let Sartin think you believe in such foolish charms,” went on her mother. “However it’s done, now, but don’t do it again.”
“I won’t,” promised Mazie. “But, Oh, I do hope the boys will be all right.”
“Your father seems to think they will be,” said Mrs. Dalton. “Of course it’s a long, and not easy, trip for such young lads, but Mr. Campbell will look well after them, and when they get to Bitter Sweet Gulch, there Uncle Tod will meet them. I guess they’ll be all right.”
As for Rick, Chot and Ruddy they had not the slightest doubt but that they would safely get out west, and there was no end to the many adventures they planned, from learning to be cowboys to visiting the reservations of all the Indians within a hundred miles.
Rick and Chot knew, as do most sensible boys, that the days of Indian hunting and buffalo chasing across the western plains were gone forever. The buffalo, except those on protected ranges, were a thing of the romantic past, and as for the Indians, they were rapidly dying off, and those who remained were on government reservations.
Of course, down toward the Mexican border there were occasional outbreaks of the Yaquis, but from these our friends had nothing to fear, for they were not going that far south. Not that Rick and Chot would have “feared” this contingency. To the contrary they would rather have welcomed it. But it was not to be.
And so, for the first few days, they traveled on with Mr. Campbell in his comfortable touring car, with Ruddy on the seat between them, and nothing of any moment occurred. There was an occasional bit of tire trouble, and once they ran into such a rain storm that they remained for two days near a city, waiting for the storm to pass.
The boys even enjoyed this stay, for Mr. Campbell put up at a hotel in a small suburban town just outside the city, as he thought the boys and dog would have more freedom than in a larger inn. And Chot and Rick appreciated this, as did Ruddy.
Then the rain stopped, the sun came out and they were on their way again. As Mr. Campbell did not have to keep to any strict timetable, or schedule, the loss of a few days did not matter.
They did not expect all “smooth sailing,” and they did not get it. Toward evening, on about the fifth day of travel, they were approaching a fairly large city, outside of which were signs along the highway warning that the road was under reconstruction. Half of the thoroughfare was torn up and was being replaced with new concrete, while the other half, in a distressing state of ruts and holes, was used by vehicles.
Owing to the fact that the part of the road that was in use was so narrow that two autos could not pass, the machines had to be operated like trains on a single track road. That is a certain number were allowed to come east, while western traffic was held up at the control station until the signal was given to let the waiting ones have their turn.
On the occasion when our friends started down the narrow road, piled thickly with highway materials on the side being rebuilt something went wrong with the signals, and two streams of autos—pleasure cars and trucks started from each end at the same time.
The result was that none could pass, any more than two trains meeting on a single track, while going in opposite directions, can get by.
There was a lot of talk, and it seemed impossible to straighten out the tangle, unless one or the other of the long line of cars backed up, and none of the drivers wanted to do this.
But finally one of the highway engineers got a gang of men out and they hastily made a wide enough place so that one line of cars could turn out, though it was risky work, for there was mud and water all over on account of the rain.
As it was, one car just behind Mr. Campbell’s was upset, though no one was hurt for it was moving slowly. Mr. Campbell and the boys helped right the machine and then towed it, as the steering gear was broken.
“Well, I’m glad we’re out of that!” exclaimed Mr. Campbell when they were again on a broad highway. “And I think I’ll take a short cut I know of to get into Elmwood. We’ll stay there for the night.”
“Have you been this way before?” asked Rick.
“Oh, yes, once or twice, and I think I know a back road that will take us into Elmwood in much shorter time than by following the main trail. We’ll try it.”
He swung off after passing through the next small city and as darkness fell the boys and dog with Mr. Campbell were traveling along a fairly good, but evidently seldom-used, country highway.
“What do you think your Uncle Tod has for us to do out where he is, Rick?” asked Chot as the auto rolled along, not any too smoothly, for the road became rougher.
“I can’t seem to guess,” was the answer, “though I’ve tried a lot. It’s almost like the time he took me on the Sallie. I didn’t know what in the world he was up to until toward the end.”
“And he’s so particular about having Ruddy come,” went on Chot. “Why do you s’pose he wants the dog?”
“Well, Ruddy’s smart,” said Rick, a bit proudly, as you would have felt if you owned such a dog.
“I know that,” agreed Chot. “Oh, say, maybe he’s gone in for raising sheep—a lot of men out west do that—and maybe he wants Ruddy to help drive the sheep.”
“Maybe,” assented Rick. “But I don’t guess—if it was just sheep herding—that Uncle Tod would be in such a hurry and act so queer. It’s something else, and I hope we can help.”
“So do I,” agreed Chot. “Anyhow, I’m glad we got Ruddy along.”
Rick was, too, and he gently pulled the ears of his four-footed chum, at which sign of affection Ruddy tried to wash Rick’s face with that ever-busy red tongue.
It grew very dark as they progressed along the quiet back-country road, and Mr. Campbell drove carefully, scanning the highway as it was revealed to him in the glare of his powerful headlights.
“I think we’re going to have another storm, boys,” he remarked.
There was a flashing of distant lightning and a rumble of thunder, at which sound Ruddy pricked up his ears.
“Think it’ll come before we get to Elmwood?” asked Rick.
“I hope not. I don’t fancy being on a dirt road in a rain,” was the answer. “But I think we must be nearly there.”
“I just saw a sign post!” exclaimed Chot as they flashed past one. “Shall I get out and see what it says?”
“If you wouldn’t mind,” suggested Mr. Campbell.
He stopped the car and Rick and Chot, accompanied by Ruddy ran back, for the boys said they wanted to “stretch their legs” that were cramped from long sitting in the car.
“Fifteen miles to Elmwood,” read Chot in the light of a pocket flashlamp he carried.
“I thought we were nearer than that,” remarked Mr. Campbell. “Well it won’t take long if we can beat the rain.”
But the louder thunder, and the increased brightness and frequency of the lightning, seemed to indicate that the storm would soon break.
Mr. Campbell guided his car around a curve, at a point where the trees meeting overhead rendered the highway very dark. He saw a straight stretch ahead of him, and was about to resume speed when Ruddy suddenly uttered a howl, so weird and so full of import that, as Chot said afterward, it made his hair stand up.
“Ruddy! Ruddy! What’s the matter!” cried Rick, patting his dog’s head.
Again Ruddy howled, in that mournful way dogs have—a nerve-racking sound at best, and doubly so on a lonely road after dark and with a brooding storm overhead.
Mr. Campbell suddenly jammed on the brakes, locking the rear wheels and sliding the car along with a crunch of gravel beneath the tires.
“What’s the matter?” cried Rick.
“I’m afraid of danger,” was the answer. “I believe Ruddy is trying to warn us of something!”
And again the dog howled mournfully, as the car slackened speed.
Rick and Chot seemed to feel a thrill go through them at these words. What was going to happen? Something exciting they hoped. Perhaps robbers were going to “hold them up,” and certainly the scene was wild enough to imagine almost anything taking place.
“Quiet, Ruddy!” ordered Rick, for the dog was trying to leap from the car.
Suddenly there came a most vivid flash of lightning—brighter than any that had yet presaged the coming of the blast. It was followed by a clap of thunder, coming so closely after the glare as to indicate that the storm was very near—if not ready to break instantly.
And in that startling flare the occupants of the automobile saw something that caused them to gasp in fear.
For the machine had come to a stop not five feet from the edge of a broken bridge—a bridge that spanned a deep and rocky ravine, and had they rolled into it not one might have escaped death.
For a moment no one spoke—even Ruddy ceased his howls and his frantic efforts to get out of the auto. And then, as another vivid flash came, and more details of the broken bridge impressed themselves on the visions of Mr. Campbell and the boys, there were gasps of relief at the danger escaped.
“Say,” exclaimed Chot with a show of righteous indignation, “it’s dangerous to have bridges like that—all broken. They ought to have some sort of a warning.”
“That’s right!” agreed Rick. “There ought to be a red lamp here!”
“There may have been,” said Mr. Campbell, “and the wind may have blown it out. I can’t believe any one who knew of this broken bridge would neglect to put out a warning sign. That is unless the bridge has just collapsed. We’ll take a look. But I think we owe our lives to Ruddy.”
“Do you think he knew about it?” asked Chot in an awed voice.
“It seems so; doesn’t it?” asked Rick. “He howled just at the right time to stop us; didn’t he?”
“He surely did,” agreed Mr. Campbell. “His howls and the queer way he acted convinced me that something was wrong which we couldn’t see or know about. So I thought it best to stop suddenly, though at the time I felt it might be a foolish and superstitious notion. But it wasn’t.”
“How do you s’pose Ruddy knew about it?” inquired Chot.
“Same as dogs know when a person’s going to die,” said Rick. “Dogs always howl the night before a person’s going to die.”
“Who told you that?” asked Mr. Campbell, as he prepared to alight from the car.
“Sartin Sure, the colored man who works for us—he told me,” said the boy. “He said he never knew it to fail, that when he heard a dog howl, the next day somebody would be dead.”
“That’s all bosh!” laughed Mr. Campbell. “I admit that a dog may howl in the night, and somewhere in our city a person may be dead next day. But that doesn’t prove anything. Dogs will howl more on moonlight nights than any other, but more persons don’t die on such nights than on nights when there is no moon.
“It’s just a coincidence—an accidental happening so to speak. Dogs can’t possibly know when a person is going to die—that is unless they are right with them, and perhaps a dog who has been associated with his master many years may then, in some strange way, sense when the end comes.”
“But don’t you think Ruddy knew about this broken bridge?” asked Rick.
Mr. Campbell was silent for a moment as he alighted from the auto, followed by Rick, Chot and Ruddy.
“Well,” came the answer at last, “I won’t say that he actually knew about it, in the way that we would have known had some one told us. But he must have sensed it, just as Ruddy may often have known, Rick, the moment you came in the house when he was asleep, though you may have entered so quietly as to make no noise.”
“Yes, I’ve had that happen,” admitted Rick.
“Well, perhaps in the same strange, mysterious way Ruddy may have sensed that there was something wrong with this bridge and he howled—the only way he had of warning us. And he certainly did warn us.”
“In time, too,” added Chot. “If you’d gone a few feet farther—”
He did not finish the sentence, but they all knew what he meant. In silence they walked to the edge of the broken bridge, and in the glare of the car headlights, which gleamed sufficiently when the lightning was not flashing more brightly, they saw what had happened.
The bridge was old and rotten—perhaps it would not have held up the weight of the auto—and the two main supporting beams had broken close to the end nearest the travelers. The bridge had fallen into the ravine, the farther end supported on the other side like a hinge. And as more lightning flashes came they revealed the sharp and jagged rocks below—rocks on which they would have been impaled and smashed but for Ruddy’s timely warning.
They talked it all over again—waiting there for the storm to break. They wondered how Ruddy could have known—they even wondered if he really did know. Was it not all just a coincidence? Was not Ruddy merely howling because he didn’t like lightning? And did not Mr. Campbell stop instinctively, as, perhaps, you have stopped suddenly, and for no reason when about to step into danger?
These were questions that never could be answered. So they gave up trying to find suitable replies, and patted Ruddy with thankful feelings in their hearts over their escape from danger. As for Ruddy, he seemed content, now that he had warned his friends, and howled no more.
There came another vivid glare of the sky-fireworks, followed by a resounding crash, at which Ruddy gave a little howl and snuggled closer to Rick. Then the silence that ensued was broken by a curious pattering sound all around the travelers who stood near the car.
“Rain!” exclaimed Rick.
“That’s right,” echoed Mr. Campbell. “We’d better get under cover.”
He led the way to the automobile and began getting out the side curtains from the overhead pocket beneath the top. The boys helped him, and though it was hard work to adjust them in the increasing wind and darkness, they managed to get them in place. The lightning was a hinderance rather than a help for though it was brilliantly light one moment, it was intensely dark the next, and the darkness lasted longer than did the light.
However they were finally as well protected as possible against the rain which came down with increasing volume as they worked at the side curtains, and when they were at last sheltered in the car there descended a veritable deluge.
“What are you going to do, Mr. Campbell?” asked Rick as the electric starter spun the fly wheel and set the engine in motion.
“I’m going to get off this road,” was the answer. “We can’t go any farther this way on account of the broken bridge. I don’t know any other back route to Elmwood. I was foolish to take this short cut. I should have stuck to the main road. But I guess we’ll find some place we can stay all night, for I think this storm is going to last and get worse.”
Certainly it seemed to bear out that prediction, for the wind, the rain, the thunder and lightning produced an effect that was not at all pleasant. Ruddy curled up in the rear among the blankets and baggage, and Rick and Chot almost wished they could forget everything as the dog seemed to be doing. He had no responsibility.
But Rick and Chot were not shirkers. They were willing to do all they could to help in this time of stress and trouble. They were not Boy Scouts for nothing. They wanted to play their parts like men if need arose. And so, as they sat on the front seat with Mr. Campbell—for there was room for all three—they were on the alert for any further danger that might come up.
Mr. Campbell began carefully backing the car to turn it, and this was not easily done as the road was narrow where it approached the bridge. Just as he got the machine around, and was about to start off, there was a crash behind and the sound of broken glass.
“What’s that?” cried the man at the wheel.
“We’ve smashed something,” said Rick. “I’ll see what it is.”
“Here, put your rain coat on and take a flash light,” ordered Mr. Campbell, reaching forward into one of the side pockets. “No use getting any wetter.”
The boys had brought rain coats with them. They were in the rear of the machine and Rick quickly donned his and slipped out back to see what had happened. In the flash of the pocket electric light he saw where the auto had backed into a pole that had held a red danger lantern. Doubtless this had been placed to warn travelers of the broken bridge, but the red light was out when our friends drove up.
“You ran right into it,” Rick explained to Mr. Campbell. “It’s all smashed—I mean the red lantern is.”
“Well, it had probably burned out, anyhow,” was his reply. “That’s why it gave us no warning. But I wish we had some way of letting others who might come along here know that the bridge is down. I’ll stop at the first house we pass and leave word. But meanwhile some one may happen to come this road, though it isn’t likely in the storm.”
“Couldn’t we put a rail, or something across the road?” suggested Chot. “I mean something that would break easy so it wouldn’t damage any car that ran into it. When they hit it they’d stop, and then they could see the broken bridge.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Mr. Campbell. “We’ll do it. As you say, they’ll stop when they crash into a light rail or small tree, and they won’t be going very fast—not on this road in this storm.”
It was not a very agreeable task to get out in the mud, water and darkness, amid glaring lightning and resounding thunder and fix some sort of warning. But at last they managed to span the road with a light barrier that would easily break when a car ran into it. And once a motorist crashed into this harmless obstruction he would, very likely, look ahead to see the reason it was placed across the road. Then he would discover the broken bridge.
“There, it’s the best we can do,” said Mr. Campbell as they entered the machine again. “Say,” he suddenly asked, “aren’t you boys hungry?”
“A little,” admitted Rick.
“Same here,” echoed Chot.
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?”
“We didn’t know you had anything to eat,” said Rick.
“I haven’t very much, but at the last place we stopped I had them put me up some sandwiches and a thermos bottle of hot chocolate. I reckon it will come in good now; eh?”
“Oh, boy!” murmured Chot.
“It’s better than a Thanksgiving turkey!” exclaimed Rick.
Mr. Campbell got out the little lunch, and never had an elaborate meal tasted better to the boys—or to Ruddy also, for he had his share of sandwich ends and was grateful.
Then, heartened and warmed—for the rain was cold in spite of the summer weather that had prevailed—they started off. If the road had been hard to travel earlier in the evening, before the rain, it was doubly so now.
The auto lurched and swayed from side to side. Now one wheel would descend into some mud hole and again another would slip into a miniature ravine, throwing all in the car to one side.
All the while the flood of rain kept up, the lightning glared and the thunder, at times, was almost deafening. The only occupant of the car on that wild ride, who seemed in comfort was Ruddy, well protected in the rear among the baggage.
“Let me know if any of you see a light ahead,” suggested Mr. Campbell to the boys. “I’ve got to keep my eyes on the road,” and as he spoke the steering wheel was almost jerked from his hands by the lurch of the car.
“Do you mean the lights of another auto coming?” asked Chot.
“Any glimmer at all,” was the answer. “What I’d like to see would be the lights of some hotel, or inn. We can’t travel this way all night. We’ve got to put up somewhere.”
They rode along for perhaps ten minutes more and then Rick suddenly called:
“I see a light!”
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The car lurched again, went down on one side, as a front wheel sank into a mud hole, swung out as Mr. Campbell pulled it back on the firmer surface, and then came the question from the steersman:
“Where is it, Rick? That light?”
“Off to the left.”
“I don’t see anything,” Mr. Campbell said, “and I don’t dare take my eyes from the road long enough to look. What did it seem to be, Rick?”
“I don’t know—just a light, that’s all.”
“I see it, too!” suddenly cried Chot, and Ruddy roused up at the boys’ voices, and put his fore paws on the back of the front seat.
“Down, old fellow,” said Rick gently. “Don’t jump up again.”
Ruddy quieted and Mr. Campbell, slowing down the speed of the car, looked around.
“I see it,” he said. “Looks as if it were in a house, or something. Well, whatever it is, they ought to take us in. It’s dangerous to keep on in this storm.”
He drove slowly ahead and then, in the sheen from the auto headlights and the glare from the fitful lightning flashes the travelers saw a lonely cabin beside the road. From it came the cheerful gleam of light, and as the travelers drew nearer they could see that the gleam spread from a kerosene lamp on a table, about which, as they could see in through the window, were gathered three men.
“I don’t remember to have passed this place before,” said Mr. Campbell, as he guided the machine up to the door. “But maybe I didn’t notice it. Anyhow, it’s the best port we could make in this storm, if they’ll take us in. Whew! I believe it’s raining harder, if such a thing is possible!”
Indeed the storm was a regular deluge now. The thunder seemed dying away and the lightning was not so frequent and vivid, but the rain was beating down powerfully.
“Better stay in the car, boys, until I see if they will take us in,” suggested Mr. Campbell, as he got out. “It looks like a private house—or perhaps I’d better say shack—but maybe they’ll have room for us.”
However, Rick and Chot had already alighted from the car, believing their rain coats were protection enough. Ruddy followed them, a sad and bedraggled figure, his tail drooping between his legs.
Mr. Campbell advanced to the door and knocked, and Rick and Chot, standing where they could look in the window, saw the three men around the table where the lamp shone, start from their seats.
The boys also saw something else, for one of the men reached for a gun standing against a chair.
“Did you see that?” whispered Chot to Rick.
“Look out, Mr. Campbell,” warned Rick, not pausing to reply to his chum. “They have a gun!”
“Oh, that’s all right,” was the easy answer. “We’re getting into the west now, and when any one knocks on the door of a lonely cabin after dark the safest thing is to reach for a gun—not that you’ll have to use it, but just for safety’s sake.”
Silence followed the knock on the door—though it was not a complete silence, for there was the pelting of the rain that made a continuous low roar—and then came a hail from within the lonely cabin:
“Who’s there?”
“Strangers and travelers,” answered Mr. Campbell. “We’ve lost our way in the storm—the bridge is down just beyond here—”
Suddenly the door was flung open, and in the glare of the lamp the three men in the cabin gazed out into the rain-swept darkness. One of them held a gun in readiness, but when the gleam of the light fell on the forms of Rick, Ruddy and Chot, as well as on the friendly though wet and dripping face of Mr. Campbell, the weapon was laid aside.
“What’s that you say, stranger?” asked the foremost man. “Is the bridge over Rocky Gulch gone?”
“It’s down, yes, and but for the howling of our dog we might have gone down with it. There was a red light, but it was out, and we didn’t have any warning. Then we turned back in the storm, but we must have lost our way for I don’t remember to have passed this place before.”
“Very likely you didn’t,” was the comment. “It’s off the main road. But come in stranger, and bring the boys and dog with you. It’s no night for even a dog to be out in.”
It was a warm enough welcome coming from strangers, and the boys were very glad to enter the shack, Ruddy following his master.
“Is there any place around here where I can leave my car?” asked Mr. Campbell.
“Shed around back,” gruffly answered one of the men.
“And, if it isn’t asking too much, could we stay here for the night?” was the next request of Mr. Campbell. “We can stretch out on the floor, or sit around the fire, for that matter.”
“I guess we can put you up,” was the somewhat gruff answer from the man who had done most of the talking. “We’ve got some bunks—this is a hunter’s cabin, and—”
“But we’re not hunting now,” came the quick retort of another of the trio. “We know the game laws!”
“I’m not a warden,” laughed Mr. Campbell. “You have nothing to fear. I’ll just run the car under the shed, and then I’ll bring your bags in if you want them,” he added, for he thought Rick and Chot might want to don sleeping garments, as long as there were bunks for them to turn into.
“Oh, don’t bother,” said Rick. “We’re all right as we are, and the rain coats kept us dry—all but our feet and we can take off our shoes.”
“We’ve got a good fire,” said another of the men, and the boys saw the flames leaping and crackling in a fireplace as they advanced farther into the room.
Mr. Campbell ran the car around behind the lonely shack, where he found a rough shed that would afford some protection against the rain, and keep dry the baggage and other things in the car. Sensing that this was a sort of rough-and-ready stopping place, Mr. Campbell did not bring in any of his luggage or that of the boys’ either. They could take off some of their clothes and stretch out in the bunks, waiting for morning and, he hoped, the stopping of the storm.
When he again entered the cabin he found Rick and Chot drying their feet before the fire, their shoes having been removed, and Ruddy was stretched out basking in the genial warmth. The three men sat at the table, where they had been playing cards. Seemingly they were awaiting the reappearance of Mr. Campbell that he might give a further account of himself and his boy companions.
Mr. Campbell seemed to realize that an explanation was in order, for he told, without being asked, of his trip to San Francisco, and mentioned that he was taking Rick out to join Uncle Tod.
“You’ve got quite a ways yet to go,” observed the man who seemed to be the leader. He had introduced himself as Martin, and his companions as Elkton and Shadd. “We’re looking up some timber claims here,” he added, “and we got the use of this cabin. ’Tisn’t ours, but you’re welcome to stay, and we have some grub left.”
“Thanks,” said Mr. Campbell. “We don’t want to rob you, but a cup of hot coffee would go mighty well now—if you can spare it.”
“Sure!” said the man called Shadd. He seemed to be the cook, for soon, on a ramshackle stove in what was the kitchen of the shack, he had brewed steaming coffee that was most grateful to the tired, cold and damp travelers.
“Like some baked beans?” asked Shadd, when the coffee had been disposed of.
“Sure!” exclaimed Rick, at whom the question seemed to be directed.
“We got plenty of them, and some bread and butter,” went on the cook. “Might as well make a meal when you have the chance. I can give you bacon, too.”
“Say,” laughed Mr. Campbell, “this is a regular hotel.”
“Hardly that,” said Joe Martin, as the others called him, “but such as ’tis you’re welcome to.”
Seldom had a meal tasted better, for all three were very hungry in spite of the sandwiches and chocolate they had partaken of not long before.
And then as the rain kept up its pelting on the roof of the lonely shack, the boys sat and were permeated by the warmth of the blazing fire while Ruddy sighed in contentment. If Mr. Campbell was worried about the chance of keeping on next day, over rain-torn roads, he said nothing about it.
The shack was larger than it first appeared. There was the main room, where the fire blazed, a small kitchen and two other rooms, fitted with three bunks in each one. Mr. Campbell and the boys were given one bunk room for themselves, and the other was used by the lumbermen as they called themselves.
“Better turn in, boys,” suggested Mr. Campbell, as he noticed Rick and Chot nodding before the sleep-compelling blaze.
“I guess I will,” said Rick, and soon he and his chum, with Ruddy stretched out in a corner, were soundly slumbering. Mr. Campbell “turned in” a little later.
Rick’s last thoughts, as he dozed off in the fairly comfortable bunk, were of his Uncle Tod. He wondered why his mother’s relative had departed so suddenly after the receipt of the mysterious message. Also Rick wondered why Uncle Tod wanted him, another boy and Ruddy to come out west.
Puzzled thoughts over these questions seemed to follow Rick in his sleep, for he dreamed that he and Chot were trying to rescue Uncle Tod from the Indians who had unexpectedly started on the war path. Rick was dimly conscious that Ruddy was moving uneasily about in the night, and he also thought he felt the dog’s cold nose on his face as if Ruddy were trying to awaken him.
But Rick slept on, and so did Chot, until the morning sun streamed in through a window, betokening that the storm was over.
Then they heard Mr. Campbell calling them. He had left his bunk, and was in the main room, and, as he called, there was that in his voice which showed wonder and alarm.
“Anything the matter?” asked Rick, as, followed by Ruddy and Chot he hastened from the bunk room into the main apartment where the cold gray ashes had replaced the cheerful, blazing fire of the night before.
“Anything wrong?” Chot wanted to know.
“Well, I don’t know that you could call it wrong,” said Mr. Campbell with a pat on Ruddy’s head, “but our hosts seem to have disappeared! Did you hear them go in the night?”
“Have the men left?” asked Rick.
“I don’t see any signs of them,” was the answer. “And I slept so heavily that I didn’t hear a sound. Did either of you?”
“I thought I felt Ruddy moving around in the night,” Rick answered. “But I didn’t wake up or hear anything.”
“Me either,” admitted Chot. “But, anyhow, it’s cleared off and we can travel along.”
“Yes, we can travel along,” said Mr. Campbell. “I don’t believe those men will care if I help myself to some of their coffee and grub. They were free enough with it last night. If they come back, and object, I’ll pay them.”
“Do you know where they have gone?” Rick wanted to know.
Mr. Campbell shook his head.
“I came out here as soon as I was up,” he explained, “and I saw no one. Then I knocked on the door of their bunk room, but there was no answer. I opened the door and looked in and they were gone.”
“Maybe they went out early to look up some trees,” suggested Chot.
“What do you mean—look up trees?” asked Rick. “Do you mean to look and see if there’s a bear to shoot?”
“No, I mean about cutting some lumber,” explained Chot.
“Oh,” exclaimed his chum. “I see.”
“It’s possible they did that,” said Mr. Campbell. “Of course they have a right to do as they please, but they might have left a note or something to say they’d be back. But it’s their business, I reckon. And I’m going to see what sort of a breakfast I can get.”
“We’ll help,” offered Rick and Chot.
Coffee was soon boiling on the stove, and bacon was sizzling in the pan. By rummaging further in a pantry Mr. Campbell found some prepared flour and, declaring that he was a master-hand at turning flapjacks, he proved it by setting before the boys two plates of delicately-browned pancakes.
“There’s even maple syrup, or what passes for it, to eat on them,” he said, producing a sticky brown bottle.
“Oh, boy!” cried Rick.
“Can’t beat this—not even at home!” declared Chot, and they kept Mr. Campbell busy over the frying pan which he used in place of a pancake griddle. He did not neglect himself, however, and soon all three—no, all four, for Ruddy was not forgotten—had eaten a good breakfast.
“Well, since our friends don’t seem to be coming back, we’ll have to write a note and express our thanks for their hospitality,” said Mr. Campbell, after the meal. “Then we’ll start off again, but I don’t imagine we’ll make very good time until we get on the main road. This rain must have made more mud puddles than usual.”
“We’ll wash the dishes while you’re writing the note,” suggested Rick, for, like all Boy Scouts, he had been taught to leave a place as he found it, and the dishes were clean in the cupboard at the start of breakfast.
There was a tank of warm water connected with the stove, and the dishes were soon being given a sort of rough-and-ready bath. But campers are never fussy—if they were they wouldn’t be campers.
“There, this will thank them for having taken us in,” said Mr. Campbell, as he finished the note to the three men. “I’ll leave it on the table where they’ll see it when they come back. I’ve given them my address in San Francisco,” he added, “and if they want to send us a bill for breakfast I’ll settle it later. But I don’t believe they will. Now I’ll go out and get the car.”
The shed was out of sight behind the shack, and the boys waited a few minutes in front of the cabin to hear the hum of the motor as the self-starter turned it over.
But no such hum sounded and Rick and Chot, who were playing with Ruddy, paused in their fun after a few minutes, looking at each other while Rick said:
“Must have trouble getting her going.”
“Cold after the rain, maybe,” suggested Chot.
“Or there might be water in the carburetor,” said Rick.
They were about to walk around the shack to see if they could be of any help in turning on the ignition, as Mr. Campbell might have to crank the car, when they saw their friend coming around the path that led from the cabin to the shed.
“Boys, did you hear the auto being taken out in the night?” he asked.
“The auto taken?” cried Rick. “No!”
“Isn’t it there?” asked Chot.
“No,” answered Mr. Campbell.
“Where is it?” cried the boys.
“Gone!”
“Gone?”
“Stolen, I reckon,” said the owner grimly, “and I think I can guess who took it.”
“You mean the three men who were here?” asked Rick.
“I’m afraid so—yes. That’s why they sneaked off so quietly. They wanted to get away in my car. All our stuff gone, too! The car’s insured but there’s my baggage, and yours, and a lot of valuable documents and a patent model I was taking to San Francisco.”
“Whew!” whistled Rick, and Ruddy came running up wondering what his young master wanted, for the whistle sounded like a signal.
“What are you going to do?” asked Chot.
“We’ll have to take after them,” said Mr. Campbell. “I can’t let them get away with my things like this! And I must get back your baggage, also. That’s the time we slept too soundly, lads! Those scoundrels just sneaked out when we were in dreamland and took our car. Well, there’s no use staying here. We’ll have to walk to the nearest town and let the police know about the robbery. They must have some telephones and telegraph lines out here, and maybe we can head off the thieves.”
“How could they get the car out without starting it up?” asked Rick. “Your motor makes quite a noise when it starts, Mr. Campbell, and I should think we’d have heard it.”
“That’s just it—they didn’t start the motor,” was the reply.
“Then how’d they run it off?”
“They just took off the brake and let her coast down hill,” was the answer. “There’s a hill leading up into the shed. I noticed it when I went in last night. All they had to do was to let the car roll down hill—it would coast all the way to the road, I think. And that was far enough off so that when they turned on the ignition, as the car was still moving, she started without the racket she usually makes. Come and I’ll show you.”
He indicated to the boys the marks of the tires in the soft ground—marks that showed where Mr. Campbell had driven in, and then where the car had been pushed out, steered down to the road under gravity and finally driven off.
“Hard luck, but there’s no use worrying,” said Mr. Campbell, who was a sort of optimistic philosopher. “We’ll just have to take after ’em—that’s all.”
“Maybe we can trace the car by the tire tracks,” said Rick. “There aren’t many cars out this way, Mr. Campbell.”
“Yes, perhaps we can, Rick. Well, let’s get started.”
They headed away from the shed, aiming to pass around the cabin and take to the road. But, as they filed along the path, with Ruddy running ahead, Chot suddenly called:
“I hear a car coming!”
“Maybe they are coming back,” suggested Rick.
They pressed forward eagerly.
Just as Mr. Campbell and the boys reached the front of the shack in which they had spent the night, they saw, stopping in the road a short distance away, an automobile of the flivver type—old, ramshackle, rusty and covered with mud.
From this battered car leaped several men, each one bearing a gun, and it took no more than a second glance to reveal to Rick and the others that these were not Martin, Elkton and Shadd, the self-styled “lumbermen.”
Ruddy stopped, stiffened into attention and began to growl in a menacing manner.
“Quiet, Ruddy,” sharply ordered his master and the dog obeyed.
The men ran forward, with guns held in readiness, but before they could shoot, if, indeed, such was their intention, and before anything could be said, another car followed the first and stopped suddenly.
From this second car leaped three men who seemed anxious to overtake the first party, numbering five, who were advancing on Mr. Campbell and the boys.
“Now we’ve got you!” cried the leader of the first party, as he began lowering his gun in readiness for action. “Up with your hands!”
“Why, what in the world—” began Mr. Campbell. He said afterward he thought it was all a joke, and Rick was beginning to wonder if this had anything to do with the mystery of Uncle Tod, when the second party of three men overtook the first five, and the evident leader of this trio shouted:
“Wait a minute, Bert! You’re making a mistake!”
“A mistake?” inquired the man who had ordered “hands up.”
“Yes, this is the wrong crowd—can’t you see that. Two of ’em are boys and there’s a dog!”
“I see the boys and dog all right,” grumbled the one who had given the startling order, “but they may belong to the same bunch all right.”
“I’m afraid not,” said the other. “Looks like they got away—give us the slip. Your name Cassidy?” he asked sharply of Mr. Campbell.
“No, it isn’t,” was the quiet answer. “But what’s this all about, anyhow? And where can we get in touch with the police or some one in authority?”
“What for? Have you captured the robbers?” asked one of the raiding party eagerly.
“Robbers?” exclaimed Rick and Chot who were taking all this in with wondering eyes.
“As far as robberies go we have one to report ourselves,” said Mr. Campbell. “My auto was taken, during the night, by three men who were in this shack.”
“And those are the very men we’re after!” exclaimed the leader of the last-arriving trio. “Where are they? Which way did they go? If they have your car, and it can travel, we may have hard work catching up to them.”
“I’m afraid you will,” said Mr. Campbell, grimly. “But where can I report the theft of my car? Where will I find an officer?”
“Right here,” answered the leader of the five men with a chuckle. “We’re all officers. That’s Nick Wilson, a deputy sheriff,” he added, indicating the big man who had arrived in the car with two others. “I’m a court-house constable and these others are special deputies we just swore in to help capture the bank robbers.”
“Bank robbers?” exclaimed Mr. Campbell. “Were Martin, Elkton and Shadd robbers?”
“They were, and desperate ones, too, only those aren’t their names,” said Deputy Sheriff Wilson. “I guess they go by any names that suit ’em, but one of ’em is Cassidy, and the other two are Burke and Armstrong. They robbed the Frenchtown bank of over fifty thousand dollars last week, and they have been traced to this locality.
“Early this morning we got word that three men, answering the description of the bank robbers, were out here in this shack. I rounded up all the men I could find. Dodge, here, got a little ahead of me,” said the deputy sheriff with a grin, “but as soon as I saw the two boys I knew we were barking up the wrong tree. And so the robbers took your car and got away; did they?”
“It looks so,” admitted Mr. Campbell ruefully.
“Too bad,” said Nick Wilson. “If you could only have held those fellows you’d have been in the reward of ten thousand dollars.”
Rick and Chot gasped at this.
“No use thinking about that now,” said Mr. Campbell philosophically. “I’ll be satisfied if I can get my car back, and the stuff in it—including the baggage of these boys. I’m on my way to San Francisco, and Rick and Chot—not to forget Ruddy—are going out to their Uncle Tod.”
“He isn’t my uncle,” said Chot.
“Well, it’s all the same,” explained Mr. Campbell with a smile. And then, briefly, he told the officers of how they were caught in the storm at the broken bridge, and how they had happened to stop at the lonely cabin.
In turn the deputy sheriff related the story of the daring bank robbery. The three men, presumably having most of the money with them, had come to this hunters’ cabin to hide. They had, doubtless, seen their opportunity to escape in an auto when Mr. Campbell and the boys drove up in their car.
Welcoming the travelers and making them feel at home had lulled our friends’ suspicions and during the night the robbers had quietly slipped out and departed in the Campbell car with their booty.
“And to think we just snoozed and let them get away!” cried Rick.
“Isn’t it tough!” bewailed Chot.
“Well, maybe it isn’t too late yet!” eagerly suggested Bert Dodge, the court-house constable. “Let’s take after ’em!”
“I guess we’d better,” assented the deputy. “We’ll try to get your car back,” he added to Mr. Campbell. “You can come along with me if you want to,” he added. “Guess I can make room for you.”
“What about the boys?” asked Mr. Campbell.
Nick Wilson tilted back his hat from his grizzled hair and scratched his head.
“It’s going to be a pretty tight fit,” he admitted as he looked at the battered and muddy car of the constable, and at his own not much better and no larger auto. “Yes, it’ll be a pretty tight fit, to say nothing of the dog.”
“I can’t leave Ruddy!” exclaimed Rick.
“I’d like to go with the officers,” remarked Mr. Campbell. “I can then identify my car if we find it. But, even if there were room, I’d rather you boys wouldn’t come. There may be shooting—”
“There will be if we get within distance!” declared Mr. Dodge, grimly.
“If you boys wouldn’t mind waiting here,” suggested Mr. Campbell, “it would be better, maybe. I know it’s rather hard luck,” he added with a smile, as he saw the rueful look on Chot’s face, “but it’s what I think your folks would want, and I’m responsible for you.”
“Oh, we’ll stay,” offered Rick cheerfully. “I wouldn’t go, anywhere, and leave Ruddy behind.”
“Tell you what,” broke in Mr. Wilson, “you boys go back to town and wait for me at my office. You can tell the sheriff how things turned out, and that will save us time telephoning, ’specially as there isn’t a line around here. Go back to my office in the court-house and wait. Here, I’ll give you a note to show it’s all right.”
He scribbled something on the back of an envelope and passed it to Rick. Meanwhile the special deputies were quickly scrambling into the autos, Mr. Campbell being invited to ride with Nick Wilson and his two helpers, while Bert and his four filled the muddy, ramshackle, rusty flivver that he owned.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can, boys,” called Mr. Campbell to Rick and Chot. “We couldn’t go on, anyhow, until I get my car again.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” Rick assured him. “We’ll wait in town for you. How far back is it?” he asked the deputy sheriff.
“’Bout three miles.”
“That isn’t far,” admitted Chot.
“And when you get hungry go to my house and tell my wife I sent you,” went on the deputy. “She’ll give you a good meal!”
That sounded very encouraging to the boys who had not had anything very substantial since dinner the day before.
Rick, Chot and Ruddy stood in the road in front of the shack, and watched the officers start in pursuit of the robbers. How much the two lads wished they could have had a part in the man-hunt, only you boys can imagine. But it would not have been wise.
“I hope they get ’em,” murmured Chot, as the two rattling cars vanished around a turn in the highway.
“So do I,” echoed Rick. “If they do, maybe Mr. Campbell will get part of the reward.”
“How?”
“Well, the robbers took his car and he gave information about them. He ought to get part of the reward.”
“That’s right. I hope he does. Well, let’s go on to town. What’s the name of the place, anyhow? It can’t be Elmwood, for we were heading for that when we got to the broken bridge.”
“No, it’s Fayetville I heard one of the men say. Well, I hope this Mrs. Wilson is a good cook,” and Rick sighed.
“Will you go to her house for a meal?”
“Sure! Why not? Didn’t Mr. Wilson tell us to? And it will be better than going to a restaurant. We can wash up and comb our hair. I feel like a tramp.”
“So do I. Yet, I guess it will be better to go to her house. I’m hungry.”
“So’m I. Well, come on.”
The boys and the dog started down the road, while the two flivvers, filled with eager officers, kept on in pursuit of the criminals, pausing now and then at some lonely farm house to ask if the Campbell car had passed.
Great excitement was caused in the Fayetville court-house when the boys arrived with the scribbled note from Deputy Sheriff Wilson, and the news that the posse was, even then, on the trail of the bank robbers. The sheriff himself came out of his office to talk to the boys, asking them for all the details they could give him.
“Guess I’d better send some more deputies to help Nick and Bert,” said the county official. “Those robbers are desperate fellows, and now they have a car it’s going to be harder to catch them.”
“They not only have a car, but they’ve got the things we were going to camp with,” lamented Chot.
“Well, as long as they didn’t take us—and Ruddy, we ought to be glad,” laughed Rick.
“That’s right,” said the sheriff. “They are desperate characters. No wonder they were suspicions of you when you came on them in the storm. But they were quick to see that their best plan was to let you in, allow you to sleep and then sneak off in your car. However, we’ll get ’em all right. I’ll telephone to all the places around here to be on the watch. Just give me a description of Mr. Campbell’s machine so I can let other sheriffs and police officers know what to look for.”
Between them Rick and Chot supplied a good description, even to the numbers on the license plates, and this information was soon being sent broadcast by telephone and telegraph.
“Well, do you boys want to sit around here and wait for Mr. Campbell to come back?” asked Sheriff Hart, “or what do you want to do?”
“Mr. Wilson said something about going to his house,” began Rick, “and if we could—”
Just then the telephone in the sheriff’s office, where this talk was taking place, began ringing violently.
“Hello—hello!” cried the sheriff as he snatched off the receiver. He listened intently, saying, meanwhile—“yes—yes! Good! I hope you do! Yes, they’re here! I’ll send them up!”
He turned to the boys.
“That was Nick Wilson,” he said as he hung up the receiver. “He says they haven’t got any trace of the robbers yet, but they hope to, soon, and he says to tell you to go on up to his house and eat. I’ll telephone Mrs. Wilson you’re coming.”
“How do you get there?” asked Rick, for they were in a strange town.
“I’ll take you up in my car,” the sheriff offered. “Nick wants me to tell his wife he won’t be home to dinner. And that will be a good opening for me to suggest that you boys can take his place at the table,” he added with a chuckle.
“I guess we’re willing,” said Rick, smiling, and Chot did his share.
On the way to the home of the deputy sheriff, Chot suggested that something had better be done about putting a permanent warning at the broken bridge, and the sheriff promised to attend to that.
Mrs. Wilson proved to be a motherly woman, after the boys’ own hearts. She made them warmly welcome, and soon became as friendly with Ruddy, as the red setter was with her.
“And oh, boy! What a dinner we had!” said Rick afterward with a grateful sigh to his chum. “Didn’t we?”
“I’ll tell the knives and forks!” echoed Chot with a grin.
The boys began to fear that time would hang rather heavily on their hands that afternoon, as the dinner hour came and went and there was no word from Mr. Campbell. They accepted the invitation of the sheriff to come to the court-house for a while, there to await possible word of the capture of the robbers.
But as the afternoon wore on, and there was no news of any account, save that those in pursuit were still on the trail, following different clews, the boys decided that it would be more fun to wander off by themselves.
“Take a trolley ride,” advised the sheriff. “The trolley goes several miles out into the country. You can scout around there and come back when you get ready. I reckon you’ll have to stay here all night, anyhow, for, even if we do get Mr. Campbell’s car back he won’t hardly want to start off without having it looked over. Those robbers’ll drive it hard.”
This seemed good advice and the boys took it. Very likely Mr. Campbell would not want to start right out again, even if those in pursuit were lucky enough to overtake, or find the robbers where they might be hiding.
Promising to come back to Mrs. Wilson’s house, where they were invited to remain for the night, Rick and Chot started off on the suburban trolley line. To his howling regret Ruddy could not accompany the boys, but was tied up in a shed at the Wilson home. However the red setter was somewhat reconciled to his lot when Mrs. Wilson provided him with plenty of bones to gnaw. Dogs, especially of Ruddy’s size, were not allowed on trolley cars.
“Well, we certainly are running into a bunch of things,” remarked Chot to his chum as they went riding out through the pleasant country—for it was very pleasant, fresh and delightful after the rain.
“We sure are!” agreed Rick. “Are you glad you came?” He leaned over and punched Chot playfully in the ribs.
“Am I? Say, you couldn’t beat it! And think of what’s ahead of us, Rick!”
“What do you mean?” Rick turned and looked at his chum.
“I mean out at Uncle Tod’s camp.”
“That’s right. There’ll be lots to do there. I wish I knew just what he wants of us.”
“Maybe he just did it so we could have a good vacation.”
“No, it’s more than that,” Rick declared. “He wouldn’t start off the way he did unless there was something up—and something queer, too. I’d like to know what it is.”
“So would I,” agreed Chot. “I hope waiting around like this won’t spoil it.”
“I hope not,” murmured Rick. “Anyhow it’s a nice day.”
And it certainly was. The sun was warmly shining, rapidly drying up the mud puddles left by the recent storm. It was warm, but not hot and the boys thoroughly enjoyed the trolley ride through the green country which lay outside of Fayetville, a prosperous city in the midst of a rich farming community.
“How far do you boys want to go?” asked the conductor, as he came in to collect the fourth or fifth fare, the boys could not remember which, for the line was divided into zones, and the fare was taken up for each one.
“Oh, we’re just riding for fun,” explained Rick.
“To sort of kill time,” added Chot.
“Is there anything to see around here?” Rick wanted to know. “I mean a waterfall, or anything like that?”
“Well, there’s a sort of cave about a mile from here,” the conductor said. “It’s off the main road and it’s quite a curiosity. Sometimes on Saturdays picnic parties go there, but not many during the week. It’s about a mile from the trolley.”
“Let’s go there,” proposed Rick to his chum. “Can we get a car back to Fayetville before night?” he inquired.
“Oh, yes,” answered the conductor. “We run every half hour up to seven o’clock and every hour after that. I’ll tell you where to get off.”
The ride seemed more enjoyable now that the boys had a definite object in view, and they eagerly awaited word from the conductor when to alight and start across the fields and through a patch of woods, on a short cut to the cave, a local curiosity.
“Here you are, boys!” finally called the puller of the bell rope, as the car came to a stop amid the squeaking of brakes. “Just follow the path and you can’t miss the cave. There’s a wagon road that goes up to it, but that’s longer. You can come back the same way you go, as the cars always stop here about on the even hours and half hours so you’ll know how to time yourselves.”
“Thanks,” murmured Rick and Chot and they struck into a field of daisies and buttercups which they must traverse, as well as a patch of woods, before reaching the cave.
“Crackie, but this is great!” exclaimed Chot as he ran and jumped on the springy turf.
“Nothing better!” agreed Rick, and he turned a hand spring in the abundance of his good feeling. Then Rick saw something down in the grass which he began pulling up and chewing.
“What is it?” asked Chot.
“Sheep sorrel,” was the answer. “I like a bit of sour stuff.”
“So do I,” agreed his chum, and soon they were chewing the tender light green leaves of the sorrel, a plant not unlike the Irish shamrock in shape of foliage, but quite different in character.
A little of this “sour grass,” however, was enough for the boys, and they looked for other things with which they were familiar. They crossed the field, and before striking into the woods came to a sluggish brook.
“’Tisn’t big enough to have a swim in,” said Chot, regretfully.
“No, and doesn’t look clean enough,” added Rick. “But there’s some sweet flag,” he went on eagerly. “Let’s pull some.”
In a place where the brook widened out into a swampy place grew tall spears of green, not unlike the foliage of “cat tails,” those brown drum-sticks that many persons gather for ornaments. However these green spears were of a different character, for their roots formed the medicinal calamus, called by country folk “sweet flag.” Calamus has a pleasant taste, though it is rather biting if taken in too great quantity. The root, dried, is often used in medicine, and old-fashioned people used to carry a bit in their pockets to nibble.
When I was a boy I would gather sweet flag, cut the roots into thin sections and bake it in the oven with sugar. It was better this way, though too much of it was not good for one.
Rick and Chot pulled some of the green stalks and ate the tender inner part that was not as strong as the actual root itself. They also found watercress, but this was not good without salt and they passed it by.
In the woods they discovered sassafras and birch bark, nibbling some of each and they also saw a lone crow which mournfully cawed at them, reminding Rick of the crow Ruddy had once found in the wood disabled, which black bird Rick had taken home and tamed, naming it “Haw Haw.”
Finally the boys emerged from the wood and came to a lonely road, which did not show signs of much travel.
“This must be the road where the cave is,” suggested Chot.
“I guess so,” agreed Rick.
They walked along it for about a quarter of a mile, following the trolley car conductor’s directions, and then turned into a gully, up which, they had been told, was the cave.
And, as they turned into this gully, or gulch the boys saw in the soft earth of the road, the marks of automobile tires.
“Look! Look at that!” cried Chot excitedly.
“They’re just like the tires on Mr. Campbell’s car,” added Rick.
Eagerly they ran on, turning into the rocky and weed-choked road that led from the main highway into the gulch. And they had no more than swung around the turn than they made a strange discovery.
For there, in front of them, was an automobile turned on its side. And it needed but a second glance to make them aware that it was Mr. Campbell’s car. It bore his license plates, and among the baggage spilled from it were the boys’ valises.