“Dickerman!” interrupted the man who had been called Joe. “Who said anything about Dickerman? Ackerman is the fellow we are talking about.”
“O, Ackerman!” repeated George, with a tone of voice and an expression of countenance which led the man to believe that he had all the while been mistaken as to the identity of the person they wanted to find. “Well, you don’t want to travel east, then. Your course lays off here,” he added, pointing almost due north. “If you ride in that direction, you ought by dark to strike some of the ranches in the settlement in which this man lives.”
“Then we were completely turned around, Joe. I thought we ought to travel that way,” said one of the men, pointing almost directly toward the Ackerman rancho. “Well, my lad, good-by. Many thanks for your information, and the best of luck to you!”
The men mounted their horses, which they had brought in and saddled while this conversation was going on, and rode away, leaving George standing beside his fire. As soon as they disappeared behind the nearest ridge, he caught up his haversack, plunged into the woods and drew a straight course for home. His face was whiter than it usually was, and his heart beat audibly.
“I did it,” said he to himself, as he hurried along, “and whether or not I have done any good by it, time will tell. If they don’t get off their course, they’ll reach Dickerman’s to-night about dark, and then they’ll find out that they have been put on a wrong scent, and gone forty miles out of their way. Dickerman will set them right, and the question is: Can I see Mr. Gilbert and reach home before they can get there? I never needed a horse so badly before.”
Little did Ned Ackerman, who spent this particular day in company with his friend Gus Robbins, shooting down the cattle that had broken into his wheat-field, know of the race that was begun that morning—a race between a pair of swift horses, which had between seventy and eighty miles to travel, and a frightened, panting and footsore boy, who dragged himself wearily over thirty-five miles of prairie, to save a scapegrace relative, who would not have lifted a finger in behalf of that same weary boy, had their situations been reversed. The odds were sadly against George. He could have spent a week in the saddle with little or no inconvenience, but three days on foot tested his endurance to the utmost. Nothing but his will kept him up. He won the race, but, as we shall see, with little time to spare.
As the day wore away, and George drew nearer to Mr. Gilbert’s rancho, which was the first one he would reach on his way to the settlement, he kept a good lookout for some of that gentleman’s herdsmen, hoping that he could prevail upon them to lend him a horse; but as he did not see any of them, he was compelled to make the entire journey on foot. He reached his destination shortly after nightfall, and found Mr. Gilbert sitting on the porch, enjoying his after-supper pipe. The gentleman started up in surprise, when he saw George approaching, and hurried down the steps to meet him. His greeting was as cordial and friendly as usual, but there was something in his manner that the boy had never noticed before. He could not have told what it was, but he could see it plainly.
“Come right in, George,” said he, seizing the boy’s hand and shaking it heartily. “You walk as though you were completely tired out; so I’ll not trouble you with questions until you’ve had a supper and a good night’s rest.”
“I would be thankful for some supper,” replied George, “but I can’t stay all night. I am in an awful hurry.”
“And why should you be in such an awful hurry, I’d like to know?” said Mr. Gilbert, as he assisted George up the steps and led him into the house. “Here’s an easy-chair, and I know you will find——”