CHAPTER XI.
RANGERS ON THE TRAIL.
It was about an hour after he had secured the firearm which he intended for Jack’s use that Baldy rode back into the Rangers’ camp in, what was for him, a state of great perturbation. The Chinaman was still up scouring dishes, and to him Baldy rode, spurring his pony almost into the remains of the camp fire in his anxiety.
All about lay the recumbent forms of the Rangers, sleeping under the stars on the expanse of plain. Snores and deep breathing showed that every one of them was deeply wrapped in the healthy slumber of the plainsman.
“Wallee maller, Massel Baldy?” cried the Mongolian, as Baldy spurred his pony up to him.
“Nuffin, you yellow–mugged Chinee,” shot out Baldy, breathing tensely, despite his effort to appear careless; “have you seen anything of that Tenderfoot that went on watch with me a while ago?”
“No, me no see him, Massel Baldy. Whafo’ you so heap much ’cited?”
The keen–eyed Oriental had pierced Baldy’s mask of carelessness, and saw readily enough that the old plainsman was badly worried.
“Me excited, you pig–tailed gopher!” roared out Baldy angrily. “I was never so easy–minded in my life. Where’s the cap sleeping?”
“Over yonder, Massel Baldy. Him litee by chuck wagon.”