Terror made “Whirly-gig” pound along at such a terrific pace that it required all of the Rambler’s skill as a rider to keep from being jolted headlong from the saddle.
Once more he turned. An instantaneous glance over his shoulder made him utter a yell of triumph; the race was almost won, he was gaining. It nerved him to renewed exertions. Another last desperate spurt and the little mustang carried him to the goal of safety and beyond; while the wild, frightened steeds of the plains swept on, heads lowered, manes and tails still lashing, until the steadily falling curtain of rain first dimmed their forms, and then hid them from view.
With feelings of thankfulness, Bob Somers pulled up his steaming horse. Then forebodings on Tom’s account attacked him. Where was he? How had he fared?
The rain drove hard against his staring eyes, the wind howled about him; but for the moment he had thoughts only for his companion. The Rambler he knew was a plucky, resourceful chap, cool in times of danger, but the possibility of an accident under the circumstances was so great that a cold tremor ran through him.
“Hello, Tom! hello!” he shouted over and over again. The sounds melted away into the roar of the storm, but no answering hails were returned.
Tom Clifton had completely disappeared.
Buffeted about by the elements, continually jarred by the peals of thunder booming overhead, and soaked to the skin, Bob Somers set out on a search. The next hour to the lad was a most uncomfortable one, both physically and mentally. He rode over the prairie in various directions shouting and whistling, but in vain. The storm slowly lessened its force; at last the heaviest clouds rolled by and between the rifts rays of brilliant sunshine streamed through to fall upon nature, glistening and refreshed. A cool crisp breeze had replaced the sirocco-like heat of the earlier hours.
From the top of a ridge which commanded a considerable stretch of the surrounding country, Bob’s gaze, aided by a pair of powerful binoculars, traveled in every direction. But he could see nothing that bore any resemblance to the form of a horse and rider.
One thing, however, encouraged him. He felt sure that if Tom had been thrown he would have come across him in his careful, painstaking search.
“Well, this is certainly a beautiful mix-up,” he soliloquized ruefully. “Now what’s to be done?”