“Only one thing,” he mused after many moments of serious reflection. “Strike off for the Rangers’ camp—that’s what Tom has done, I’m sure.”
Still he could not bear to tear himself away from the locality until another effort was made and this proving to be as unsuccessful as the others, he set out for the Rangers’ cabin, buoyed up with the hope that on his arrival he might find Tom Clifton there.
Possessing a good sense of direction and aided by his compass, he did not find his task a difficult one. When the gray of dusk had begun to steal over the landscape he rode up to the log structure where only Fred Cole greeted him, all the others being off on the scouting expedition.
The return of Bob Somers alone greatly excited the Ranger’s curiosity. Even before the Rambler had had a chance to dismount he began shouting questions to him.
Bob’s story was quickly told, whereupon Cole whistled softly.
“To get caught among a lot of stampeding mustangs isn’t any joke, I can tell you!” he exclaimed. Then, slapping the lad reassuringly on the shoulder, he added hastily, “But don’t worry, son. I’ll bet that tall chap knew how to take care of himself. Just as likely as not he’s riding over the prairie, yelling himself hoarse, looking for you.”
The Ranger’s confidence, however, began to be shaken, when the passing hours brought no news of Tom, though he was careful not to voice his fears to Bob.
“The moment the boys get back, we’ll have to get up a searching party,” he muttered to himself. “I only hope it’s all right, but”—he shook his head rather dubiously,—“it looks rather bad to me.”
CHAPTER XV
THE FIGHT
In the silence of the night the reports of the rifle shots sounded extraordinarily near. To Dave, Sam and Don it seemed as though the firing was right at hand; yet there could be no doubt that the faint, dusky figures, which the moonlight disclosed on the other side of the Rio, were responsible for it.