But here was nature conspiring against him—a very unkind proceeding, he thought. Tom’s lips tightened. A scowl of determination appeared on his forehead.
“I’ll find that fellow if it takes a week,” he growled savagely. “The chaps back there’ll know I’m safe.”
In spite of his impatience, however, he felt obliged to give his horse a rest at the top of the hill. Below him was a valley; directly across, another range of hills, their tree-covered tops showing sharply against the sky. It all looked very wild—desolate. But for his long experience in camping out and roughing it his task of finding Larry would have seemed a hopeless one.
The Rambler gazed at the cool shadow of the hill already beginning to climb the side of its neighbor.
“I declare, this is exasperating!” he said, aloud. “By George, I’ll give a yell. Maybe the big dunce is near enough to hear me. Hello, Larry; hello!” he shouted.
His gruff, deep voice was taken up by the surrounding hills and hurled back in a series of weird echoes. He waited expectantly. But no answer was returned.
“Get up, old boy,” commanded Tom. “Sorry, but you’ve got more hard traveling before you.”
The descent was difficult—even dangerous. Frequently his horse’s legs slid on slippery turf, or were caught in the tenacious grip of tangled vines.
Tom’s indignation against Larry returned, and grew in proportion to the difficulties encountered.
“Oh, I do wonder why we ever let that big tenderfoot come along,” he grumbled. “Honest, I don’t believe I was ever more disgusted in my life. I’d certainly like to take a punch at him.”