Although the Rambler tried to keep close to the creek so many obstacles were encountered that the distance between them seemed steadily to increase.
“Well, now I’m certainly as badly off as ever,” soliloquized Bob Somers, ruefully. “If I hadn’t come across those hoof-prints I’d probably be a long way on the back track by this time. And—by George—I really do believe I’m getting mixed.”
He raised himself in his stirrups. Everywhere ridge after ridge rolled off to meet the sky, all looking monotonously alike.
“For the life of me I don’t know in which direction Hank Styles’ ranch-house lies,” he grinned. “It’s a good thing my saddle bags are full of grub.”
A spirit of recklessness seized him.
“Of course,” he argued, “the fellows must know I’m safe; and as I’ve stayed away so long a few hours more or less can’t matter. Get up, old boy! I’ll give Larry Burnham a chance to say that this was the wildest wild goose chase he ever heard of.”
About an hour later he drew rein at the bottom of a deep ravine. There could be no question now that his task had utterly failed. The horseman who had passed through the swampy section might have pursued a course miles and miles away from his present situation. The Rambler was reconciled. At least, he had made a faithful effort. His mistake had been in allowing himself to be led on and on when common sense should have told him the futility and absurdity of such a course.
“Oh, yes, I know it’s very dreadful,” grinned Bob. “Still, I guess Tom’ll stick up for me against the stings and jibes of outrageous tongues.” He laughed merrily. “Now for a bite of lunch.”
Realizing the importance of every minute, if he expected to reach the ranch-house before nightfall, the lad satisfied himself with crackers and dried beef. Then, consulting his compass, he set off in search of the creek.
“And once there it won’t take me long to get my bearings,” he thought, confidently.