For a moment he remained motionless. Now that danger was over the adventure left a curious feeling of unreality. The camp-fire had entirely disappeared; the darkness was so intense as to make it impossible to determine in which direction he had come. Both hands and face were smarting. Then, as a reminder of the violent impact of the branch, his shoulder ached dully.
Bob Somers’ thoughts, however, were too busy to pay any attention to these annoyances. Were his companions safe? What had become of the cattle rustlers who had apparently started the stampede?
Putting his hands to his mouth he uttered a cry which sounded shrilly through the woods.
In a second a response came, then another, until five had sounded from widely separated points.
“Hooray! What a relief!” cried Bob. He felt like uttering shouts of joy. “Hello, Dave, hello!” he called. “Where are you?”
“I don’t know where I am, but I’m here,” came back his friend’s familiar voice.
“Has anybody been hurt?” came a demand, in quavering tones.
It was Larry Burnham; and his tremolo was loud enough to bring forth a number of negative responses.
“Gee, isn’t that great!” cried Bob. “I had dreadful visions of Tom’s supply of medical stuffs giving out before the whole crowd could be treated. Whew! A mighty close shave, eh?”
“I’m lost!” yelled Dave, cheerily; “I’m floundering! Where’s Thunderbolt?”