“You chaps get something to eat while Sam and I take a look around,” suggested Dick, with an innocent expression.
“Well, did you ever!” roared Tom, indignantly. “Why, it’s your turn to cook.”
This sad fact was duly impressed upon Dick Travers’ mind by Cranny, who seized him by the collar and forcibly directed his steps toward the kitchen.
During the preparation of the meal, the others scouted in various directions, going far beyond the stockade walls. A faint glimmer of daylight still lingered on a high bank of clouds in the east; the silent plains would soon be bathed in the pale rays of the moon, now a trifle less than half full. Shadowy groups of cattle were browsing amidst the buffalo grass, or contentedly resting.
Not a sign of Willie Sloan anywhere! That was the report of each scouting party.
The swinging lamps above the table threw a glare of light over highly disturbed countenances. It did not seem possible that Mr. Beaumont’s ward could actually have had the courage to run away; but as time rolled on, the boys were obliged to reluctantly reach this conclusion.
“What shall we do?” asked Tim.
“Telephone to Circle T; perhaps he went back there,” answered Bob.
Cranny Beaumont, acting upon this suggestion, soon learned that neither Mr. Follett nor any of his men had seen Willie Sloan.
“My, but this does make me tired,” sniffed Cranny. “Now Mr. Follett is all worked up about it.”