"If Dick is playin' a joke on us I'll—I'll make him sorry for it," stormed Jack.
"Let's get away from here," cried Tim, dashing toward the horses.
The bronchos were quickly saddled; Bob, Jack and Tim vaulted upon their backs.
"By the time you have grub ready, fellows, we'll probably be here with Dick," cried Bob, as he gave his pony a touch of the quirt.
The three cantered briskly toward a line of vapory blanket which still stretched gloomily across the landscape. A few moments later their forms were enveloped in the mist and the clatter of hoofs quieted down.
Separating, the three rode about for almost an hour, frequently sending over the air the Rambler Club's special signal. But only mocking echoes answered. It seemed as lonely and desolate as a country never before trodden by human beings.
Meanwhile, the sun, shining like burnished gold through gray clouds, rose higher and higher, and the mist became slowly dissipated. From their widely separated positions the boys eagerly scanned the rolling valley, but not a sign of Dick Travers could be seen.
When they came together again, gloomy feelings were mirrored upon their faces.
"Worse and worse," cried Bob. "I'll fire; perhaps he'll hear that."
Crack! A puff of smoke floated slowly off. Crack! Another thin column joined it.