"Nothing!" Bob Somers' voice had a cheerless ring.
They cantered back to camp, where the others, hoping every moment to have their anxiety relieved, awaited them. Their questions showed plainly how much they were disturbed by the unexpected event.
"It beats the Dutch!" cried Sam, after Bob had explained. "Where in the world can old Dick be?"
"I feel sure he's all right," said Dave, though his voice trembled slightly.
Bacon and flapjacks were nicely browned, while a big coffee-pot hissed joyously upon a bed of red-hot coals; but the six had almost forgotten hunger, only taking time to eat so as to sustain their strength.
"Fellows, I move that we go to the end of the cliff; it's a good lookout point," suggested Dave, when the hasty meal was over.
"Bully idea," agreed Jack.
"An' let's go right away," added Tim.
Breakfast dishes, unwashed, were piled into a bag and thrown on the back of a packhorse, and a few moments later, with Sam leading Dick Travers' mount, the bronchos were spread out over the level surface, pounding along at a fast gallop.
The sting of the cold air rushing by seemed to bring out every spark of life in the fiery little animals; they fairly flew, and their riders made no attempt to check the headlong flight until a line of vegetation looming distinctly into view warned them that the edge of the cliff was near.