He turned back to the shelter and aroused Dick, and then Tom. This awoke all of the others.
“What’s the matter?” questioned Dick, as he got out a pistol.
“Some sort of a wild animal is prowling around this place.”
“Py chiminy! Vos it von of dem catpobs?” ejaculated Hans, turning pale.
“I don’t know what it is.”
“Where is it now?” came from Fred.
“I don’t know that, either. It was slinking around yonder bushes a minute ago.”
“Let us stir up the fire,” put in Songbird. “All wild animals hate a big blaze.” And he set the example, and Hans helped to heap up the brushwood.
“I ton’t vont to become acquainted mit dem catpobs nohow,” said the German youth. “He can go avay so kvick like he come.”
After the fire was brightened, there came a painful pause. Each boy was on his guard, with eyes straining from their sockets.
“I see something!” cried Fred suddenly.
“Where?” asked the others in a breath.
“There—but it’s gone now.”
Again they waited, and soon came a rustling on the other side of the camp, followed by the cracking of a bone which had been thrown away during the evening repast.
“There he is!”
“Shoot him!”
“No, don’t shoot!” burst out Tom. “I know what it is.”
“What?”
“Nothing but a dog.”
“Nonsense.”
“I say it is.” Tom began to whistle. “Come here, old boy,” he went on. “Good dog, come here.”
At this, the animal stopped crunching the bone and came forward slowly and suspiciously. It was indeed a large, black dog, with curly hair and lean sides.
“Hullo!” cried Sam. “Come here, that’s a good dog. Say, fellows, he looks half starved.”
“Are you sure it ain’t no catpob?” queried Hans anxiously.
“Yes, Hans,” answered Songbird. “He is nothing but a dog, and rather friendly at that.”
The dog came closer, wagging his tail slowly and suspiciously. Dick put out his hand and patted him, and then he waved his tail in a vigorous fashion.
“He is willing enough to be friends,” said the eldest Rover. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he is homeless.”
“In that case, we might adopt him,” said Tom, who loved a nice dog.
“Let us try him on something to eat,” put in Songbird. “There is no meat left on that bone.”
Some things had been saved for breakfast, and a portion was set before the newcomer. He devoured it greedily and wagged his tail furiously.
“He feels at home now,” said Dick, and he was right. The dog leaped up, first on one and then another, and licked their hands.
“What’s your name?” asked Tom, and the dog wagged his tail and gave a low, joyful bark.
“Better call him Wags,” suggested Sam. “He seems to be death on keeping that tail going.”
“Wags it is,” announced Tom. “How do you like it, Wags, old boy?” And the dog barked again and leaped up and down several times in joy.
“Vell, he vos goot enough,” was Hans’ comment. “Bud I ton’t see vy he couldn’t introduce himselluf by der daydime alretty. I vos going to ped again,” and he rubbed his eyes sleepily.
“So am I going to bed,” said Fred. “Tom, are you going to stay awake to watch the dog?”
“No, he is going to sleep with me,” answered the fun-loving youth. “Come on, Wags, get your nightcap and come to bed.”
He made a certain move of his hand and the canine suddenly sat upon his haunches and cocked his head to one side.
“Hullo, he’s a trick dog!” exclaimed Dick. “Shake hands,” and the dog did so. Then, as Sam snapped his fingers, the animal began to walk around the camp on his hind legs.
“I’ll wager he knows a lot of tricks,” said Tom. “And, if so, he must be valuable.”
“Then whoever owns him will want him back,” was Songbird’s comment.
“Well, I guess he can travel with us until somebody claims him,” said Tom; and so it was decided.
CHAPTER XII
THE RUNAWAY STEER
On the following morning there was the promise of a storm in the air, and the boys felt a bit blue over the prospects. But, by nine o’clock, the sun came out as brightly as ever and they were correspondingly elated.
“I don’t care to do any camping out in wet weather,” said Fred. “I got enough of that at the Hall.”
“Well, when you camp out, you must take what comes, as the shark said when he swallowed a naval officer and found a sword sticking in his throat,” answered Tom. “We can’t have the weather built to order for anybody.”
Wags was up and moving around, with his tail wagging as furiously as ever. He seemed to feel perfectly at home.
“Acts as if he had known us all our lives,” said Dick. “He is certainly a fine creature, or he will be after he is fed up a bit.”
“If he belongs around here, I don’t see how he should be starved,” said Sam.
“Well, you must remember, there are some pretty poor folks living in these parts, Sam. The colored folks are passionately fond of dogs, and very often they don’t have enough to support themselves.”
“I am going to claim Wags as my own until his rightful owner comes along,” announced Tom. “Maybe I’ll even take him home with me. Our old dog is dead.”
This was final, and nobody saw fit to dispute the decision. So Wags was given his breakfast, after which the party struck camp, and the journey for the Denton plantation was continued.
The timber passed, they came out on a long stretch of prairie land leading to the high hills beyond.
“Here we are on the plains!” cried Sam. “Who wants to race?” And off he rode at top speed, with some of the others following. Even Wags seemed to enjoy the brush, and barked continually as he ran ahead and leaped up before one horse and then another.
Sam’s wild ride on the plains lasted rather longer than the others had anticipated, and when it came to an end, all found themselves away from the beaten trail which they had been pursuing. They came to a sudden stop and gazed around in perplexity.
“Here’s a mess,” said Dick.
“Where’s the trail?”
“That is what I want to know.”
“I think it is over yonder.”
“I think it is in the opposite direction.”
All of the boys began to talk at once, and then followed a dead silence for several seconds.
“One thing is certain—the trail can’t be in two directions,” said Tom.
“He can pe if he vos krooked,” said Hans wisely.
“It was a fairly straight trail,” observed Fred. “I can’t see how we happened to leave it.”
“I was following Sam,” said Songbird. “You can’t blame me.”
“So was I following Sam,” added several of the others.
“And I was having a good time on the horse,” said the youngest Rover. “I thought in the bunch there would be at least one who would look after the trail.”
“So it is really nobody’s fault,” said Dick quickly, to avoid a possible quarrel. “The question is: how are we going to find the trail again?”
“I know how,” put in Hans calmly.
“How?”
“Look for him.”
“Thanks, awfully,” said Tom. “That is a bright as a burnt-out match.”
“Just the same, that is what we will have to do, Tom,” said Dick. “Let us divide up, and some go to the right and some to the left.”
This was considered a good plan and was carried out without delay. Ten minutes later, Songbird set up a shout:
“Upon this ground,
&n
bsp; The trail is found.
All come right here
And see it clear.”
“Good for Songbird!” cried Tom. “He gets a last year’s tomato as a reward. Songbird, will you have it in tissue paper or a trunk?”
“Well, the trail is plain enough,” was Dick’s comment, as he came riding up. “I can’t see how we missed such a well-defined path.”
The run had tired their horses somewhat, and all were willing to proceed further on a walk. They were coming to a fringe of bushes on the plain, and here found a stream of water.
“Not a ranch or a plantation of any kind in sight,” announced Fred as he gazed around while some of the steeds obtained a drink. “What a wilderness certain portions of our country are!”
“Plenty of chances for emigrants,” returned Songbird. “We are a long way from being filled up.”
“The trouble is, so I have heard father say, so many of the emigrants stay in the big cities, rather than come out to the country,” put in Sam.
Having rested for a spell at the brook, they proceeded on their way once more. The air was growing warmer and, as the sun mounted higher in the sky, they wished they were in the shadow of a forest once more.
“What a journey it must be to cover some of the immense Western plains on horseback,” remarked Songbird. “To ride for miles and miles—maybe all day—without seeing a cabin or a human being.”
“We know something of that,” answered Dick. “We liked our trip out West, though,” he added.
Toward the middle of the afternoon they reached the first stunted growth of timber growing at the base of the hills toward which they had been journeying. At noon, as it was so hot, they had not stopped for lunch, and now they proceeded to make themselves comfortable on a patch of thick grass. Even Wags was willing to lie down and stretch out. The dog acted as if he had been a member of the party since starting from home.
“Are you going to blame me for going wrong?” demanded the poetic youth.
“I wonder if he would be any good after game?” said Sam as he looked at Wags.
“I doubt it,” said Tom. “An educated dog—that is, a trick dog—rarely knows anything else. But, nevertheless, I think Wags remarkably bright.”
It was not until four o’clock that they went on once more. According to what they had been told, they ought now to be coming in sight of a cattle ranch kept by some old cattle men, but nothing like a ranch appeared.
“This is queer, to say the least,” remarked Tom as they came to a halt in a small clearing. “What do you make of it, Dick?”
“I shouldn’t like to say, just yet.”
“Do you think we are on the wrong trail?” queried Fred quickly.
“We may be.”
“Of dot is so, den, py Jiminatics, ve vos lost!” ejaculated Hans. “Now, vosn’t dot lofly alretty?”
“Lost?” cried Fred.
“That’s the size of it,” cried Songbird. “We must have taken to the wrong trail after our little race.”
“You found the trail for us,” remarked Tom dryly.
“Not a bit of it,” said Dick. “All of us were to blame, for we all thought it was the right trail. The one question is: where are we, and where is the right trail?”
“And a big question to answer, Dick,” came from Sam. “For all we know, we may be miles and miles off the road.”
“No use of crying over spilt oil, as the lamp said to the wick,” sang out Tom. “I move we go on until we strike a ranch, or plantation, or something.”
“That is what we’ll have to do, unless we want to go back.”
“No going back in this!” shouted several, and then they moved forward as before, but at a slower rate of speed.
It was truly warm work, and it must be confessed that all were more or less worried. In the last town at which they had stopped, they had met a number of undesirable characters, and one man had told Dick that not a few outlaws were roaming around, ready to pick up stray horses, or money, or whatever they could get their hands upon.
They were passing through a bit of sparse timber, when they heard a strange tramping at a distance.
“What do you think that can be?” questioned Fred, coming to a halt, followed by the others.
“Horses,” suggested Hans.
“Sounds to me like cattle,” said Dick. “But I don’t see so much as a cow, do you?”
“Nothing whatever in sight,” said Tom.
As the noise continued, Sam’s horse began to grow skittish and showed some inclination to bolt.
“Steady, there!” sang out the youngest Rover. “None of that, now!” and he did his best to hold the steed in check.
“Something is coming!” cried Tom a few seconds later. “Something running pretty well, too!”
By instinct, all turned to the side of the trail, Sam taking a position between a clump of trees and a big rock. Swiftly the sound came closer, and then of a sudden a big and wild-looking steer broke into view, lumbering along the trail at his best speed.
“A steer!”
“Look out, fellows, he is wild and ugly!”
“He looks as if he meant to horn somebody!”
So the cries rang out, and all of the boys drew further to the side of the trail. As the steer came up, he paused and gazed at them in commingled wonder and anger.
“He is going to charge—” began Tom, when, with a fierce snort, the steer wheeled to one side and charged upon Sam and his horse at full speed!
CHAPTER XIII
JIM JONES, THE COWBOY
To some of the boys it looked as if Sam and his steed must surely be seriously injured, if not killed. The steer was large and powerful looking, and his horns were sharp enough to inflict serious damage.
“Back up, Sam!” screamed Tom.
Poor Sam could not back very well, and now his horse was thoroughly unmanageable. Closer came the steer, until his wicked looking horns were but a foot away.
At that critical moment a shot rang out, so close at hand that it made all of the boys jump. Realizing the dire peril, Dick had drawn the pistol he carried and fired at the steer. His aim was fair, and the beast was struck in the ribs.
“Good for you, Dick!” burst out poor Sam. “Give him another,” he added, as he tried to quiet his horse and keep the steed from pitching him to the ground.
Dick was quite willing to take another shot, but to get into range was not so easy. Songbird’s horse was between himself and the steer, and the latter was plunging around in a manner that was dangerous for the entire party.
But at last the eldest Rover saw his opportunity, and once more the pistol rang out on the summer air. The shot took the steer in the left ear and he gave a loud snort of pain and staggered as if about to fall.
“He is about done for!” cried Tom. “I am glad of it.”
The steer continued to plunge around for fully two minutes and all took good care to keep out of his reach. Then he took a final plunge and fell over on his side, breathing heavily and rolling his eyes the while.
“I reckon I had better give him a final shot,” was Dick’s comment, and, dismounting, he came forward and fired directly into the beast’s eye. It was a finishing move, and, with a convulsive shudder, the steer lay still, and the unexpected encounter came to an end.
“Well, I am glad that is over,” said Sam as he wiped the cold perspiration from his forehead. “I thought he was going to horn me, sure!”
“He would have done so, had it not been for Dick,” returned Tom.
“I know it. Dick, I shan’t forget this.”
“What’s to be done about the steer?” asked Songbird. “It seems a pity to leave him here.”
“Vot is der madder mit cutting him ub for meats?” put in Hans. “Ve can haf some nice steak ven ve go into camp next dime, hey?”
“That’s a scheme,” said Fred.
At that moment, Wags, who had kept in the background so long as the steer was raging around, set up a sharp barking.
“What’s wrong now?” asked Tom, turning to the dog.
“Somebody may be coming,” suggested Dick.
“I’ll show you fellers wot’s wrong!” cried a rough voice, and through the brushwood close by there crashed a broncho, on top of which rode a rough-looking cowboy, wearing a red shirt and a big slouch hat. “Who went and shot that steer?”
“I did,” answered Dick. “Was he yours?”
“He was, and you had no right to touch him,” growled the cowboy.
“Didn’t I, though?” said Dick. “Are you aware that he came close to hurting us? He charged full tilt at my brother’s horse.”
“Stuff and fairy tales, boy. That steer was all right. He broke away from the drove, but he wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“We know better,” put in Tom.
“If my brother hadn’t killed him, he would probably have killed my horse, and maybe me,” added Sam.
“Somebody has got to pay for the damage done,” growled the cowboy. “I am not going to stand for it, not me, so sure as my name is Jim Jones.” And he shook his head determinedly.
“Well, Mr. Jones, I am sorry I had to kill your steer, but it had to be done, and that is all there is to it,” said Dick calmly.
“That ain’t payin’ for the critter, is it?”
“No.”
“An’ do you reckon I’m goin’ to let the boss take the price out o’ my wages?” continued Jim Jones warmly.
“Isn’t the steer worth something as meat?”
“Yes, but not near as much as he was wuth on the hoof.”
“We might take up a collection for Mr. Jones, if he is a poor man,” suggested Songbird, who did not want any trouble.
“But we haven’t got to do it,” broke in Tom. “It was his business not to let the steer run wild in the first place.”
“So you’re going to take a hand, eh?” stormed the cowboy; then, feeling he was in the minority, he went on more humbly: “Yes, I’m a poor man, and this may get me discharged.”
“How much do you think we ought to pay?” asked Dick. “Name a reasonable price and I may settle, just to avoid trouble, and not because I think I ought to pay.”
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