Now, as it happened, eating was one of the dolt’s weak points, and he readily consented to accompany them. Without loss of time, they made their way back to where Fred and Hans had been left.
“Hullo! who vos dot?” ejaculated the German youth as they hove in sight.
“This is a boy we picked up along the stream,” answered Tom, and then drew the others aside and told his story.
“What are you going to do next?” questioned Fred seriously. “It is certainly too bad Sam and Dick are prisoners. We must take care that we are not captured.”
“The mystery of the ranch grows deeper,” said Songbird. “I rather wish we had some officers of the law to consult. We could then ride right up to the ranch and make our demands.”
“It may come to that before we get through,” answered Tom.
“That dolt may not be telling the truth, Tom.”
“Well, he has told some truth anyway, for if Sam and Dick are free, why don’t they show up here?”
They did their best to make Peter Poll tell them more concerning himself and those at the ranch. But the foolish boy was growing more and more suspicious, and would scarcely answer a question.
“Peter wants the fine eating you promised him,” said he, but when they spread before him the best the camp afforded, he broke into a wild laugh of derision.
“Call that good!” he shrieked. “That is nothing! You ought to see one of the spreads at the ranch—especially when the men from Washing-ton and Chicago come down. Everything of the best to eat and to drink! This is plain cowboy food. Peter wants something better—roast lamb, peas and pie!”
“This is the best we have, Peter,” said Tom. “I am sorry you do not care for it. So they have feasts at the ranch, eh?”
“Peter must not tell all he knows.” The foolish boy started up. “Peter is going.”
“Don’t go yet!” cried Tom.
“Peter must go to the other ranch—boss told him so—after he got through fishing. Going now.” And, with a sudden jerk, he tore himself loose and was off like the wind among the trees.
“Hi!” cried Songbird. “Hadn’t we better stop him?”
Tom was already after the dolt. But the foolish boy seemed to have legs like those of a deer for swiftness, and before they realized it he was out of sight. He knew how to run with but little noise, so it became almost impossible to follow him.
“Will he go back to the ranch, do you think?” asked Fred after the momentary excitement was over.
“He said something about going to the other ranch,” returned Tom. “What he meant by it, I don’t know.”
“Well, he is gone, so we shall have to make the best of it,” went on Fred. “I trust, though, that he doesn’t get us into trouble.”
The boys sat down in the temporary camp, and there Tom and Songbird gave all the details of how they had fallen in with Peter Poll.
“I suppose those rough characters make him do all sorts of dirty work,” said Fred. “The boy isn’t really responsible.”
After a long consultation, it was decided to leave the neighborhood and move to the other side of Red Rock ranch. This would tend to throw the enemy off the trail, if the dolt should go back and relate what had occurred.
“Dis vos gitting so interesting like a story book,” was Hans’ comment. “I only vish I could see der last page alretty!”
“We all wish that,” laughed Tom. “Then we’d know if the villain dies and the girl marries the millionaire,” and this sally brought forth a short laugh.
The things were packed rapidly, and soon they were on horseback and leading the steeds Sam and Dick had ridden. They had to ford the stream where the dolt had been captured, and here the horses obtained a refreshing drink.
“Some day I suppose this whole forest will fall before the woodman’s ax,” remarked Songbird. “Too bad!” and then he murmured to himself:
“The sturdy woodman with his ax
Will strike full many a blow,
And as the chips go flying fast
He’ll lay these giants low,
Until the ground is bare and void
Of all this grateful shade—”
“And then the planter beans can plant
With plow, and hoe, and spade,”
finished Tom. “Beans would pay better than trees any day.”
“Beans!” snorted Songbird in disgust. “What have beans to do with poetry?” and he walked ahead so that he might make up his verses without further interruption.
They soon found the ground getting very rough, and the tangle through which Sam and Dick had passed made them do not a little complaining.
“Mine cracious! How long vos dis to last, hey?” cried poor Hans as he found himself in a tangle from which he could not escape. “Hellup, somepody, oder I ton’t vos git out of dis annyhow!”
“Hans is stuck on this brushwood,” sang out Fred. “He loves it so he can’t bear to leave it.”
“This way, Hansy, my boy,” came from Tom. “Now then, a long pull, a strong pull and a pull altogether!”
With might and main he hauled on the German boy’s arm, and with a tearing sound Hans came loose and almost pitched forward on his face.
“Hi! hi! let go alretty kvick!” he bawled. “Mine clothes vos most tore off of me.” He felt of his trousers and the back of his jacket. “Too pad! Da vos full of vinders now!”
“Never mind, Hansy, you need the openings for ventilation,” returned Tom smoothly.
“Vendilations, hey? Vot you know about him, hey? I vos look like a ragpickers alretty!” And he surveyed the damaged suit dubiously.
“Now is the time to have your picture taken,” suggested Fred. “You can send it to your best girl, Hans.”
“I ton’t vos got no girls.”
“Then send it to your grandma,” suggested Tom blandly. “Maybe she’ll take pity on you and send you a new suit. That would suit, wouldn’t it?”
“I ton’t vos do noddings, but ven ve go to camp again, I make you all sit town und blay tailors,” answered the German boy; and then the whole crowd pushed forward as before.
They had to cross a tiny brook, and then began to scramble over some rather rough rocks. This was hard work for the horses, and a consultation was held regarding the advisability of leaving them behind.
“I would do it in a minute,” said Tom. “But it may not suit us to come back this way.”
“Yes, and we may need the horses to ride away on,” put in Fred. “Supposing those men on the ranch come after us? We can’t get away very well on foot, and, if we could, we wouldn’t want to leave the horses behind.” And so it was decided to go slowly and take the steeds along.
It was growing dark, and they were afraid they were in for another storm. So far, there had been no breeze, but now the wind began to rush through the trees with a mournful sound.
“If it does come, it will surely be a soaker,” announced Tom when he got to an opening where he could survey the sky. “Perhaps it will pay us to stay in the shelter of the forest.”
“Yes, and have the lightning bring a tree down on us,” added Fred. “None of that for me.”
They were still among the rocks when it began to rain. At first, the drops did not reach them, but, as the storm increased, the water began to fall in all directions from the branches.
“We must find some shelter, unless we want to be soaked,” said Fred. “Hullo, just the thing! Couldn’t be any better if we had it made to order.”
He pointed to a spot where the rocks arose to a height of twenty or more feet. Low down was an opening leading to a hollow that was very like a cave.
“That will do first-rate,” returned Tom. “It is large enough for the whole crowd.”
“Too bad the horses can’t get in, too,” said Fred. “But maybe a wetting won’t hurt them in th
is warm weather.”
The steeds were tied close by, and then the boys ran for the shelter under the rocks, followed by Wags. They had just reached it when the storm broke in all its violence, and the rain came down in torrents.
CHAPTER XXII
IN A SNAKES’ DEN
“Just in time, and no mistake,” remarked Songbird as he surveyed the scene outside. “No use of talking, when it rains down here, it rains!”
“Well, a rainstorm isn’t a picnic party,” returned Tom. “I wouldn’t care so much if I wasn’t so anxious to hear from Sam and Dick.”
“Dot is vot ve all vonts,” broke in Hans.
They crouched in the back of the shelter, so that the rain might not drive down upon them. It was a steady downpour for half an hour, when it began to slacken up, and the sun looked as if it might break through the clouds once more.
“We won’t be detained so long, after all!” cried Fred.
“I am just as well satisfied,” began Tom, and then gave a jump. “Boys, look there! Did you ever see anything like it?”
They looked in the direction pointed out, and each one sprang up as if he had received an electric shock, while Wags began to bark furiously. And small wonder, for directly in front of the shelter was a collection of snakes numbering at least thirty or forty. They were black, brown and green in color and from two to four feet in length. Some were lying flat, while others were curled up in various attitudes.
“Snakes!” faltered Fred. “And what a lot of them!”
“Dere ain’t no choke apout dis!” gasped Hans, his eyes almost as big as saucers. “Vot shall ve do?”
“Get your pistols, boys!” came from Songbird, and he drew his weapon.
“Don’t shoot!” and Tom caught the other by the arm. “If you kill one snake, the others will go for us sure. What an awful lot of them! This locality must be a regular snakes’ den.”
“If they come in here, we’ll all be bitten, and if they are poisonous—” Fred tried to go on, but could not.
“There is no telling if they are poisonous or not,” returned Tom. “One thing is sure, I don’t want them to sample me,” and the others said about the same.
What to do was at first a question. The snakes lay about ten feet from the front of the shelter and in a semicircle, so that the boys could not get out, excepting by stepping on the reptiles or leaping over them.
“They are coming closer!” exclaimed Fred a moment later. “It looks as if they were going to tackle us, sure!”
“I have a plan,” cried Tom. “Come here, Hans, and let me boost you up.”
The others understood, and while the fun-loving Rover gave the German boy a boost, Songbird did the same for Fred.
The edge of the cliff of rocks was rough, and, when hoisted up, Hans and Fred were enabled to grasp at several cracks and projections. They laid hold vigorously and soon pulled themselves out of harm’s way.
By this time, the snakes had wiggled several feet closer to the shelter. Evidently, it was their den and, while they wished to get in, they did not know exactly what to do about the intruders.
“Can you get a hold?” questioned Songbird as he stood on a flat rock and raised himself into the air a distance of two feet.
Tom was already trying to do so, and soon he was crawling up the edge of the cliff. As the rocks were slippery from the rain, it was by no means an easy or sure task. But he advanced with care, and soon joined Fred and Hans at the top.
“I am glad we are out of that!” exclaimed Fred. “Ugh! how I do hate snakes!”
“I think everybody does,” returned Tom. “Hi, Songbird!” he called out. “Coming?”
“I—I guess I am stuck!” was the gasped-out answer. “The rocks are too slippery for me.”
“We’ll give you a hand up,” sang out the fun-loving Rover, and got down at the edge of the rocks.
“Look out that you don’t slip over,” came in a warning from Fred.
“Of you go ofer, you land dem snakes your head on,” put in Hans.
The words had scarcely been uttered, when there came a wild shriek from Songbird. The poetic youth had lost his hold and slipped to the ground below. He came down directly on top of three of the snakes, and with an angry hissing they whipped around him.
“Songbird has fallen on the snakes!”
“Run for your life!” sang out Tom. “There goes Wags!”
And Songbird did run the moment he could regain his feet. One snake got tangled up in the boy’s legs and was carried along, whipping one way and another. But it soon lost its hold and then wiggled through the grass to rejoin its fellows. In the meantime, the dog had disappeared.
“Are you safe?” called out those at the top of the cliff.
“I—I—guess so,” came in a panting answer. “But two of them did—did their be-best to bite me!”
“Bring the horses around while you are about it,” said Tom, and then the three on the cliff walked around to rejoin Songbird. When they reached him, they found the poetic youth trembling from head to foot.
“Never had such an experience in all my life,” said he. “Why, I came down almost headfirst on those snakes! I never want such a thing to, happen again.”
“I’ve got no use for snakes,” said Tom. “I don’t know what they are good for, excepting to scare folks.”
“I believe they rid the land of many insects.”
“Say, Songbird, I tole you vot,” put in Hans, with a twinkle in his eye now that the danger was past. “You vos make a nice poem up apout dem snakes, hey?”
“A poem on snakes?” shivered Songbird. “Ugh! the idea is enough to give one the creeps!”
The rain had now ceased completely, and soon they were leading their horses forward as before. It was very wet in the brushwood and, as far as possible, they kept to the open spaces. The outlook was certainly a dismal one, and the boys felt in anything but a good humor.
“Our little trip to Mr. Denton’s ranch isn’t panning out so beautifully, after all,” remarked Fred. “I thought we were going to have the nicest kind of an outing. All told, I rather think I would prefer to be back on the houseboat.”
Presently they came’ out on a road in the rear of Red Rock ranch. There was a ditch to cross, and then a line of thorns, which gave all more than one scratch.
Suddenly they were startled by a shot, fired at a distance. Another shot soon followed.
“What does that mean?” cried Fred. “Where’s the dog?”
“Perhaps Sam and Dick are trying to escape,” returned Songbird.
“I hope nobody is shooting them,” put in Tom. “I must say,” he added, “I don’t like this at all. The dog is gone.”
“Hadn’t we better place the horses in the woods and investigate?”
“No, we’ll take the horses along, and if there is trouble, we’ll use our pistols,” answered Tom firmly.
They advanced with caution, and soon came to where the road made a turn westward. Tom uttered an exclamation of surprise, and not without good reason.
“Man—on the road—flat on his face!”
“Is he a spy?”
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t know,” answered Tom. “Go slow—we may be running into a trap.”
They advanced with caution. Not another soul seemed to be in sight, and presently they stood over the man. He was breathing heavily.
“Looks like a planter,” observed Fred, noticing the apparel the stranger wore. “What’s the matter with him?”
“Perhaps he was shot. Let us turn him over.”
This they proceeded to do, and then, without warning, the man sat up and rubbed his eyes. His wig and beard fell off, and to Tom’s astonishment there was revealed James Monday, the government detective.
“Mr. Monday!” cried the boy. “How in the world did
you get here?”
“Wha—who are you?” stammered the man. “Wha—what hit me?”
“I don’t know what hit you. I am Tom Rover. Don’t you remember me?”
The government official looked perplexed for a moment, and then his face brightened.
“To be sure I remember you, Rover,” he stammered. “But I am all in a twist.” He brushed his hand over his face. “I thought I was down and out, as the saying goes.”
“Did you fire those shots?”
“I fired one shot. The other was fired by a man who ran away. I believe the villain wanted to take my life. The bullet struck a rock and then struck and stunned me, and I keeled over.”
“And the man ran away?”
“I suppose so. You didn’t see him, did you?”
“No.”
“Where are you bound?” went on the government official curiously.
“We are looking for my two brothers, Sam and Dick. They went over to the ranch yonder, and we have heard that they are being held prisoners.”
CHAPTER XXIII
JAMES MONDAY TAKES A HAND
After that, there was nothing to do but to tell their story in detail, to which the government official listened with close attention. Then he asked them many questions.
“You are certainly in hard luck,” said he when they had finished. “Beyond the slightest doubt, those men at the ranch are desperate characters, and I don’t know but what I ought to summon help and arrest them on the spot.”
“Den vy not do dot?” asked Hans. “Ve vill hellup, too.”
“If those men are what I take them to be, I want to catch them red-handed,’’ responded James Monday.
“What do you take them to be?” asked Tom.
“Can I trust you boys to keep a secret?”
“Yes,” came from each of the crowd.
“Then I’ll tell you. Unless I am very much mistaken, the men at Red Rock ranch are counterfeiters.”
“Counterfeiters!” came in a chorus.
“So I believe. I may be mistaken, but all the evidence I have points in that direction. I have been following this trail from Philadelphia, where I caught a fellow passing bad twenty-dollar bills. He confessed that he got the bills from a fellow in Washington who claimed to be printing them from some old government plates. That story was, of course, nonsense, since no government plates of such a bill are missing. I followed the trail to Washington, and there met a crook named Sacord. He, so I discovered, got his money from two men, one the owner of this ranch. Where the bad bills were manufactured was a mystery, but, by nosing around, I soon learned that the owner of the ranch never allowed strangers near his place, and that he sometimes had strange pieces of machinery shipped there. Then I put two and two together and came to the conclusion that the bad bills were printed here. Now, I want to prove it, and not only round up the gang, but also get possession of the bogus printing plates. If the government don’t get the plates, somebody may keep on manufacturing the bad bills.”
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