HE WAVED HIS HAND

The Rambler Club
with the
Northwest Mounted

BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD

AUTHOR OF

“THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S WINTER CAMP”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S GOLD MINE”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S AEROPLANE”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S HOUSE-BOAT”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S MOTOR CAR”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S BALL NINE”
“THE RAMBLER CLUB’S FOOTBALL TEAM”

Illustrated by the Author

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMXIV

COPYRIGHT
1914 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Introduction

When Bob Somers and his four friends, of Kingswood, Wisconsin, formed the Rambler Club they probably had little idea of the numerous and exciting adventures which were before them. These are related in: “The Rambler Club Afloat,” “The Rambler Club’s Winter Camp,” “The Rambler Club in the Mountains,” “The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch,” “The Rambler Club Among the Lumberjacks,” “The Rambler Club’s Gold Mine,” “The Rambler Club’s Aeroplane,” “The Rambler Club’s House-boat,” “The Rambler Club’s Motor Car,” and “The Rambler Club’s Ball Nine.”

The present book carries them to the great Northwest Territories, patrolled by that famous body of men known as the Royal Northwest Mounted Police. Their intention was to camp out, to see the country, and to meet their old-time friend, Jed Warren, of Circle T Ranch, Wyoming, who had become a member of the force. The lads’ plans, however, are thoroughly disarranged at the start by an unwelcome surprise, and their energies are immediately turned into other channels. They do see a great deal of the country, and are also mixed up with some of the affairs of the “riders of the plains.” In a great measure this is brought about through the agency of big blond Larry Burnham; and the astonishing events which follow an apparently trivial occurrence surprise the lads as much as they do the Royal Northwest Mounted.

In “The Rambler Club’s Football Eleven” is told the interesting experiences of the club at the Wentworth Preparatory School. Here, again, many unexpected things take place.

W. Crispin Sheppard.

Contents

Illustrations

The Rambler Club Among
the Northwest Mounted

CHAPTER I
AT THE BARRACKS

Sergeant Jarvis Erskine of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police, stationed at a lonely outpost barracks, was hard at work on his headquarters’ report. Occasionally the sergeant, a tall, spare man with a military bearing, stopped to stroke his iron-gray moustache, while a serious expression now and again seemed to creep into his keen, deep-set eyes. He glanced toward his lone companion, Teddy Banes, a half-breed, who sat so motionless in a shadowed corner of the room as to give the impression that he was enjoying a doze.

Teddy Banes, often employed by the police as a trail-breaker and scout, had on many occasions rendered valuable assistance to the “riders of the plains.” And though his sullen, morose nature prevented him from being a favorite, he possessed the confidence and esteem of the men at the post.

“Banes,” exclaimed Sergeant Erskine, finally breaking the monotonous silence which the ticking of the clock and the rustling of the breeze had served to render oppressive, “I’m afraid this is bad business.” With his pen half poised in the air, he turned once more to the half-breed, his eyes running over the long, lean form huddled up in the chair. “I say this is bad business,” repeated the sergeant, in a louder key. “One of the most promising young men on the force! I don’t like to think it, but——”

For the first time, Teddy Banes stirred, shifting his position so that the light fell full across his swarthy, large-featured face and long black hair.

“Yes, a bad business, sergeant,” he echoed. “He gone. No one ever see him more. He—what you call him—deserter.”

The palm of the sergeant’s hand came down upon his desk with a bang.

“Aye! It looks that way, man. And a fine, well-built chap he was, too.”

“Bad man scare him, maybe,” said the half-breed, sinking back into his former position.

“Jed Warren didn’t look like a chap who could be easily frightened,” answered Erskine, with a negative shake of his head. “It’s a most unfortunate affair—a mystery that the Northwest Mounted Police are going to solve in mighty short order.”

The explosive force with which the sergeant uttered these words seemed to have the effect of jerking Teddy Banes to his feet. He began to pace slowly to and fro, his gaunt shadow trailing fantastically over the floor and walls of the sturdy log cabin.

“He is not the first who has crossed the United States border and never come back,” he exclaimed, “and——”

“Aye, that’s so,” agreed the military-looking sergeant, “but, somehow, I can’t believe it of Warren. He should have reported here at least a week ago.”

“For sure,” grunted Banes.

“Of course a good many things could happen to a trooper in a vast country like this, but a man of his intelligence ought certainly to have been able to get some word to the post.”

Teddy Banes came to a halt in front of one of the windows and gazed reflectively out into the black, gloomy night. Borne over the air, blending in with the sighing breeze and faint whisperings of grasses and leaves, came the musical chirping of crickets, or the occasional cry of some nocturnal bird.

“Guess we never know,” he said, laconically.

Sergeant Erskine made no reply, but an uplifting of his eyebrows and a sudden tightening of his lips indicated that he did not agree with Teddy Banes’ views.

For fully ten minutes neither man spoke. Then the sergeant looked toward the half-breed, who had resumed his place in the chair. “Banes,” he said, abruptly, “what in thunder is the matter with you?”

“Matter with me!” echoed Teddy. “What you mean?”

“Why don’t you say something, instead of sitting there like a bronze statue?”

“Me?—I got nothings to say.”

“What are you thinking about, then?”

“What I think about?”

“Yes. I can’t stand a man sitting around looking into space. It gets on my nerves. But if you’re trying to think out a solution of this little affair I’ll forgive you.” The sergeant, having finished his report, rose to his feet and strode across the floor, his tall, erect form coming to a halt before the half-breed. “Teddy,” he said, “you’ve done some pretty good work for the police, and in the job that’s ahead of us you must do your share.”

“Why for you ask that, sergeant?” queried the other. The monotonous tone of his voice rose slightly. “Always I work hard for the police. Me the best frien’ they have; they the best frien’s I have.”

“Correct,” answered the sergeant, with a short laugh.

A strict disciplinarian, Sergeant Jarvis Erskine, a man whom all his subordinates highly respected and liked, yet feared, had always treated the scout with a consideration which often excited the envy and wonder of the troopers at the post; and while his stern presence and penetrating voice may have sometimes awed them it never seemed to have that effect upon the imperturbable, sullen Teddy Banes.

The officer turned on his heel and opened the door, to let a flood of light pour out for a short distance over the ground. To his left he saw the men’s quarters, still illuminated, and faintly heard the sound of their voices. A dim yellow beam shone from one of the stable windows, but beyond and on all sides contours and forms were lost in the darkness of the night. The pine-clad hill to the north might as well have been a part of the sky for all that could be seen of its bold, rugged sides, which dropped abruptly to the plain. Between the rifts of cloud, now beginning to break away, a few stars beamed brightly upon the earth.

To the grizzled and seasoned veteran of the Royal Mounted Police the uninspiring sight made no impression, and the sudden and peculiar manner with which he stepped outside the door was not caused by any phenomenon of nature.

“Banes,” he called sharply, “come here!”

The lethargic movements of the scout seemed suddenly to desert him. A few long strides took him to the officer’s side.

“Banes”—the sergeant spoke with curious intensity—“listen!”

“Ah, you have hear something, sergeant?”

“Yes—most assuredly,” answered Erskine. “All the men are at quarters, yet that thick blackness out there hides either one man or several. Perhaps Jed Warren is——”

“No, me think not,” interrupted Banes. “For sure he crossed the line. No—never see him more.”

The half-breed paused, for his keen ears had suddenly detected the sound of human voices. True they were so faint and partly swallowed up in the breeze that only a man whose ears were trained by long experience would have noticed them.

“They were louder than that before, Banes,” exclaimed the sergeant.

“Wonder who it be?”

“Evidently some one who isn’t afraid of traveling on a dark night.”

“They come this way, I think.”

“I only hope it’s Jed Warren, or some one with a message from him. This is not quite the hour for receiving visitors.” Erskine chuckled audibly. “Still, my suspicions are always roused when men pass by the brightly-lighted barracks of the police without stopping in to say howdy-do.”

“Yes; for they sure come this way,” said Teddy Banes. “One, two, three—four, maybe.”

“Yes; and mounted, as every respectable man ought to be in a country like this. I’ll stake my month’s pay I heard the neigh of a horse.”

“For sure. I hear him, too.”

Straining all their faculties the two stepped from the bright light which issued from the open door and windows into the gloom beyond. For some time neither uttered a sound. But, at length, as the voices which had so aroused their curiosity were no longer heard, Sergeant Erskine spoke up:

“I’ve a good mind to saddle my horse and take a run out on the prairie.”

The half-breed grunted a monosyllable.

“Since Jed Warren’s unaccountable disappearance,” went on the sergeant, “I am more particular than ever to look over every one who passes this way.”

“You take lantern then, I s’pose?” said Teddy Banes, a touch of sarcasm in his tone.

The sergeant laughed dryly.

“Quite good, Banes,” he said. “Ah! Did you hear that?”

“Certain I hear him,” answered the half-breed.

“I reckon you are right, Banes. They seem to be headed this way. From the prairie these barracks must shine like a constellation.”

“Nobody could miss him but one who wants to,” remarked Teddy, sagely.

“I’m still hoping Jed Warren may be among that party.”

“No—no!”

“What makes you so confounded sure about it, Banes? Why in thunder do you always insist he’s a deserter?”

“Why?” echoed Teddy, sharply. “How many times you say same thing?”

“Well, suppose I have? I won’t believe it until it’s proved. Guess it isn’t necessary to saddle up, Banes. That bunch out there is coming nearer every minute.”

The sound of voices was certainly growing louder, while occasionally the hoof-beats of horses easily overcame the whisperings and sighings of nature.

For a long time no visitors had been at the post. Now and again a ranch owner or some of his men stopped in to while away a few hours at the barracks; and all received a generous welcome at the lonely outpost station, where the police sometimes grew tired of always seeing only one another’s faces.

Within a short time the noise made by the advancing riders grew to such proportions that several troopers hurried out of the mess room to join their commanding officer. And the rays of light which flashed across their forms showed them to be strong, athletic-looking chaps who carried themselves as erect as any soldiers in the Dominion.

It was quite evident that all were full of curiosity, even eagerness, to let their eyes rest upon the newcomers; and the steady progress with which the latter were now approaching made it quite certain that their wishes would soon be gratified.

“It sounds like a pretty big crowd,” remarked Trooper Farr to Jack Stanford.

“’Tain’t often around here that so many’s travelin’ together.”

“Maybe they’re from Cummin’s ranch, to tell us the cattle rustlers have done a couple more jobs,” said Stanford.

“Or perhaps Jed Warren has rounded up that band of smugglers he was after an’ is bringin’ ’em in single-handed,” laughed Phil Cole.

Several minutes passed while the men busily conjectured and theorized. Then, from out of the shadows, there appeared a number of dusky patches so blended and lost in the surrounding darkness that only the sharpest eyes could have detected the forms of horses and riders.

“Stanford,” commanded Sergeant Erskine, “go back to the mess room, get a lantern and hurry down to the gate. Those chaps are going to miss it by more than a few yards; and we won’t ask ’em to hurdle over the fence.”

“If Stanford isn’t quick they may ride into it and bump their noses,” said Cole, pleasantly.

Stanford was quick, however. He almost immediately returned with a lighted lantern, which sent curious streaks and dashes of yellow rays darting in all directions, then, followed by Trooper Farr, walked rapidly toward the gate.

Sergeant Erskine and the others waited and watched with the keenest interest.

Suddenly they heard a loud hail from the distance and an answering salutation from Stanford.

It was quite the most unusual event which had happened at the post for several months; and those standing close to the barracks experienced a feeling of satisfaction when they heard the gate beginning to creak.

And now from the direction of the swinging lantern came the sound of clear, lusty voices, with the heavier tones of Stanford and Farr joining in.

It soon became evident from bits of conversation which were carried crisply over the air that the visitors had not stumbled accidentally upon police headquarters. Even Sergeant Erskine, whose stern exterior seldom reflected emotion of any sort, felt a rather curious thrill when he heard Jed Warren’s name pronounced by various voices.

“Ah, Banes, I reckon we’re going to have some news from him after all,” he remarked.

The half-breed made no answer. All the intensity of his small black eyes was fixed in the direction of the gate, where the body of horsemen were now filing in. On they came, galloping across the grounds with an abandon that showed them to be skilful riders.

An instant later the friendly lights of the barracks plucked forms and faces from the obscurity. And even Sergeant Erskine allowed a slight gasp of surprise to escape him when he noted that the travelers, instead of being the troop of hardy men he had expected to see, were but a healthy-looking lot of lads.

CHAPTER II
“WHERE IS JED WARREN?”

“Is Sergeant Erskine of the Royal Mounted Police here?”

All the boys had swung from the saddle, and one of their number, advancing toward the grinning and astonished members of the police, had asked the question.

“Great Scott!” murmured Cole. “What does this mean?—a lot o’ kids!”

“I am Sergeant Erskine,” answered the officer. His eyes ran over his questioner, taking in every detail of the well-set, sturdy figure which stood before him. “Who are you, and where do you come from?”

A very tall lad, looming up behind the first speaker, took it upon himself to answer.

“We’re the Rambler Club of Wisconsin,” he said, in a tone which seemed to indicate that he felt this announcement ought to create an enormous sensation.

“The Rambler Club of Wisconsin!” exclaimed Sergeant Erskine, while several loud guffaws came from his men. “Who are they?”

“My name is Bob Somers,” began the lad who had spoken first, “and——”

“Bob Somers!” interrupted Sergeant Erskine. “Well—a light breaks in upon me, as the fellow in the only play I ever saw remarked. If I haven’t heard Jed Warren mention your name about fifty times I won’t take the next furlough that’s coming to me.”

“What’s this we hear about Jed Warren having disappeared?” demanded the tall lad, abruptly.

“Yes, I know all about you chaps now,” said Erskine, without heeding this remark. “You boys exchanged a lot of letters with Jed. He told me he’d asked you to come out.”

“And we’re here,” said the tall member of the group.

“Said you could have lots of fun in the Northwest Territories camping out, hobnobbing with an occasional policeman or ranch owner.”

“And perhaps incidentally rounding up a bunch of smugglers or cattle rustlers,” snickered Farr.

“Hey?” said the big boy, quite fiercely.

“Well, Ramblers,” continued the sergeant, “I’m sorry you came all this way to meet with disappointment. Your friend is not here, and we don’t know when he will be.”

A chorus of remarks and questions which immediately began to flow from the lads was cut short by a wave of Sergeant Erskine’s big hand.

“Easy, boys, easy,” he counseled. Then, turning to Farr, he asked: “Who’s on stable duty to-night?”

“Stephen Stevens, sir,” answered the trooper.

“Well, tell him to take charge of the horses. Now, boys,” he added, “come inside. I suppose you must be pretty tired. How long have you been in the saddle?”

“Ever since early this morning,” answered the tall Rambler. “Tired! Oh, I guess not. I’m good for another twenty mile jaunt. You see we’re used to this sort of thing, and——”

“Tom Clifton is the greatest fellow that ever happened outside the covers of a story book,” came in a drawling voice from some one. “Never gets tired; never gets sleepy. He could look a grizzly bear in the face without even winking. It’s a wonder to me that——”

“Oh, cut it all out, Larry Burnham,” snapped the other. “I wasn’t born lazy, for one thing. Are we coming in? Yes, sergeant; right away.”

As they fell in behind Erskine’s tall, erect figure the troopers led their tired mounts toward the stables.

On two sides of the barracks were long benches, and upon these six lads were soon seated comfortably.

“Sergeant Erskine,” began Bob Somers, “we’ve heard a good deal about you from Jed. Now I’ll introduce the crowd.”

The “crowd” promptly stood up, while Bob Somers, with a wave of his hand toward each, in a delightfully informal fashion, made known their names.

“Dave Brandon,” he said, indicating a stout, round-faced lad; “Tom Clifton”—his hand dropped on the tall boy’s wrist; “Sam Randall; Dick Travers, and Larry Burnham.”

“Last and least,” murmured Tom, sotto voce.

“A most promising football player,” went on Bob, “who thought he’d like to take a little jaunt out to the Northwest Territories with us.”

“That’s putting it pretty mild, Bob,” snickered Tom Clifton. “If Larry didn’t coax and plead to come along I’ll——”

“Just listen to the little story-book hero!” growled Larry, in accents of disgust. “It’s a wonder I ever got his permission, I’m sure.”

“See here, fellows,” interposed Bob Somers, “we haven’t found out yet why Jed isn’t here.”

“That’s so,” cried Tom. “Those chaps who met us at the gate didn’t say very much, but what they did say sounded kind of queer.”

“I should sort o’ think it did,” agreed Larry Burnham.

All the boys had reseated themselves except the latter; and, as the sergeant’s eyes rested on his six feet of solid bone and muscle, he thought to himself that, for physique, he had never seen a better specimen than the blond youth before him. But he also noticed a curious droop in Larry’s mouth and a generally dissatisfied expression on his face which seemed to indicate that the “promising football player” might not be a very pleasant companion to have around.

“I say, sergeant, where is Jed Warren?” inquired Tom Clifton, who possessed a remarkably gruff voice.

“He gone, an’ no one ever see him more,” exclaimed Teddy Banes, abruptly.

“Gone!—gone from the post?” gasped Tom Clifton. “What in thunder do you mean? Why, we got a letter from Jed just a short time ago telling us what a dandy time we could have out here!”

“Perhaps Sergeant Erskine will be willing to explain,” interposed Dave Brandon, who, with his eyes half shut, was leaning in a most comfortable position against the wall.

“Not the least objection, I’m sure,” answered Erskine, drawing a chair up before the group and seating himself. “You see, quite recently a slick band of smugglers has begun operations in this part of the country, and though we’ve been pretty hot on their trail at times, somehow they’ve always managed to elude us. Banes knows all about it, don’t you, Banes?”

“Eh—what you mean?” demanded Banes, coming a step forward, his morose, bronzed face turned full upon his questioner.

“What I say,” laughed Erskine. “I guess you’ll get mixed up in a tussle with them yet, Banes. But I can see by your faces, boys, that you’re in suspense. So here’s the story.”

“Please do let us have it fast,” said Tom.

“I will, son. Jed Warren was sent off on a special assignment to trace up several clues which we felt certain would finally land the smugglers in our net.”

“Well?” queried Tom.

“He had strict orders to report on a certain date. And that date was passed more than a week ago.”

“Gee whiz!” exclaimed Tom.

“I suppose, sergeant, you’ve sent out men to look for him?” drawled Dave Brandon.

“Your supposition is quite correct,” answered Erskine. “We have means of tracing people, and our men kept on Warren’s trail until a certain point was reached. Then—well—the man was nowhere to be found—he had vanished.”

“Some accident must have happened to him,” exclaimed Sam Randall. “We met Jed on the plains of Wyoming, and you couldn’t find a straighter, squarer fellow than he.”

“I’ll subscribe to that,” put in Bob Somers.

“When anybody says anything good about Jed Warren I’ll agree to it,” remarked Dick Travers.

“Never having seen the hero I can’t say,” drawled Larry Burnham, with a sidelong glance at Tom. “But I’ve heard enough about him to make me think he’s a wonder.”

“You’re as sour as you are big,” growled Tom.

“Go on, sergeant; please finish your story,” pleaded Dick Travers.

“I don’t know about any accident happening to Warren,” resumed the sergeant, “for we pretty soon struck a clue which makes things look bad for him.”

“What!—How?” cried Tom Clifton, springing to his feet.

A ripple of exclamations came from the others. Sergeant Erskine surveyed them gravely.

“Just this: his horse was recovered on the other side of the international border. It had evidently been turned loose. What do you make out of that?”

“Never see him more,” exclaimed Teddy Banes.

“You mean to say that Jed—Jed Warren—is a deserter?” demanded Bob Somers, incredulously.

“We let the facts speak for themselves,” answered Erskine. “If you were not such particular friends of his I might tell you that the Mounted Police are not accustomed to discuss their affairs with strangers, but——”

“Of course we understand,” said Dave Brandon.

“What are the facts? Just these: It takes a man of resourcefulness and iron nerve to work on the kind of a case we put into Jed Warren’s hands.”

“Jed has both,” broke in Tom Clifton.

The sergeant inclined his head, then resumed:

“At any rate, we have reliable evidence that your friend was last seen near the international boundary line. The next piece of information which came to us is the declaration of a border patrol who says Warren told him he was disgusted with the job.”

“I can’t believe Jed Warren is a deserter!” fairly exploded Tom Clifton. His eyes were flashing. “It’s all ridiculous!”

“Don’t get excited, Tom,” counseled Larry Burnham.

“Why do you think for an instant he’d have asked us to come out here if he intended to desert?”

“Perhaps you will give us your views on the subject,” said Sergeant Erskine, with a quizzical light in his eye.

“Do, Tom; let’s have ’em,” drawled Larry.

“All I’ve got to say is this,” declared Tom, hotly: “that no one could ever get me to believe Jed Warren is that sort of a chap—no sir!”

“You wrong, then,” interrupted Teddy Banes. “Bah! You know nothings.”

The tall lad turned upon him wrathfully.

“And what do you know?” he demanded.

“What I know? You ask him.” The half-breed’s bony finger was pointed directly at Erskine.

“Teddy Banes is one of the best scouts the police ever employed,” explained the sergeant. “The coyote hasn’t much on him when it comes to following trails. When he thinks a man has crossed the border line I’m pretty well satisfied he has; and Banes”—Erskine paused impressively—“says he doesn’t see how the evidence could mean anything else.”

“Goodness gracious! It seems to me we’re always running into some sort of a mystery,” sighed the stout boy, whose eyes were now wide open.

“That’s so. When we’re around something is always happening,” said Dick Travers.

“And, from what Tom Clifton says, I should judge the Rambler Club is one of the greatest mystery-solving organizations in America,” gurgled Larry Burnham.

“Oh, but you do make me tired, Larry,” burst out Tom, darting an angry look at the big blond boy. “But I can tell you this”—he stopped an instant to give his words added effect—“we came up in Canada to camp out, and to see the country; but I vote that we get busy on this case, and—and—help to solve it.”

To Tom’s intense indignation, the usually quiet and undemonstrative Larry began to roar with laughter. He slapped his knees, poked Dave Brandon violently in the ribs, and ended up his outburst by slapping Dick Travers on the shoulder.

“I thought so; I thought so!” he cried. “Think of his nerve, fellows—talking that way before an officer of the Royal Mounted Police! If they can’t solve the mystery Tom’ll do it for ’em. Now I sort o’ think the sergeant ought to be pleased.”

“Oh, get out!” scoffed Tom, a trifle disconcerted to find the stern, deep-set eyes of Sergeant Erskine leveled full upon him. “Do you suppose we’re going to sit around and do nothing while Jed is suspected of being a deserter? Well, I guess not!”

“What you do?” demanded Banes, with a guttural laugh.

“You’ll find out one of these days,” answered Tom.

The sergeant’s eyes were beginning to twinkle.

“I had no idea we were to receive a visit from so highly trained a body,” he remarked, with a tinge of sarcasm in his tones. “Candidly, my curiosity’s aroused: tell me something about yourselves, and how you were able to find your way to our barracks on a dark night like this.”

“Dave Brandon is our historian,” laughed Bob. “Speak up, Dave, and oblige the sergeant.”

Dave protested; he tried to pass along the honor. But, by unanimous vote, the others overruled him. So the “historian,” with a sigh, began.

It was quite a long story that Sergeant Erskine heard, and frequently a slight smile played about his mouth. At times he asked questions, too, which brought a snapping light into Tom Clifton’s eyes, for they seemed to indicate doubt on the part of the speaker.

“Well, well,” he exclaimed finally, leaning back in his chair and fumbling a heavy watch fob which hung from his pocket. “’Pon my word, it’s quite remarkable! What do you think of it, Banes?”

“Not much. I think nothings of it,” answered the half-breed, surlily. “It is like the big wind in the trees which makes a noise and nothing more.”

Erskine came as near to laughing as he ever did, while Larry Burnham immediately went into another paroxysm of mirth.

“A corking good simile,” he exclaimed. “How about it, Tom? For goodness’ sake, don’t look so mad.”

“Who’s mad?” sneered Tom.

“You mustn’t mind Teddy Banes,” said Sergeant Erskine. “He generally speaks his mind pretty freely. So you steered your way here by the aid of maps and a compass, eh?”

“But it was only by good luck that we managed to hit it right,” remarked Dave, modestly.

“Our field-glass helped some, too,” supplemented Bob. “You see, we reached the summit of a hill—it was a mighty long way from here, too; but the instrument obligingly picked out these lights.”

“So we guessed they must come from either a ranch-house or a barracks,” finished Tom.

“An’ it wasn’t any easy job to keep steerin’ in the right direction,” interposed Larry Burnham. “We got mixed up so often that I began to think we were in for another little snooze under the stars.”

“Well, boys, you’re all right,” said Erskine, heartily. “I can see that your outdoor life has made you self-reliant, anyway. There’s plenty of room for you over in the men’s quarters, so I invite the crowd to stay.”

“An’ I sort o’ think we’ll accept,” drawled Larry. “Outdoor life may make a chap self-reliant, but it can also give him a confounded lot of aches an’ pains.”

“Humph!” sniffed Tom, “you’re not seasoned yet.”

“I’m seasoned enough to get pretty hot at times,” growled Larry.

“How long you stay here?” demanded Teddy Banes, suddenly.

“We won’t get back over the boundary line until this Jed Warren affair is settled,” answered Tom, firmly.

“Bah! You can do nothings. It makes me laugh.”

“Well, laugh, then,” retorted Tom. “I guess we won’t mind.”

“It seems pretty certain that I shall have to do some more writing in that book of mine,” Dave Brandon was saying to Bob Somers.

“And I guess that means another serial for the Kingswood High School ‘Reflector,’” said Larry Burnham. “What’s that, sergeant—do we want a bite to eat? No, thanks. We’ve had our canned goods, salt pork and other delicacies.”

“And I’m uncommonly glad to have found a good place to rest,” said Dave. “A thousand thanks, sergeant.”

Erskine nodded.

“You’re more than welcome,” he said. He turned toward Sam Randall, who had asked a question in regard to the duties and work of the Royal Northwest Mounted Police. “Yes; I don’t mind telling you something about it,” he answered.

Erskine was so disarmed by the liveliness and hearty good spirits of the crowd that his usually severe and frigid demeanor unconsciously slipped away.

So the boys soon learned many interesting things about the hardships and dangers which often confront the police. As Dave said, it was very delightful to sit in the comfortable barracks and listen to tales which often thrilled. Each member of the group, however, would have felt a great deal more lighthearted but for their disappointment at not meeting Jed Warren and the added feeling of apprehension which his strange absence caused.

CHAPTER III
TEDDY BANES

After their many hours in the saddle the lads spent a comfortable night in the men’s quarters. True, Dave Brandon and Larry Burnham were the only ones fortunate enough to have bunks; but the other “seasoned veterans of mountains and plains,” as Larry facetiously dubbed them, rolled themselves up in blankets and slept as soundly as though in their own bedrooms at home.

On the following morning all were astir soon after the beams of light from the rising sun began to trace their cheerful course over the somber walls. They met two other troopers besides Stanford, Farr and Cole, and each declared himself heartily pleased to see the visitors.

“I hope to thunder you’re going to hang around here for a while, boys,” said Stanford, as they all sat at a long table in the mess room eating breakfast.

“Can’t,” answered Tom Clifton, laconically.

“Why not?”

“Well, you see, we’ve got to hunt for Jed Warren.”

“Tom is bound to give some pointers to the Mounted Police,” remarked Larry, with his usual drawl.

“Don’t try to be funny,” snapped Tom.

“You’re the only one around here that’s funny,” said the “promising football player,” with conviction.

“It’s too early in the morning to start scrapping, fellows,” laughed Dave. “What’s the program for to-day, Bob?”

“Of course I agree with Larry that it’s all nonsense for us to expect to beat the police at their own game,” began Bob. “Still——”

“Still what?” interposed Tom, with a toss of his head.

“Sergeant Erskine was good enough to tell me the direction in which Jed was going. He gave me a lot of other clues, too, which may help us to follow him up.”

“I knew you’d agree with my plan!” cried Tom, enthusiastically.

“His plan!” snickered Larry.

“Well, I’ll leave it to the crowd: didn’t I tell Sergeant Erskine last night——”

“Oh, yes—that the bunch was going to solve the mystery,” jeered Larry.

“Wouldn’t make us jealous a bit if you did, I’m sure,” said Stephen Stevens, with a hearty laugh. “Poor old Jed! He seemed to be a pretty good sort. For my part, I don’t believe a word of all this yawp about his deserting.”

“Can’t say I like the way his nag was found, though,” said Cole, shaking his head.

“Nor me, either,” admitted Farr.

“And Warren was certainly too good a rider to get thrown,” came from Stanford.

“I’m afraid Jed may have met with some serious accident,” said Sam Randall, thoughtfully. “I do wish to thunder all this hadn’t happened. We were going to have such dandy fun camping out.”

“I’ve got an idea that Jed’s all right,” insisted Tom, stoutly. “Say, fellows, what do you think? The sarge told me last night——”

From the tone of his voice one might have supposed that Tom and the sergeant had become the greatest of cronies.

“What?” asked Dick Travers.

“Jed’s a Canadian.”

“Get out!” cried Sam Randall.

“It’s a fact. Any of you chaps ever ask him where he came from?”

The noes had it unanimously.

“I knew it,” grinned Tom. “When we met Jed at Circle T Ranch in Wyoming I always thought he was an out and out bona fide American cowboy. Gee! A chap can’t be sure about anything—can he?”

“You seem to be sure about everything,” chirped Larry.

“I certainly am sure about your being the laziest fellow who ever traveled with our crowd,” retorted Tom, witheringly. “Say, Bob, let’s hurry up. You see, if——”

Tom suddenly stopped, for the faint sound of a footstep just outside reached his ears; and, on looking up, he saw a lean, muscular form suddenly appear in the doorway, a proceeding which threw a long, gaunt shadow over the floor.

As the rosy morning light played across it, Teddy Banes’ swarthy face suggested a head of bronze.

Tom Clifton was not at all pleased. He had taken a great dislike to the half-breed, and, somehow, felt it was cordially returned. The man’s sullen demeanor, a peculiar glint in his eyes, and his apparent contempt for the club inspired Tom with indignation.

“Good-morning,” saluted Bob Somers.

“Mornin’,” responded Teddy Banes, slipping upon his seat by the table. “How soon you go away?”

“Right after breakfast,” answered Bob.

“Back to States, eh?”

“Back to the States nothing,” sniffed Tom.

“Why? What you do, then?” inquired Banes, fixing his dark eyes intently upon him.

“Don’t you worry.”

“What you mean?”

“That our crowd doesn’t intend to get away from Canada until we’ve learned what happened to Jed Warren—that’s what I mean.”

“I certainly shouldn’t like to,” said Bob, thoughtfully.

“Shouldn’t like to! Well, for my part, I won’t!” cried Tom, emphatically.

His hand came down on the table with sufficient force to rattle the dishes.

“If necessary I suppose you’ll clear it all up alone,” teased Larry, winking in the direction of Farr.

The opportune appearance of the cook to serve the half-breed probably prevented a lively wrangle between the two, for the crushing retort which Tom was about to utter remained unspoken.

“One thing I tells you,” remarked Banes; “in a big country like this you boys get lost—starve, maybe.”

“Just listen to him,” said Tom, disgustedly. “Lost!—Starve! It shows just how much you know about us, Mr. Teddy Banes. Our crowd has traveled a lot and been in some pretty tight places—yes, sir. We know enough to keep out of any very bad mess.”

“Many bad mens around here—smugglers—cattle rustlers,” continued Banes. “They shoot, maybe—shoot to kill. You laugh! Ah! You think it is nothings! Ask Stanford; ask Cole. Listen!”—The half-breed raised a large brown finger in the air. “Much dangerous, I tell you again. Warren a brave man, yet he get scared; yes—so scared he desert.”

“No such thing!” stormed Tom.

“An’ I say yes. Better go, or maybe you never see home again.”

“That sounds interesting,” exclaimed Larry Burnham. “But in this confounded big country it wouldn’t be such a hard matter to get lost, as he says, Tom. An’ who knows but some of the chaps we’d meet might be pretty rough characters?”

“Oh, if you’re getting frightened,” began Tom.

“No, I’m not getting frightened, but talking common sense. Suppose we couldn’t find water? Or suppose, for instance——”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t suppose any more. Fellows, let’s escort Larry over to the nearest railroad station and see him safely aboard,” said Tom, so disgusted that a hot flush mantled his cheek. “We don’t want any pullbacks or kickers in this crowd.”

“What’s the use of jawing so much?” put in Sam Randall. “Larry doesn’t want to back out.”

“You chaps look as if you were able to take care of yourselves,” said Farr, “and there isn’t much danger as long as you don’t wander too far away from the settlements or Indian villages. But as for your finding out anything about Jed Warren!”—he laughed—“sounds rather like a joke to me.”

“I sort o’ think it does,” drawled Larry.

“Your sort of thinks make me smile,” grumbled Tom.

“I believe in action—not words,” laughed Dave Brandon. “Wake me up, fellows, when it’s time to start.”

“It’s time now,” cried Dick Travers, jumping to his feet. “Let’s saddle up, boys, and hit the trail.”

“Where for?” asked one of the troopers.

“Sergeant Erskine told me there is a Cree village a good many miles to the northwest of here,” answered Bob Somers, “and as he said Jed Warren passed that way we thought we’d take it in and interview the chief.”

“Indians!” mused Larry, reflectively.

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid, son,” laughed Cole. “There isn’t anything fierce or warlike about ’em; though years ago, before the herds of buffalo had given place to long-horned cattle, they used to have some fierce mix-ups with the Sioux and Blackfeet.”

“I’ll be little Fear-not, with Tom Clifton along,” laughed Larry.

“In a couple of days you no more talk like that,” grumbled Teddy Banes. “I start for village this morning. We go together.”

This information had the effect of putting Tom in a very bad humor indeed. He wanted to get away from the sight of Teddy Banes’ sullen face; and to feel that he was going to have his company all day put a very frowning expression on his face. He was almost on the point of objecting, but, seeing that the announcement had no effect on his companions, refrained.

By the time the crowd had bidden Sergeant Erskine good-bye Stephen Stevens had the horses saddled and bridled. He saw to it, too, that the saddle bags were well filled.

The men who wore the scarlet jackets gathered around, as the horses, refreshed by rest and food, impatiently pawed the ground, or sought to pull away from restraining hands.

“Sorry you’re going so soon, boys,” said Farr. “Before leaving the country be sure to drop in and see us again.”

“You can just bet we will—and perhaps we’ll bring some news, too,” cried Tom, swinging into the saddle. “So-long, sergeant!” He waved his hand as the commanding figure of Erskine appeared at the headquarters door. “Whoop! Come on, fellows. The search begins.”

With farewells flung over their shoulders, the six riders galloped away, leaving the sullen, morose-looking Teddy Banes to follow at his leisure.

“Bah!” exclaimed the latter to Cole. “Make me sick. Why for you not tell them to go away?”

“Because I didn’t choose to,” laughed the other. “Besides, I reckon a few days traveling about with not a soul in sight but themselves will cure ’em of any hankerin’ to stay.”