Didn’t I tell you?” he cried as he rode out into an open space and instantly discovered the hoof-prints of several horses on the soft ground. “I was positive that I couldn’t be wrong. My time is up, but I have found the spot where the rascals got together. Now I’ll just turn about and follow it home. This is the trail we must follow to find Uncle Hip. Yes, I’ll go back and report.”
Stacy Brown’s intentions were good, and, well satisfied with what he had accomplished, he rode along humming softly to himself, now and then confiding his opinions to his pony. The little animal wiggled its ears as if it understood.
“Hulloa! There goes the sun. Seven o’clock! Who would have thought it? According to my watch I’ve been back at the forks for a quarter of an hour. I wonder if I really have?” Stacy regarded his surroundings narrowly. “No. I never saw any of you mountain-peak fellows before. I must have made a mistake in my reckonings, but I’ve got a biscuit in my pocket, and we’ll be able to go quite a distance on one biscuit, especially on this kind of a biscuit. Some biscuits go a great deal farther than others. This is one of the farther kind,” finished Chunky, performing a series of contortions as he tried to break off a piece of biscuit with his teeth.
The pony was laboring up a steep incline, the stirrup straps creaking in rhythm with the animal’s quick, short steps, Stacy’s body, from the belt up, bobbing upwards and backwards with monotonous regularity. The reins lay over the saddle pommel, thus giving the pony’s head full play and enabling it to snatch a mouthful of greens here and there.
Suddenly the little animal threw its head up and snorted. Stacy Brown ceased munching and sat staring wide-eyed.
“Suffering cats! You’re IT, Stacy Brown!” he gasped.
Jerking his rifle from the saddle-boot he fired three quick shots over the head of his pony.
CHAPTER VI
CHUNKY MEETS THE BANDITS
The pony had nosed its way around the base of a high rock, fetching up on a meadow, when Stacy made the discovery that startled him. What he saw was a group of men sitting about a cook-fire, hurriedly eating a meal while their ponies grazed on the mountain grass some distance from the fire.
The boy knew instantly that he had stumbled upon the bandits. He realized, too, in those brief seconds, that he must be a long way from the place where he was to meet his companions.
The desperadoes saw the intruder about the time that Chunky saw them. Used to emergencies and quick action, the men sprang for their rifles, which were standing against a boulder near at hand. Chunky also saw that Lieutenant Wingate was not with them. Had the boy thought twice he would have held his fire, but, as it turned out, his shots served a good purpose. It startled the bandits, causing momentary confusion, which gave Stacy an opportunity to head in an opposite direction, which he was not slow in doing.
“Ye-o-o-o-ow!” howled the fat boy in a shrill, piercing voice. The shots and the yells startled the bandits’ ponies as it had their owners. The horses threw up their heads, snorted and galloped into the mountain meadow, fully twenty rods from the camp, while the boy threw himself on the neck of his pony, fully expecting a shot or a volley from them, and dashed around the base of a high rock at a perilous pace. He had no more than reached the protection of the rock than the pock, pock of rifle bullets, as they hit the rock to his rear, reached his ears.
“Oh, wow!” howled Chunky. “I lost my biscuit.” In ordinary circumstances he would have gone back to look for the biscuit, but just now Stacy was in somewhat of a hurry. Fortunately for the boy, it took the bandits fully twenty minutes to round up their horses, by which time the fat boy was far in the lead, riding like mad. He had lost all sense of direction, but perhaps the pony had not. The little animal had taken affairs into its own control and was laying out its own trail.
The bandits, instead of following, rode with all speed farther into the mountains, but Chunky continued on at his same perilous pace, even though darkness had now overtaken him.
“Whoa, Bismarck!” commanded Chunky finally, reining in his pony. “Do you know where you’re going, or don’t you?”
The pony rattled the bit between its teeth, tossed its head up and down, and uttered a loud whinny.
“You said ‘yes,’ didn’t you? All right, if you know where you are, go along. You surely can’t know any less about it than I do.”
Rider and mount resumed their journey at a somewhat slower pace, and rode on until Stacy was brought to a sudden stop by a sharp, gruff word of command.
“Halt!” ordered a voice just ahead of him. The pony gave a startled jump that nearly unhorsed its rider.
“Oh, wow!” howled Chunky, and on the impulse of the moment he fired two quick shots at the sound.
“Stop it! It’s Tom Gray. Haven’t you any more sense than to blaze away before you know at what you are shooting?”
“Oh, fiddlesticks! Had you been through what I have you would shoot at the drop of the hat. Are you lost, too?”
“Lost? I am not lost. Don’t you know where you are?”
“No. I might be in the suburbs of Chillicothe for all I know.”
“The camp is only a few rods away,” Tom Gray informed him.
“You don’t say?” wondered Chunky.
“We heard you coming, and thought it might be Mr. Ford. How did you happen to come in over that trail?”
“Ask Bismarck. He knows all about it. I don’t. Got any news about Uncle Hip?”
“No. Of course you saw nothing of either him or the bandits.”
“I not only found the robbers, but I had a battle with them,” answered Stacy.
“What’s that? Don’t trifle, Brown. This is a serious matter,” rebuked Tom.
“I’m telling you the truth. It was this way. I was riding along, peaceful like, when, all of a sudden, biff, boom, bang! It seemed to me that fifty or a hundred men burst from the bushes.”
“So many as that?” laughed Tom.
“Well, something like that. I may be a dozen or so out of the way, but you see I didn’t stop to count them. I raised my trusty rifle and – well, to make a long story short, I fired right into that howling bunch of bandits. I suppose I emptied as many as twelve saddles.”
“Wait a moment,” urged one of the travelers who had joined them. “How many times did you reload?”
“Not at all. I didn’t have time.”
“Captain Gray, he emptied twelve saddles, so he must have shot two men with each bullet, as his magazine holds only six cartridges. I call that some shooting.”
“Is that so? Then I must have done as you say. Wonderful, wasn’t it?”
At this juncture, Sheriff Ford rode into camp and was quickly told of what Stacy had discovered. Mr. Ford, after a few quick questions, realized that the boy really had stumbled on the right trail and discovered the bandits.
“You did well, young man,” he complimented. “I thought I had struck a lead, but the trail pinched out. Can you
