Two Boys in Wyoming: A Tale of Adventure<br />(Northwest Series, No. 3) by Edward Sylvester Ellis (simple ebook reader TXT) 📗

picturesque prospect, the like of which they had never before viewed, and yet it must be confessed that one feature of the landscape appealed more strongly to them than all the rest. Perhaps a half-mile away six or eight antelope were cropping the grass, unconscious of the approach of danger. They were near the small clump of trees alluded to, and may have lately drank from the water flowing therefrom. They were in a bunch, all their heads down, and had evidently taken no alarm from the occasional distant reports of guns.

"I say, Jack, there's a splendid dinner!" whispered Fred, excitedly.

"What good will it do us, so long as it is there? I should like to have it here."

"It ought to be easy to pick off one of those creatures; Hank told us they make fine eating."

"That is all true, but it is also true that the antelope is one of the most timid of creatures, and the best hunter finds it hard work to get within reach of them."

"You know how curious they are? The men at the ranch told the other night about lying down in the grass in the middle of a prairie and holding up a stick with a handkerchief at the end of it. Timid as was the antelope, it would gradually draw near to find out what the thing meant, and pay for its curiosity with its life."

Such incidents are quite common in the West, but neither of the boys felt it safe to rely upon the stratagem. They feared that at the first attempt the antelope would take fright and make off beyond recovery, and Fred Greenwood's proposition was adopted.

"There doesn't seem to be any wind blowing, but if we try to steal down the side of the valley we are sure to frighten them off. Now, if you will stay here, Jack, I'll pick my way round to the other side, so that the herd will be between us. Then I'll do my best to get near enough for a shot; if I fail, they will run for this point and come within range of you. Between us two, one is certain to get a shot at them."

"It's putting a big lot of work on you, Fred," said the chivalrous Jack.

"It won't be half as hard to bear as the hunger I'll feel in the course of an hour or two if we don't get one of them."

The plan was so simple that no explanation was necessary. Jack Dudley had only to remain extended on the ground where he was, with his Winchester ready, and keep an eye on the little herd, which could not observe him unless he was unusually careless. He could easily judge of Fred's success or failure by watching the animals, and it would seem that success was almost certain for one of the young hunters. The only thing to be feared was that Fred would betray himself before reaching the other side of the game that was so tempting to both.

The comrades looked at their watches at the moment of separating, and found it was precisely one o'clock. Fred gave himself an hour to reach a point from which to start on his return, though it was possible that double that time would be required. Before the interval had expired Jack had his glass to his eyes, and was studying the valley below.

As the antelope cropped the rich grass they occasionally took a step in the direction of the watcher; but the largest one, evidently the leader, changed his course so as to work back toward the little grove of trees, the others following. Now and then the leader raised his head and looked around, as if suspecting danger, though his fears were not confirmed. At longer intervals other members of the herd did the same, but it was evident that they neither saw nor scented anything amiss.

Jack's constant fear was that Fred would betray himself through some accident. His course would bring him nearer the game and the risk was considerable; but as the minutes passed without anything of that nature taking place, his hope increased.

"More than likely Fred himself will get the shot instead of me. It makes no difference, so that we don't lose our supper; for," he added, dismally, "the dinner is already gone."

When another half-hour had passed, he was sure his chum was on the other side of the herd.

"There must be a break pretty soon. Suppose that instead of coming toward me," added Jack, giving expression to a dread that had not occurred to him until then, "they dash off into the mountains on either side. Then we shall be doomed to starvation!"

He thought that with the aid of his glass he would be able to follow Fred as he stole down the side of the valley, since the position of the spectator was much more elevated than that of the antelope. It would require sharp scrutiny even with the aid of the instrument to do this, and, look as keenly as he might, he could discover nothing that suggested anything of that nature.

When three o'clock went by without any evidence of alarm among the animals browsing in the middle of the valley, Jack Dudley began to wonder what it could mean.

"Fred was sure that a single hour was enough to place himself on the further side of them, and double that time has passed. He ought to be well down the slope, but I can see nothing of him."

One fact, however, was apparent: the antelope were steadily though slowly working toward the ridge on which the young man lay. At the rate they were advancing it would not be long before it would be safe to try a shot.

This progress could not be laid to any alarm coming from the other side. If the animals received fright they would be off with the speed of the wind, instead of inching along in the fashion they were now following.

"It begins to look as if I am to secure the meal, after all," thought Jack, forgetting his slight uneasiness for his friend in his growing excitement.

The following minute gave proof of the timidity of the American antelope. With all the care possible, the youth extended his gun in front of him over the slope, but the herd took the alarm on the instant, though it seemed impossible that they should have seen or heard anything. The leader raised his head, and whirling to one side, started at a swift gallop toward the other end of the valley, the rest of the animals being hardly a second behind him.

The peculiar panic and stampede of the creatures gave Jack Dudley the best possible target, though the shot was a long one. He did not aim at the leader, but at a smaller animal that immediately followed him. The bullet pierced the heart of the antelope, which made a frenzied leap high in air, staggered a few paces, and dropped to the ground without a particle of life.

"Hurrah!" exclaimed the delighted Jack, springing up and dashing down the side of the valley toward his prize; "I beat you, after all, Fred!"

Not doubting that his comrade would speedily appear, Jack gave no further thought to him, but continued running until he reached the prize. He had learned the art so rapidly that it took but a few minutes to cut all he could need for himself and friend. Then he hurried to the little grove near by, washed and dressed the food, which seemed to be juicy and tender, and started a fire for the purpose of broiling it.

He had not paused in his work up to this point, but now he stopped with the first real thrill of alarm for his friend.

"Four o'clock!" he exclaimed to himself; "what can have become of him?"

He walked to the edge of the trees and looked out, anxiously peering in different directions, but nothing was seen of his friend. Knowing Fred's waggish nature, Jack hoped that he was indulging in some jest, but he could not quite convince himself that such was the fact. The hunger of Fred would have prevented his postponing the meal one moment longer than was necessary.

When an abundance of food was browned and crisped and ready the appetite of Jack Dudley was less than it was two hours before, the cause being his growing alarm over the unaccountable absence of Fred.

"I can't understand it," he repeated for the twentieth time; "some accident must have befallen him. Can it be Motoza has had anything to do with it?"

It was the first time that Jack had expressed this fear in words, but it was by no means the first time he had felt it. Rather curiously, from the moment his friend passed out of sight, several hours before, the vague misgiving began to shape itself in his mind. He fought it off and succeeded in repressing it for a time, but he could do so no longer.

"Fred didn't seem to give any meaning to that awful look of the Sioux when he started to walk away, but I saw what it meant, though I never dreamed the blow would fall so soon."

His heart was depressed almost beyond bearing, and the anguish was deepened by the fact that he could see no way of helping his friend. The only thing possible was to follow as nearly as he could the course taken by Fred, but there was no certainty of that. He knew he had turned to the right when he left the crest of the ridge, after which there had been no glimpse of him.

"But he made for a point over yonder," reflected Jack, "and there I'll search for him."

This was exceedingly indefinite, but it was better than standing idle. The antelope had long since vanished, and there was no need of care in his progress—rather otherwise, since he desired to attract the notice of his friend. Jack broke into a loping trot, emitting the familiar signal so often used by both, calling his name, and even firing his rifle in air; but there came back no response, and his fears deepened.

Jack was in the mood to be unjust.

"I don't understand Hank Hazletine's action. He sets out to take us on a hunt among the mountains, and then goes off and leaves us alone. Why doesn't he stay with us? If he had done that, this never could have happened. Fred and I can generally take care of ourselves, but we are not used to this plagued country, which I wish neither he nor I had ever set foot in."

CHAPTER XIV. MISSING.

The minute quickly arrived when Jack Dudley could no longer doubt that a great misfortune had befallen his comrade, Fred Greenwood.

In the anguish of anxiety Jack's imagination pictured many mishaps that might account for the disappearance. He must have heard the report of the elder's Winchester, and, since Fred's attention was centred upon the herd of antelope, he could not fail to know that his friend had secured one of them for their evening meal. The only thing to prevent his hastening to join Jack must have been his inability to do so. There was the remote possibility that his accident had been of a nature that involved no one else—such, for instance, as sudden illness, though Jack had never known anything like that to overtake his friend.

All that the youth could do was to attempt to follow the route that Fred had taken when he set out to place himself on the other side of the game. It was guesswork to trace his footsteps, but the elder youth made the effort. When he had progressed half the distance, however, he paused, convinced that his labor was utterly useless. He called to Fred, repeated their familiar signals and fired several charges in air, with no more response than at first.

"He has been either killed or carried off by a party of Indians," was the conclusion that forced itself upon him.

And with this conviction came the certainty that it was out of the power of Jack Dudley to do anything for his friend. He might tramp back and forth for nights and days, but with no success, for Fred Greenwood was gone—whither?

Had Jack been skilled in woodcraft, possibly he might have discovered some signs along the valley that would have enlightened him, but he was untrained in the ways of red men and was not equal to the task. A dog that knew how to track a person would have been of immeasurable value, but such a canine was not to be had.

One memory clung tormentingly to the searcher. It was the demoniac face of Motoza, the Sioux, when Fred Greenwood compelled him to return the Winchester of Jack. There could be