"Hey! He's starting a forest fire!" gasped Dan Dalzell, as he caught sight of young Prescott bending over the dried, yellowish grass.

"Scatter, all along the strip!" shouted Prescott, rising as soon as he had ignited a clump of grass. "Get this whole strip of burned grass blazing. It's the only chance to save the camp—-or ourselves!"

Dalzell shivered. Nor could Dan understand how such a course would serve to save their camp. But he saw the others following their leader's orders.

"Get over the ground, Dan!" bellowed Dick, as he sprinted to another point. "Start a lot of blazes!"

So Danny Grin fell in line with the movements of the others, though he felt not a little doubt as to the wisdom of the course.

Flame was now spurting up over more than an acre of the sun-baked strip of grass.

"Get a lot more of the grass going, fellows!" panted Dick, who was working like a beaver and dripping with perspiration. "It's our only hope. Hustle!"

With the flames arose a dense cloud of smoke. As the wind was from the southwest the smoke was in the faces of the onrushing cattle.

"There! We've done all we can!" bellowed Dick, running down the line formed by his chums. "Now, get back out of this roasting furnace."

Close to the edge of the burning strip of grass the six high school boys now stood side by side gazing at their work.

"We'd better scoot!" counseled Danny Grin.

"Where can we go?" Dick shouted, in order to make himself heard over the crackling flames and the greater noise of the pounding hoofs. "If we're not safe behind a curtain of flame, there is no other place near where we'd be safer."

Danny Grin turned to bolt, but Darry reached out, catching him by the collar and throwing him to the ground.

"Don't be a fool, Danny, and don't be panic stricken," Darrin advised. "We're safer here, at least, than we can be anywhere else within a quarter of a mile."

The bellow of a bull through the forest—-a bellow taken up by other bulls—-made all of the boys quake in their shoes. But none of the lads ran away.

Gazing between the trees they soon made out a stirring sight.

On came the stampede, cattle packed so tightly that any animal falling could only be trampled to death by those behind.

"My, but that's a grand sight!" cried Tom Reade.

Not one of the six boys but longed to take to his heels. To them it seemed absolutely impossible for the cattle to turn aside as they must dash on through the blazing grass, such was the pressure from behind. Yet not one of Dick & Co. turned to run.

Suddenly three of the bulls went down to their knees, snorting and bellowing furiously. Half a dozen cows held back from the flames, only to be trampled and killed.

Somehow, the powerful bulls staggered to their feet, then broke to one side.

A dozen more cows plunged on into the blazing grass, then sank, overcome by the heat.

It seemed like a miracle as, following the bulls, the herd split, some going east, others west, and carrying the swerving cattle after them in two frantic streams.

In some way that the boys could not understand, the pressure of cattle from the rear accommodated itself to the movement of the forepart of the herd. The herd divided now swept on rapidly, going nearly east and west in two sections.

Not until some six hundred crazy cattle had passed out of view did the boys feel like speaking. Indeed, they felt weak from the realization of the peril they had so narrowly escaped.

"I think, fellows," proposed Dave Darrin huskily at last, "that we owe a whopping big vote of thanks to good old Dick Prescott!"

"After we pass that vote," proposed Hazelton, "we'd better make all haste to get out of these woods before the owner of this stretch of forest comes along to nab the fellows who set his timber afire."

"Do you see any trees ablaze?" Dick demanded.

Now, for the first time, two or three of the fellows began to realize the value of Dick's idea. The sun-burned grass, some three acres in extent, was a clearing devoid of trees. Here the July heat had baked the turf. On all sides, under the trees beyond, the grass was still green. Any boy who has ever been in the country knows that green grass won't burn. Hence the blaze was limited to a small area. A few trees whose trunks were near the edge of the clearing were smoking slightly, but no damage was done to the timber. There was really no work to be done in extinguishing this fire, which, furious while it lasted, was now dying out.

"Let's get back and see how our camp fared," proposed Hazelton.

"We don't have to," Dick replied. "We saw the directions taken by the cattle, and they didn't go anywhere near our camp. Let's wait, and, as soon as the ground is cool enough, let's get out to the injured cows, and see if we can help any of them."

Hardly had Dick spoken when one of the cows, right at the edge of the blackened clearing, rose clumsily, then moved slowly northward. Presently another cow followed suit.

"We can get over the ground now," said Dick. "Let's go out and look at these animals."

They counted eight dead cows, their unwieldy carcasses lying motionless on the burned grass.

"Probably killed by the hot air that they drew into their lungs," commented Tom Reade.

"We killed the poor beasts," said Danny Grin, with a catch in his breath.

"Perhaps we did," Dick admitted. "But we had to do something. Anyhow, we broke the force of the stampede, and, if that hadn't been checked, a still greater number of cows would have been killed. They would have fallen, exhausted, and then they would have been trampled on and killed by the plunging cattle behind them."

"That's true enough," nodded Tom. "Even if we did kill a few, I guess we're more entitled to praise than reproach."

Two more cows presently got up and limped away, but there were four others still alive, yet too badly hurt to attend to themselves.

Nor could the high school boys help, further than by carrying buckets of water to the suffering animals. Dick & Co. had no firearms along, and could not put the injured cows out of their misery.

"Now, let's get out of here," urged Dick at last. "We can't do any good here, and this is no pleasant sight to gaze upon."

"It seems too bad to leave all this prime roast beef on the ground, doesn't it?" hinted Tom. "And we fellows have such good appetites."

"The cattle are not ours," Dick rejoined. "We have no right to help ourselves to any cuts of meat from the dead animals."

So they returned to the camp, which they found, of course, quite undisturbed.

It so happened that the four members of the party who had proposed going to other scenes for the forenoon forgot their projects.



CHAPTER VIII

VISITORS FOR THE FEAST

Bang! bang! sounded in the direction of the burned-over clearing.

"Let's go over and see what that means," proposed Tom.

He jumped up, ready to sprint over to the clearing.

"If you want advice," Dick offered, "I'd say to wait until the shooting is over. You might stop a stray bullet not intended for us."

"But what can the shooting mean" wondered Greg.

"When anyone is turning bullets loose," remarked Darry, "I'm not too inquisitive."

So the boys waited until the firing had ceased. Then they heard what sounded like the noise of a horse moving through the brush.

"Hello, there!" called Dick.

"Hello, yourself!" came the answer, and a mounted man rode into view. He did not look especially ugly or dangerous; his garb was plainly intended for the saddle. As he came into sight the man slipped a heavy automatic revolver into a saddle holster.

"What was up?" inquired Dick, rising and going forward to meet the newcomer.

"Stampede," replied the other briefly.

"We know something about that," Dick rejoined.

"Do you know anything about the burning of the clearing?" asked the horseman, reining up and eyeing the lads keenly.

"Yes, sir; we fired the grass," Prescott acknowledged.

"To break the stampede?"

"No, sir; to save our camp, which would have been destroyed."

"Shake," invited the stranger, riding forward and bending over to hold out his hand. "Your fire cost us a few cattle, but I reckon it saved the destruction of a lot more, for there would have been many of 'em killed if they had charged on into the deeper forest."

"Then the stampede has been stopped?" asked Prescott.

"Yes; two of my men followed the parted trails, and came back to report the two herds halted and grazing. My name is Ross. I'm the owner of about a fourth of the cattle in the big herd."

"I hope you don't feel angry with us for doing the best we could to save our camp," Dick went on.

"You saved myself and the other owners a greater loss," replied Mr. Ross, "so I thank you."

"You're quite welcome, Mr. Ross," smiled Tom Reade. "But what was the shooting about?"

"I shot some of the cattle that appeared to be still alive, to put an end to their suffering. You boys haven't any ice here, have you?"

"No, sir," Dick replied.

"Too bad," said Mr. Ross. "If you had ice I could offer you a prime lot of beef that it will hardly pay me to move, as I can't get the animals cut up quickly enough and on ice, after the long haul I would have to make."

"Are you going to leave the cattle on the clearing?" Dick asked in sudden concern.

"We'll bury the carcasses," smiled Mr. Ross. "If we didn't the smell would soon force you boys to move your camp a mile or two. But see here! Ever have a barbecue?"

"No, sir," Dick made answer, his voice betraying sudden interest.

"Would you like one?" went on the owner. "A barbecue, real western style, with a whole cow on the fire?"

"It would be great!" answered nearly all of Dick & Co. in concert.

"Then we'll have one, as soon as I can call my men in," replied Mr. Ross cheerfully. "I'm bound to get some good out of the dead cattle."

"We'll want a lot of firewood for that, won't we?" asked Dick, his eyes gleaming.

"More than a little," nodded Mr. Ross. "And big wood, at that."

"Dave, you and Tom had better take the axes and get some real wood," Prescott called. "Harry and Dan will help you and bring it in. Where shall we put the wood, Mr. Ross?"

"In the middle of the burnt clearing will be better," replied the cattle owner. "Then the fire won't have a chance to spread in any direction. Besides, you won't want the heat of a great fire too close to your camp. After the meat is cooked we can bring it over here. Have you boys plenty of canned vegetables and the like?"

"Plenty, sir," Dick answered cheerily, though his heart sank a trifle as he thought of how the cattle owner and his helpers might clean out their stock.

Dick and Greg busied themselves with carrying over to the clearing such things as Mr. Ross said that they would need. Then it was decided that the vegetables should be cooked at the camp.

"Let me see your stock of provisions and perhaps I may get another idea," proposed the cattle owner. "I see that you have flour, and oh, yes; you have all that will be needed for a pudding, and one of my men knows how to make one of the best boiled puddings you ever ate out under the sky."

Drawing a small horn from one of his side pockets, Mr. Ross blew a long, shrill blast.

"Jim will come in as soon as possible, after hearing that sound," smiled the cattle owner.

Jim Hornby rode in within five minutes. He was a lean, long, roughened and reddened farm laborer, but when told that a boiled pudding was wanted he walked straight to the place where the supplies were kept.

"Everything here but berries," Jim explained. "Any of you boys know where to get some blueberries?"

Greg knew, and promptly departed with a pail.

Crackle! Crackle! Two brisk fires were now going in the burnt clearing, started by Dick at Mr. Ross' direction. By this time Mr. Ross' other helper had come in, reporting that the cattle were quiet and grazing, and now this helper and his employer began to remove the hide from one of the cows.

"This cow was overcome by smoke and hot air as soon as it rushed into the blaze," explained Mr. Ross. "Therefore, this will be safe meat to eat. When an animal, however, dies in pain, after much suffering, its flesh should never be used for food. Bill, now that we've gotten the hide off you mount and ride back to the wagon. Bring it along."

Dan and Harry were still bringing in heavy firewood and stacking it up, while the ring of axes in the hands of Dave and Tom was heard. It was a busy scene.

"Prescott, you'd better begin piling on the big wood now," suggested Mr. Ross, after noting the sun's position.

Things moved rapidly along.

"You might as well halt your wood cutters, unless you want their product for your own camp," suggested the cattle owner, and Prescott sent the word to stop chopping.

Within twenty minutes the big wagon, drawn by a pair of mules, came up with Bill Hopple driving and his horse tied to the tailboard.

With a speed and skill born of long practice, Mr. Ross began to cut up the carcass of the cow. Bill was busy making greenwood spits and arranging them over the two fires, Dan and Harry helping him.

Almost at a dead run came Greg Holmes through the woods, with two quarts of blueberries. Over at the camp, as soon as he saw the berries, Jim Hornby began mixing his pudding batter. He had already prepared his fire and had found a suitable kettle.

From watching the pudding game, Tom strolled through to the two fires in the clearing.

"This begins to look like a fine chance to eat," sighed Tom full of contentment.

"Doing anything, Reade?" inquired the cattle owner, who had quickly learned all their names.

"No, sir."

"Then suppose you take this heart of the cow over to your camp. Put it on the fire in a kettle of salted water, and let it boil slowly. By that means you will be able to serve up the heart for your evening meal."

"Is there no end to this cow?" gasped Tom.

"Well, a good-sized cow provides several hundred pounds of meat," replied Mr. Ross. "Oh, what a shame that you boys have no ice, and no way of getting it or keeping it! I could fix you for a month's supply of meat!"

"Dick, do you remember what we came out here in the woods for?" queried Tom.

"To camp, and have a good time," Prescott laughed. "And, so far, we win. We're having a bully time!"

"What else did we come out here for?"

"To harden and train ourselves so that we can make a hard try for the Gridley High School football eleven this fall."

"Will a week of training table undo the harm of to-day's big feasts?" groaned Reade.

"No fellow is obliged to make a glutton of himself," retorted Dick.

"Maybe not," quoth Tom, "but everyone of us will be sorely tempted. You ought to see that pudding that Jim Hornby is putting up."

"Young man, are you going to get that heart to cooking before it goes bad in the sun?" asked Mr. Ross sharply.

Tom meekly turned and started toward camp.

"What's Greg doing?" Dick called after him.

"Holmesy is watching, learning the way Jim Hornby puts up a boiled pudding," Reade called back.

Honk! honk! sounded an automobile horn from the rough trail of a roadway an eighth of a mile away. The honking continued until Dick, realizing that it was a signal, gave a loud halloo.

"Is that Prescott's camp?" called a voice.

"It's the camp of Prescott and his friends," Dick shouted back.

"Get ready for visitors, then!" called the voice again, and this time Dick recognized the voice as that of Dr. Bentley.

"We won't eat you out of supplies, though," called the doctor, now heading through the forest. "We're bringing with us our own cold lunch."

"Cold lunch!" Dick chuckled back. "You won't be able to eat it after you see what we have!"

Through the trees now the fluttering of skirts could be seen. High school girls were on their way to share the barbecue, though as yet they did not know of the treat in store for them.



CHAPTER IX

DICK'S WOODLAND DISCOVERY

"You couldn't have come at a finer time!" cried Dick joyously, as he raced to meet the most welcome visitors.

"We're barbecuing a whole cow."

"Then I trust, Prescott, that you came honestly by the cow," rejoined Dr. Bentley his eyes twinkling.

Besides Dr. and Mrs. Bentley, there were eight girls. The visitors quickly explained that, besides the Bentley touring car, that of the Sharps was being used on this expedition, Susie Sharp being one of the girls of the party. The Sharps did not employ a chauffeur, but their general man knew how to run the car, and he was now engaged in taking the cars to a spot well off the road.

"I'll send one of the fellows to get him," Dick promised, as he led the numerous though welcome guests to camp.

"Lucky I made a special big pudding," grinned Jim Hornby.

"The girls may have my share," gallantly offered Tom Reade, though he groaned under his breath.

"There's pudding enough for a lot more people than we have here," returned Jim. "I don't bother making small puddings."

The boys were all called in quickly to greet the girls and Dr. and Mrs. Bentley. Of course, the girls had to see the interior of the tent, and all the arrangements of the camp.

"I wish I were a boy," sighed Laura Bentley enviously.

"I'm glad you're not," spoke Dick gallantly. "You're ever so much nicer as a girl."

Honk! honk! sounded over by the road. The noise continued.

"Greg," said Dick, "that's Miss Sharp's father's man. Evidently he wants something. You'd better run over."

In less than five minutes back came Greg with three other men, all of them unexpected. Mr. Alonzo Hibbert, minus his four-quart hat, and wearing a flat straw hat instead, as well as light clothes and silk negligee shirt, came in advance of Tom Colquitt, the man from Blinders' detective agency. Still to the rear of them was a third man, slightly bent and looking somewhat old, though there were no gray streaks in his light brown hair.

"How do you do, boys?" called Mr. Hibbert airily, as he came swiftly forward. "We saw a big smoke over this way, and so we stopped to find out what was the matter. Young Holmes has asked us to stop for your barbecue, but it looks to me like a terrible imposition on you, and so——-"

Here Mr. Hibbert paused, looking highly embarrassed as he caught sight of Mrs. Bentley and the girls coming out of the tent.

"You already have other company," murmured Hibbert apologetically. "No; most decidedly we must not intrude on you."

"How do you do, Mr. Colquitt?" was Dr. Bentley's greeting. Then other introductions followed, and, ere he knew it, Hibbert and his friends were members of the party and destined to partake of the barbecue feast.

The oldish-looking man with the new arrivals proved to be Mr. Calvin Page.

"He's the millionaire father of the missing boy that Colquitt and I are trying to find," Hibbert explained to Dick.

"Have you any clue, as yet?" Prescott inquired.

"Nothing worth while," sighed Lon Hibbert.

"It's too bad," murmured Dick. "Mr. Page is a fine-looking man, but he must be lonely."

"He is," agreed Lon Hibbert.

"His wife is dead, isn't she?"

"Yes; and Page would give the world to find that boy of his."

"Perhaps if he doesn't find his son it may be as well," Dick hinted.

"Why, as well?"

"The missing son, brought up by others, might have turned out badly," Prescott suggested.

"Pooh!" quickly rejoined Lon Hibbert. "That missing son, no matter how wild or bad he may be, is still young enough to reform. Prescott, no matter how bad that son may be, it will be a blessing for my friend Page to find his boy! I pray that it may be my good fortune to run across that son, one of these days, and that I may be the first to recognize the boy."

"Prescott," broke in Mr. Ross, coming forward, "you don't begin to have enough knives, forks and plates to take care of this crowd, do you?"

"I'm sorry to say that we haven't," Dick smiled. "But we'll manage that all right. My friends and I will play waiters, and sit at second table after the dishes have been washed."

"You won't have to," replied the cattle owner. "I have a folding table and dishes in my wagon, and I'll send Bill Hopple after 'em."

So the tables were set under the shade of the trees, not far from the campfire. The Sharps man came up, and was seated with Jim and Bill. Everything being now cooked, the feast began.

"I've never had anything as wonderful as this happen to me before," cried Belle Meade, as she seated herself and looked over the two tables with sparkling eyes. "Girls, we didn't look forward to such a treat as this when we left Gridley this morning."

"You intended to look in on us, didn't you?" inquired Darry.

"Yes; but we brought our own luncheons," said Laura. "We didn't expect you to do anything for us—-unless you boys had happened to catch a mess of fish."

"We were planning to go fishing this morning," Tom Reade explained, "although we do not know whether the fishing near here amounts to much. May I pass you some of this sirloin, Miss Marshall?"

Gay spirits ruled, as they usually do and always should when young people are together out in the open, far from studies or from any of the other cares of life.

Dick told the story of the stampede, while Mr. Ross added much about the peculiarities of stampeding cattle and the impossibility of controlling the animals while their mad fright lasts.

"I am certain that this is the finest meal I have ever eaten," declared Mr. Page, who, up to the present, had been rather silent.

"There is only one thing it needs," rejoined Mr. Ross. "If we had about six roasted ears of corn for each diner then this barbecue would be a huge success."

"Not even the corn could improve it," declared Laura Bentley, as Dick helped her to more of the roasted meat.

"Don't forget that pudding, ladies and gentlemen!" called out Jim Hornby, from where he sat. "That pudding is my best kind, and the best one of its kind that I ever turned out. When you have the pudding you won't be thinking of a little thing like roasted ears of corn."

"No more, thank you," replied Clara Marshall, as Greg tried to secure her plate in order to help her to more food.

"Until the pudding comes on," prompted Jim Hornby.

"Until the pudding arrives," smiled Clara.

"But no one may think of having pudding yet," insisted Mr. Ross, with mock gravity. "I forbid that anyone should have pudding, or even think of it, until we have tried the one really delicious dish of this feast."

"And what may that be?" called Dr. Bentley.

"The best part of the cow," replied Mr. Ross.

"A big rib roast, served with cracked bones with the marrow cooked in them. Come along, Bill. We'll bring back the roast and the marrow."

Ross and his man moved briskly out of sight. Only a few moments had passed when Mr. Ross' voice was heard from the clearing:

"Thieves! The rib roast is gone—-so is the marrow!"

Dick glanced swiftly at his chums. The same idea was in the minds of all the members of Dick & Co.

"Our friend, the prowler, has been here," muttered Prescott, rising hastily. "This thing has got to be stopped. Come along, fellows! Friends, please excuse us for a few moments."

At a dog trot Dick led the way to the clearing. There stood Mr. Ross, looking the picture of indignation.

"I didn't know there were tramps in these woods," muttered the cattle owner.

"Tramp, thief, or whatever he is," exclaimed Dick Prescott, "that fellow must move on out of this part of the country. If he doesn't we'll catch him. After we get through with him, he'll be glad enough to move on."

"If he's able," added Dave Darrin significantly.

"Oh, what's the use of making a fuss, this time?" demanded Tom Reade good-humoredly. "For once we have so much meat that we could spare a hungry man two hundred pounds and not miss it."

"It's the principle of the thing," muttered Dick, who was studying the ground intently. "That big, hulking fellow doesn't care a rap whether we have plenty, or whether he takes all we have. We've got to suppress him. We must catch him, and put a stop to his thieving. See! Here's where he went off through the woods. Come on! We'll trail him!"

"And, if we find him?" asked Greg.

"We'll try to reason with the fellow," responded Prescott rather grimly.

Just as the boys started off on the trail that Prescott had discovered, other figures appeared on the scene.

"Now, may I ask what you girls are doing here?" asked Tom, his tone more agreeable than his words.

"We want to see the fun, whatever is going to happen," declared Susie Sharp.

"Oh, there will be plenty of that, I promise you, if we can find the fellow," asserted Darry bluntly.

"Come along, girls!" cried Belle Meade gleefully.

"But there may be something disagreeable happen, you know, girls," Dick warned them. "If we overtake this fellow there may be a fight."

"If you could call it a fight, when six Gridley high school boys attack one man, then I shall have to change my mind about our high school boys," hinted Laura Bentley teasingly.

It was plain enough that the girls were bent on following them, so no more objections were raised.

"We'll travel so fast that the girls won't be able to keep up," whispered Tom Reade to Dick. "We'll lose 'em, and they'll be glad to hike back to the table."

This, however, proved to be not quite as easy as had been expected. The trail into the woods was rather a plain one, though it could not be followed at a run.

"Keep behind me, fellows," urged Dick. "If you keep up with me you may blot out the trail."

So his five chums came after him, with the girls in the rear, in a straggling line.

Into the deepest woods the trail led. "The girls will soon tire of this chase, and face about," Tom told Darry.

Which was precisely what happened.

In the deepest part of the woods Dick parted a tangle of bushes through which the trail led. Then, in a voice vibrant with agitation, he shouted:

"Come on, fellows! Quick!"



CHAPTER X

SETTING A NEW TRAP

What Dick had caught sight of, and what had made him call to his chums was the figure of the camp prowler partially dressed seated on the edge of a pool of water fed by a forest brook where evidently he had been bathing.

He had heard Dick's cry, however. These few instants of time had been enough for the bather to jump up, snatch up the remainder of his clothes and set off through the woods with the speed of an antelope.

"Come on!" cheered Dick Prescott. "Full speed! We'll catch him. He hasn't his shoes on, and his bare feet will soon go lame on the twigs and stones that he'll step on in running. He can't go far before we nab him."

"Spread out, fellows!" called Tom Reade. "Don't let the rascal slip through our line. Dick, did you get a good look at him?"

"A fine peep," Prescott affirmed.

"Was he the thief?" Dave demanded.

"The very fellow!" Dick called back, for he was still in the lead.

"Don't talk any more," Reade warned his friends cautiously. "We'll use up our wind."

As he ran Dick had an important secret on his mind. This was not quite the time to impart it to his chums, however, so he held his peace and did his best to save his wind.

Thus half a mile, at least, was quickly traversed. By this time the high school boys, running as they had done, began to feel winded.

"I can't go any further," gasped Hazelton, halting and leaning against a tree.

"I'm in the same fix," muttered Danny Grin. as he, too, came to a stop.

Reade, Darrin and Prescott ran on some distance farther, but at last Dick called a brief signal for a halt.

"Where are you, friend?" bawled Dick, using his last wind in one resolute vocal effort.

"Friend!" scoffed Reade.

"Of course the fellow will call and tell us where he is!" jeered Darry.

"We won't hurt you—-won't try to," Dick promised solemnly, again sending his voice as far as he could make it travel. "All we want to do is to talk to you—-and we're friends honestly!"

"Say, what are you trying to give that thief?" protested Tom, in an indignant undertone.

"Why are you telling him we're friends, and won't hurt him?" insisted Dave Darrin.

"Because I mean just what I say," retorted Prescott, so crisply that, for the moment, no one pressed him with any more questions.

Dick continued his calls, but received no response.

"By this time that fellow's a mile from here, and still running," mocked Dave.

"Or else he doubled on us, somewhere, and is hidden where he can watch us, and laugh at us slyly," suggested Tom, as the three high school boys turned to walk back to camp.

"If he's hiding on our trail, the thief had better not let me catch him laughing at us!" growled Darry indignantly.

"Now, see here, both of you," Dick Prescott went on, earnestly. "If we come across that fellow, don't either of you make a grab at him. Just let me handle him—-and I'll do it by talking alone. We mustn't use our fists."

"You've changed your tune wonderfully within the last few minutes," muttered Dave.

"If I have," Dick answered impressively, "it's because I know something now that I didn't know a little while ago."

"And what's that?" asked Tom eagerly.

"I'll tell all hands presently," Dick answered mysteriously.

"Oh, fudge!" growled Darry, under his breath, for he was fully as curious as Tom Reade had been.

But Dick walked on as briskly as his almost winded condition would permit. So they returned to the place where Harry and Dan awaited them. To these two Dick repeated his instructions in the unlikely case of their meeting the thief during their walk back to camp.

Nothing was seen of the fugitive, however, and the boys picked up Greg Holmes close to the little swimming pool.

"I knew I could not catch up with you fellows," explained Holmes, "so I took the girls back to camp and then put in my time prowling about here and trying to locate the marrow bones that the sneak stole."

"Dick doesn't want us to hurt the fellow, if we run across him," said Dave grimly.

"Why not?" asked Greg, opening his eyes very wide.

"I don't know," sighed Dave. "Ask Dick."

"I'll tell you all by and by," smiled Dick. "But now, let us hurry back to camp. I want to see Mr. Colquitt just as soon as I can."

"Bosh! A detective like Colquitt doesn't take up with such trifling mysteries as missing marrow bones," jibed Reade. "Besides, we can't afford to hire detectives."

"I don't want to hire a detective," Dick replied enigmatically, "but I'd like about one minute's talk with Mr. Colquitt, and I mean to have it. Don't let us dawdle on the way back, fellows."

So the six boys hurried on and soon came within sight of the camp.

"There they come!" cried Belle Meade. "Did you get the thief, boys?"

"No," called Dave, "and it seems that the fellow is no longer a thief, but a distinguished fellow citizen whom we must honor at sight, like a bank draft."

"What are you talking about?" half frowned Belle.

"I haven't the least idea what I am talking about," Dave admitted cheerfully. "You'll have to ask Dick for the map to my few remarks."

"Where are Mr. Colquitt and his party?" Dick demanded.

"Gone," replied Laura Bentley.

"How long ago?" Dick asked, paling somewhat and looking troubled.

"About two minutes ago," replied Dr. Bentley. "They excused themselves and went away in their car."

"Can't you take me in your car, Doctor, and help me to pursue them?" asked Prescott anxiously.

"Yes," agreed Dr. Bentley good-naturedly, "if you've any idea which direction to take in looking for them. A mile to the east three roads cross; half a mile to the west four roads cross. Our friends may be on any one of the seven roads, or they may have gone by a trail of their own."

Dick came to an abrupt stop, clenching his hands tightly.

"Isn't that luck for you?" he demanded ironically. Then, suddenly, his face brightened.

"No matter," he said. "They can be reached through the Eagle Hotel, in Gridley."

"Why should you want to reach them?" asked Laura curiously.

"Will you mind if I keep that to myself, for just a little while?" asked Dick, so pleasantly that Laura took no offense at all.

"How about my pudding?" called Jim. "Anyone going to want any of it?"

Did they? It was enjoyed to the full, and there was pudding left over, to be heated for another meal.

"Now, you boys had better come with me, and I'll show you how to keep some of the cooked meat over, in summer, without ice," proposed Mr. Ross.

"And my party must be getting along, or night will overtake us here," declared Dr. Bentley, rising from what had been a most hospitable board.

"Then fellows, please excuse me if I write a short note and ask Dr. Bentley to mail it," urged Dick.

So Dave Darrin mustered the other chums, marching them off in the wake of Mr. Ross, while Dick hastily scribbled a note, placed it in an envelope, and addressed it to Alonzo Hibbert, or Thomas Colquitt, Eagle Hotel, Gridley.

As Dick came out his other chums halted their labors long enough to take leave of Dr. Bentley and his party. They escorted the departing guests to their automobiles, and saw them start away.

Such of the roast meat as was to be saved was packed in metal pails, covered, and then the pails lowered into a brook, where the cool water would to a certain extent take the place of ice.

Then Mr. Ross and his helpers removed the folding tables and other loaned articles.

"Thank you, boys, for what you did to break the stampede of the herd," said Mr. Ross, waving his hand after he had sprung up into the saddle.

Once more Dick & Co. had their camp all to themselves.

"I wish we could have such visitors every day," cried Darry enthusiastically.

"Yes," grinned Tom, "but how long would our canned goods hold out? We'd have to be rich, fellows, to entertain so many people every day, even if the meat end of the feast did come to us without cost."

"We want to make the camp shipshape again," Dick remarked, looking about. "There's a lot of refuse food to be burned. Greg, you start a fire. Dan you gather up every scrap of food that must be thrown away and burn it on said fire. Dave, you can set the tent to rights. I'll take an axe and hustle after some firewood. Dave, suppose you help me. Tom might put the camp to rights."

With the labor thus divided all hands set briskly to work. By the time that all the tasks had been performed the boys were glad to lie down on the grass and rest until it was time to prepare a light supper. After that meal was over Dave asked:

"We're going to keep regular guard to-night, aren't we?"

"Yes," Dick answered. "We'll turn in at nine o'clock and keep guard until six in the morning. That will be nine hours—-an hour and a half of guard duty for each fellow. Suppose we draw lots to decide the order in which we shall take our tricks of guard duty."

This was done. To Prescott fell the second tour, from ten-thirty until midnight. Reade had the first tour.

At a few minutes after nine all was quiet in the camp. Five tired high school boys were soon sound asleep, with Reade, hidden in the deep shadows, watching outside.

It seemed to young Prescott that he had no more than dropped off into slumber when Tom shook him by the shoulder.

"Half-past ten," whispered Reade, as Dick sat up. "Go out to the wash basin and dash cold water into your eyes. That will open 'em and freshen you up."

"Have you seen anything of the prowler?" whispered Dick, as he got upon his feet.

"Not a sign," declared Tom.

"It would be too early for him to prowl about yet," whispered Dick, as he passed out into the Summer night. "Good night, Tom."

Only a faint stirring of the light breeze in the tree tops, the droning hum of night insects, and the occasional call of a night bird—-these were all the sounds that came to the ears of the young camp guard.

Dick dashed the water into his eyes, then felt wonderfully wide awake.

"If Mr. Prowler comes, he'll probably go for the canned vegetables and the biscuit," Prescott decided. "He must already have more meat than he can handle all day to-morrow—-if it doesn't spoil."

So Dick posted himself where he could easily watch the approach of any outsider toward the boxes that served as cupboards for the canned supplies.

The time slipped away, until it was nearly midnight, as Prescott knew from stepping into the tent and lighting a match briefly for a swift glimpse at his watch.

As Dick came out of the tent he fancied he heard a distant step, crackling on a broken twig.

"If there's anyone coming I'd better slip into the shadow of the canvas," Prescott told himself, acting accordingly.

Presently the stealthy steps sounded nearer to the camp.

"Someone is coming, as sure as fate," Dick said to himself. "Shall I rouse one or two of the other fellows? But they might alarm the prowler. I'll handle him myself."



CHAPTER XI

A HARD PROWLER TO CATCH

It was the prowler.

Close to the tent he stopped to listen to the heavy breathing that came from the sound young sleepers. Dick crouched farther back into the shadow.

Uttering a low grunt, that was half chuckle, the prowler slipped along in the darkness, making toward the cupboards.

"My friend, I want a little talk with you," suddenly spoke Dick Prescott, slipping up behind the uninvited visitor.

The prowler wheeled quickly about.

"You don't want anything to do with me," he corrected, in a harsh voice. "I could eat two or three like you, and then have plenty of appetite left."

"Perhaps," smiled Dick Prescott undaunted.

"And I'll do it, too, if you don't stand back."

"But I want to talk with you, my friend," Dick insisted.

"I don't want to talk with you," snapped the prowler.

"You would, if you knew what I want to talk with you about," Prescott continued.

"Is it about food?" demanded the young stranger grimly.

"Then it's about jail," sneered the other harshly.

"Why about jail?" asked Dick.

"Because that's where you'd like to see me!"

"Why should I want to see you in jail?" Prescott demanded.

"Because I've been visiting your kitchen," leered the other. "But you can't stop me. Not all of your crowd can stop me!"

"Why do you wish to clean us out of food?" Prescott asked.

"Because I know how to eat," replied the young stranger significantly.

"Is that the only reason you have for trying to clean us all out of food?"

"Why should I have any other reason? And why isn't being hungry a good enough reason?" counter-queried the prowler.

"It has struck me," smiled Dick, "that perhaps you don't want us in these woods, anyway."

"I don't just hanker after your company," admitted the stranger, with gruff candor.

"Are we bothering you any here?"

"No matter," came the sullen retort.

"To return to the first subject, that matter about which I want to talk with you——-"

"Not to-night," growled the young prowler. Turning on his heel, he started to walk away.

But Dick kept close at his side.

"Shake my trail, you!" ordered the other gruffly. "If you don't you'll be sorry!"

With that the stranger broke into a loping run. At first glance this gait didn't seem to be a swift one, but it was the long, easy, loping stride of the wolf in motion. Young Prescott found that he had to exert himself in order to keep up with the other.

"Go back to your shack!" ordered the prowler.

"Hold on a minute, so that I can talk with you," urged Prescott.

By this time they were at a considerable distance from the camp. Suddenly the prowler halted, wheeling about like a flash, glaring into young Prescott's eyes.

"Now, I'll learn you!" growled the prowler.

"Do you mean that you'll teach me?" queried Prescott. "What?"

"I'll learn you," growled the other, "not to keep on banging around me when I don't want you!"

"Do you happen to have any idea," Dick persisted coolly, "that your name is probably Page, and that you undoubtedly have a very rich father, who is trying to find you?"

"Where did you read that fairy tale?" sneered the prowler.

"Partly on your skin to-day," Dick rejoined, "when I came upon you as you were dressing near that pool."

"Stop kidding me!" commanded the other sternly. "And now back to you cosy little bed for you! Fade! Vanish! If you don't then you'll soon wish you had!"

But Dick held his ground, despite the very evident sincerity of the other's threat, and gazed unflinchingly back at the prowler.

"Let me tell you," Dick went on. "Of course I cannot be positive, but there is a missing heir who has, on his chest and one shoulderblade just such marks as I saw on you to-day when you were sitting by the pool putting on your shirt?"

"Oh, forget that thrilling stuff!" jeered the other. "Don't you suppose I know who my father is? Old Bill Mosher hasn't suddenly grown rich. How could Bill get rich when he is in jail for drunkenness?"

"So you think your name is Mosher?" pursued Prescott.

"I know it is," replied the prowler harshly. "And, around this neck of the woods a fellow couldn't have a harder, tougher name than Mosher."

"But if your name were really Page——-" pressed Dick.

"No use stringing me like that," snapped the other. Even in the darkness, lit only here and there by starlight, the scowl on his face was visible. "Tell you what," declared Mosher, an instant later.

"Well?"

"Beat it!"

"I don't under———"

"Yes, you do," retorted the self-styled Mosher. "Vamoose! Twenty-three in a hurry! Make your get-away!"

"Until I've made you listen to reason," Prescott insisted, "I won't leave you."

"Oh, yes, you will, and right now, or——-"

"No!"

"See here!"

Mosher held a hard, horny fist menacing before Dick's face, but the high school boy failed to wince.

"Git! Now, or crawl later!" warned Mosher.

"I'm going to make you listen to——-"

"Put up your guard!"

At least Mosher was "square" enough to give warning of his intentions. He threw himself on guard, then waited for perhaps five seconds.

"Are you going to cool down and listen!" demanded Dick Prescott firmly.

Out shot the Mosher youth's left fist. Dick dodged. It was a feint; Dick nearly stopped Mosher's right.

Blows rained in thickly now. Not every one could Prescott dodge, though he was more agile and better trained than this more powerful youth.

At last, smarting from a glancing blow on the nose, Dick darted in and clinched with his adversary. It was bad judgment, but punishment had stung him into desperate recklessness.

"Stop it!" panted the high school boy.

"Won't!" retorted Mosher, increasing his pressure about the smaller boy's waist until Prescott felt dizzy. In that extremity the Gridley boy worked a neat little trip. Down they went, rolling over and over, fighting like wild cats until Mosher secured the upper hand and sat heavily on the high school boy.

"I gave you all the chance I could," growled Mosher, planting blow after blow on Dick's head, face and chest, "and you wouldn't help yourself anyway. Now, you'll take all your medicine, and next time you meet me you'll know enough to leave me alone."

Held as he was, without really a show, Dick Prescott fought as long as he could, and with desperate courage. But at last he felt forced to yell:

"Fellows! Gridley! Here—-quickly!"

"They're too far away, and, besides, they're asleep," jeered Mosher, to the accompaniment of three more hard blows. "Now, I reckon you've had enough to know your own business after this and let mine alone. If I had any cord I'd tie you here. As it is——-"

Leaping suddenly to his feet, Mosher turned and ran swiftly through the woods.

Dick badly hurt, yet as determined as ever, pursued for a few score of yards. Then realizing that he could hear no sound of the other's steps to guide him in the right direction, the high school boy halted.

"I may as well give it up this time," he said to himself grimly. "Besides, my main job is to guard the camp. If I go roaming through the woods, Mosher, as he calls himself, will double back on the camp and clean out our provisions while I'm groping out here in the dark."

So Dick paused only long enough to make sure of his course back. Then he plodded along, wincing with the pain of many blows that he had received.

"I'm lucky, anyway, that I didn't get an eye bunged up," he reflected. "I smart and I ache, but I can see straight, and I don't believe I've received any blow that will disfigure me for the next few days. My, what a steam hammer that fellow is in a fight! I wonder if he really is the son of that hard character called Bill Mosher?"

As Dick neared the camp he stepped more softly. He wanted to see whether Mosher really had come back.

But no figure was discernible in the clearing beyond the camp. Dick walked in more confidently. His first care was to examine the food supply.

"Nothing gone," Dick murmured. Then he looked about for a stick large enough to serve as a weapon at need. While doing so his glance fell upon an axe.

"I wouldn't use that," Prescott told himself. "But there is no knowing what Mosher would do if he got cornered by more than one of us. Hereafter we mustn't leave this thing outside."

Dick carried the axe into the tent, hiding it without awaking any of the other sleepers. Then he went outside, searching until he found a club that he thought would answer for defense.

Taking this with him he went over to the wash basin, where, wetting a towel, he bathed his battered face.

"Almost one o'clock," he remarked, after striking a match for a look at his watch. "I won't call Dave at all, but will stay up and call Harry at half-past one."



CHAPTER XII

"TAG" IS THE GAME—-TAG MOSHER!

"Now, come in with the sprint!" Dick sang out to Hazelton.

"Greg, Dave and Tom, you block him. Get through, Harry—-some way! Don't let 'em stop you."

It was three days later, and Dick & Co. were at work at their main task during this summer camping, which was to train hard and try to fit themselves for the football squad when high school should open again.

Hazelton came on, at racing speed. He ducked low, making a gallant effort. He nearly succeeded in getting through, but Tom's tackle brought him to ground just at the right moment.

"Now, try that over again," Prescott said.

So the work went on, vigorously, for another hour—-until all of the boys were tired out, hot and panting.

"That's the most grueling work I ever did in the same space of time," muttered Reade, mopping his face.

"Yes; it's the kind of work for which football calls," rejoined Prescott, also mopping his face. "Dan, get up off the ground!"

"I'm hot," muttered Dalzell, "and I'm tired."

"Then rest on a campstool. Don't chill yourself by lying on the ground when you're so warm."

After a few seconds of contemplated mutiny, Danny Grin rose and found a seat on a stool.

"As soon as you're cool, three of you go to the water and wash off," Dick ordered. "The other three of us will stay here until you get back."

That was the order of the day now. At least two, and usually three of Dick & Co. always remained near camp. If Mosher planned to come again he would find a "committee" waiting to receive him.

There were more supplies, too, to guard now than there had been. On the morning after Dick's encounter, a farmer had driven into camp. His wagon had been well laden with all manner of canned food supplies, even to tins of French mushrooms. These had come from Alonzo Hibbert, with a note of thanks for the entertainment of himself and friends.

"These provisions are mighty welcome," Prescott had remarked at the time, "but I'm not sure but that I would rather have Hibbert himself here—-I've so much to tell him."

"He'll come, in time, when he gets your letter at the Eagle House," Reade had answered, for Dick had told all his chums his suspicions regarding young Mosher.

"What are we to do this afternoon?" asked Dave, seating himself beside Prescott as three of the chums started for the swimming pool.

"Gymnastics," Dick replied. "Especially bar work. And some boxing, of course."

"You ought to be excused from boxing for the present," grinned Darry. "You look as though you had had enough for a while."

For Dick's left cheek was still decorated with a bruise that young Mosher had planted there. The boxing of Dick & Co., this summer, was real work. It was done with bare knuckles, though, of course, without anger or the desire to do injury. Boxing with bare knuckles was Prescott's own idea for hardening himself and his chums for the rough work of the gridiron.

"I'll take my share of the boxing," Dick retorted. "Having a sore spot on my face will make me all the more careful in my guard."

"Queer we don't hear from Hibbert," mused Greg Holmes.

"Not at all," Dave contended. "Hibbert simply isn't back at the Eagle House yet, and perhaps the hotel people have had no orders about forwarding his mail It may be a fortnight before we hear from him."

"Thanks to the thoughtfulness of Hibbert we can remain in camp a good deal more than a fortnight longer," observed Prescott, glancing over the greatly increased food supply. "Perhaps it was all right for Hibbert to repay our courtesy the other day, but he has sent us something like twenty or thirty times as much food as his party ate."

"I guess Hibbert has more money than he knows what to do with," mused Greg aloud.

"Even if he has," Prescott smiled seriously, "there is no reason why he should feel called upon to keep us in food. I'd give four fifths of that food to know where to reach Hibbert, or any of that party, in a hurry. Jupiter!"

"What's up?" asked Dave, eyeing his chum in astonishment, for Dick had suddenly leaped to his feet, and was now dancing about like an Indian.

"Say, but we must have fried eggs in the place of brains!" cried young Prescott reproachfully.

"What calls forth that severe remark?" demanded Darry.

"Why, we know well enough where to get hold of Hibbert's party," Dick went on.

"Do we?" asked Greg.

"Certainly," cried Dick triumphantly. "Just send a note to Mr. Colquitt in care of Blinders' Detective Agency. I'm going to write the note now!"

Dick was half-way to the tent when Darry called after him:

"By the way, in what city is the Blinders' agency located?"

Dick halted short, looking blank.

"I don't know," he admitted. "Do you fellows?"

None of them did. Then they waited until the others came in from the pool. But none of them knew what city had the honor to shelter the Blinders' agency.

"I'll write the note, anyway," Dick insisted. "If I can't do better, I'll put the address as simply the United States, with a request on the envelope for the post-office people to find the right city and deliver the letter."

"Go ahead with the letter," urged Tom. "After dinner I'll walk over to Five Corners and mail the letter. Incidentally, I'll make inquiries over there and see whether anyone knows the city in which the Blinders' crowd has its headquarters."

So Dick wrote the letter, while others were preparing the noon meal. At one o'clock in the afternoon Tom started, on his round-trip tramp of twenty-two miles.

"A trip like that will take the place of training for one half day," Reade explained.

Hazelton offered to go with him, but Tom declined on the ground that he could get over ground faster without Harry.

It was an hour after dark when Reade returned that night, hot, tired, dusty and hungry. But he had found the correct address of the agency and the letter had started on its journey.

"Your supper is all ready," Dick announced.

"And I'm ready to meet any supper more than half way," Reade retorted. "Just a minute, until I wash up."

The other five boys sat and chatted by the table while Tom ate.

"Dan, won't you throw a lot more wood on the fire?" asked Dick, as the meal came to a close. "We ought to have the camp better lighted than this."

Greg sprang to help Dalzell. Soon the flames leaped up, throwing their ruddy, cheerful glow over the camp and making dancing shadows beyond under the trees.

While they were still chatting over the day's doings, steps were heard, followed by the arrival in camp of two rough-looking, stern-faced men. Dave Darrin sprang to pick up a club.

"You boys haven't been doing anything wrong, have you?" questioned one of the men, with a trace of a smile.

"Of course not," Dick indignantly replied.

"Then you needn't be afraid of us, though I admit that we do look rough," answered the same man, displaying a badge. "We're officers of the law."

"What can we do for you, sir?" Prescott inquired more respectfully.

"Do you boys know anything about Tag Mosher?" demanded the same speaker.

"Son of Bill Mosher?" Dick counter-queried.

"The same. Know anything about him?"

"Nothing, except that he bothered us a good deal when we were first camped here," Prescott replied.

"Do you know him by sight, then?"

"We all do."

"When was Tag here last?" pressed the officer.

"About three days ago," Dick answered. "He stole quite a bit of our food supply."

"That's an old trick of that young tough," rejoined the deputy sheriff. "That's how the boy got the nickname of 'tag.' He won't work, and lives on other people's work. Anything that he can say 'tag' to he thinks belongs to him."

"Then, in other words, sir," asked Dave Darrin, "Tag Mosher is just a plain thief?"

"A good deal that way," replied the deputy. "But with this difference: Up to date Tag never stole anything except what he needed at the moment for his own comfort. He never robbed people to enrich himself, but just to save himself the trouble of working. Now, however, we've a more serious charge against him."

"What?" asked Dick,

"I don't know whether the courts will call it felonious assault," replied the deputy. "But Tag stole two chickens out of the chicken coop of Henry Leigh, a new farmer in these parts. Leigh trailed Tag to the woods and found him cooking the chickens. Leigh tried to grab Tag, but Tag caught up a big stone and just slammed it against Leigh's head. Leigh is now in bed at home, with a fractured skull, and likely to die. He described Tag to us, and we're after him. The county has put a reward of two hundred and fifty dollars on Tag's head. After we've come up with him I guess it will be many a year before Tag Mosher will have a chance to do any more stealing or fighting. But if you haven't seen him here in three days we may as well be moving on. Thank you. Of course, if you see Tag, you won't tell him anything about our being here?"

"Certainly not, sir," Dick answered. "By the way, do you want any help?"

"Meaning some of you boys?" asked the deputy.

"Some of us will help you, if we can," Dick assured him.

"How many?"

"We ought to leave half our number to guard the camp, for Tag may show up here and wreck things. Three of us can go with you."

"You may run into some ugly fighting, if you go with us," warned the deputy. "Tag Mosher is no coward!"

"We're not afraid of fighting, when we're in the right," Prescott replied promptly.

"Besides, we've got a grudge of our own against Tag Mosher, anyway," Dave said.

"Not a grudge, I hope," Dick rebuked his chum. "But we'll stand by to help the law, if we get a chance."

"I reckon maybe we could use three of you," meditated the deputy aloud. "Boys can beat up woods as well as men. But we may not be able to get you back here before to-morrow noon.

"That will be all right," Dick assured him. "Dave and Greg, you'll join me in going with the officers, won't you?"

Darry and Holmes both assented eagerly.

"If you've any extra grub, then, put it up and come along," urged the deputy. "There's room for five in the automobile we're using."

"How did you men know that we were here?" Reade inquired, while Dick and Greg made haste to get food together for the trip.

"Saw your campfire," replied the deputy laconically. "We didn't believe Tag would build such a large fire, but we took a chance and looked in. If you haven't anything else to do, young Long-legs, you might pick out three stout clubs for your friends."

Laughing good-naturedly at the nickname, Tom bestirred himself. Within three minutes all was ready.

Dick, Dave and Greg stepped away after the officers. Not far away was the road, where the automobile stood with the engine running.

"Does Tag know how to run a car?" Prescott inquired.

"Don't know," replied the deputy.

"If he does, and had happened to be about, he could have taken your car in good shape," smiled Dick.

"True," nodded the officer, "but there were only two of us, and nabbing Tag Mosher is two men's work."

"I ought to know that," laughed Dick. "He gave me a stiff enough beating."

"Here is where you can even the score," laughed Dave grimly.

"I don't want to even any score," replied Prescott gravely. "I'm sorry for the fellow, especially when he was so close to a chance to turn about and make something of himself."

"Do you mean to say that you don't hold even a bit of a grudge for that severe beating you got?" demanded Darry wonderingly.

"Of course I don't," Dick retorted. "When two fellows fight one of them must receive a beating—-that's the sporting chance. All my feelings for Tag are of sympathy."

"Not enough so you'd let him get away, if you met him?" put in the deputy quickly.

"Of course, not, sir," Dick answered quickly flushing. "That would be as much as to say that I'm a bad citizen. If I find Tag I'll do my best to hold him until help comes. You may be sure of that."

"Then get into the car," ordered the deputy briefly. "The back part of the car is for you youngsters. That reminds me. We don't know each other's names. Mine's Simmons."

The other deputy's name proved to be Valden. The boys quickly introduced themselves.

Away went the car, over the rough roads. To avoid sending warning too far ahead the lights were turned low. On account of the condition of this rough forest road the speed was slow.

"If Tag hasn't been to your camp within three nights," said Mr. Simmons, leaning back while Mr. Valden ran the car, "then it's because he isn't in this neighborhood. So we'll travel on a few miles before we stop to do any real searching."

"I don't understand how you can expect to find anyone out here in the night time," Dick observed.

"I've some plans in my mind," was all the explanation Simmons offered.

When the road became a little better, Valden put on a bit more speed.

"Better slow down," advised Simmons presently. "There's a bridge ahead that isn't any, too strong."

That bridge was closer than the deputy thought. Just then the automobile top brushed heavily against foliage in making a wooded turn in the road.

"There's the bridge!" yelled Simmons almost excitedly. "Slow down—-stop!"

Valden tried to obey, but the bridge was altogether too close for stopping in time. Out over the planks ran the car.

R-r-rip! Crash!

Some of the boards were already missing from the rude bridge. Others gave way almost like paper. Down through the structure fell the car, then landed with a splash, overturning to the accompaniment of cries of fright and of pain from its occupants.



CHAPTER XIII

IN A FIX!

As the water in the creek was barely three feet deep, Officer Valden sprang from the car, holding his right hand, which had been caught in the brake mechanism.

Deputy Simmons appeared to be uninjured.

Greg Holmes went under water, his head striking a stone violently enough to bring a splash of blood to his forehead.

Dave Darrin's head struck against the side of the car, bringing a cry of pain from him.

Yet, though he was dizzy from the concussion, Darry displayed the coolest head of any of them in the first few moments.

"Where's Dick?" he called, when he saw the others accounted for. Then Dave wrenched off one of the lamps, holding it to aid his vision.

"There he is!" shouted Darrin, as his foot touched something. "His head is under water. Up with him, quickly!"

Dave brought the rays of the lantern to bear more directly, while Simmons sprang to the rescue. Greg, too, joined in.

"He's pinned down by the car!" gasped Deputy Simmons after finding Prescott's submerged body and giving it a hard tug. "Valden, help me lift the car on this side! You two boys pull your friend out when we lift the car. Now!"

Though Deputy Valden was able to employ only his left hand, he used it with all his strength.

"Here he comes," panted Dave, tugging at Dick's body with all his might. "Gracious! I hope he isn't drowned!"

Greg, too, exerted all his strength. Though it seemed ages to the anxious ones it was really but the work of a few seconds.

As Dick's head emerged above the surface of the water he gave a quick gasp. Then another.

"Oh, the air seems good," he moaned. "I tried to keep from opening my mouth or breathing, but it nearly burst my lungs!"

"Are you all right now?" asked Darry, holding his chum up.

"If you'll help me to the bank I shall be, I think," answered Prescott weakly.

"Why, what——-" began Dave anxiously.

"I was badly bruised by being pinned under the car," Dick admitted, in a still weaker voice.

"No bones broken, eh?" broke in Greg Holmes.

"I—-I think not," Dick answered.

"Don't keep him talking," ordered Dave sternly. "Put in your strength and help me lift good old Dick up into the road."

"I guess I can do that job better," interposed Simmons, who had let go of the car. "Let me have the boy."

Dick was borne up to the road in the deputy's strong arms.

"Can you stand?" asked Simmons.

"Put me on my feet, sir, and let me see," begged Dick.

He took a few steps, wincing, his face white.

"Dick, old fellow," faltered Dave, "I'm afraid you've broken a leg."

"No; or I couldn't stand on my legs and walk," Prescott replied. "It hurts up here, where the side of the car rested."

He placed one hand on his right hip.

"Then your hip is broken," groaned Darry.

"I don't believe that, either," argued Dick. "If my hip were broken I don't believe I could move my leg or step."

He took two or three steps, wincing painfully, to show what he could do.

"Nothing but a hip bruise, or I'm guessing wrong," smiled the white-faced sufferer.

"In any case, you're meat for a doctor," put in Deputy Simmons, with rough sympathy.

"All right," replied Dick. "I'll walk to the doctor's office. How many miles is it?"

"About fourteen," replied Simmons. "I'll bring the doctor to you. It's only about six miles to Ross' farm. I'll borrow his car. Then I can make good time getting the doctor and bringing him here. But you'd better sit down before I start."

"Aren't you going to do anything with the car in the creek?" inquired Prescott.

"What can we do?" demanded the deputy laconically. "There isn't muscle enough in this crowd to hoist the car up the bank. Anyway, her engine is damaged beyond a doubt. No, no, Prescott, you sit down, or lie down, and the rest of you had better wait here until I bring help. I can be back in three hours at the latest. Darrin, will you place one of the lamps at either end of where the bridge was? That may save some farmer from driving in on top of the car."

Dave complied willingly enough. Then Simmons turned to Prescott.

"Now, you sit down, young man," ordered the deputy.

"I'd rather not," Dick replied. "I haven't anything worse than a bruise. If I keep too quiet the injury will stiffen all the more. I must move my hip a bit, or I may be in for a worse time."

"That may be true," nodded the deputy thoughtfully. "Well, be good, all of you. I'll be back again, as soon as possible."

With that he strode down into the creek, wading through and coming out at the farther side. Then he was lost among the shadows.

Though it hurt to keep on his feet, Dick, after some minutes, found that he could move about a little more freely, despite the pain.

"That shows there are no bones broken," he assured his distressed chums.

"Does it?" asked Darrin. "Hang it, I wish I knew more about injuries of this sort. Then I might be able to help you."

"Why, I may be all right, and able to sprint in another half hour," smiled Dick.

"Yes, you will!" jeered Greg. "Dick, you won't run for a few days to come, anyway."

"A nice lot we are, to set out to aid the law's officers," remarked Dave disgustedly. "Dick can take only a half a step per minute. Mr. Valden can use only one hand. Greg's head looks gory. The lot of us couldn't scare a baby now!"

"I can still say, boo!" Prescott laughed.

"Is it wise to try to do so much walking?" questioned Darry, as Greg went back to the creek to wash the blood from the shallow cut on his forehead.

"Yes; for I don't want to grow stiff until I'm where I can take care of myself," Dick answered, taking a few more steps. "No; don't help me. I want to move alone, and I'm strong enough for that."

So Dave threw himself on the grass to rest until he bethought himself that, wet as they all were, it might be a good idea to build a fire for drying purposes.

He busied himself in that way, while Dick started slowly, very painfully, down the road. Only a step at a time could he go. Greg, returning, ran after him, but Prescott sent him back, so Holmes stretched himself on the ground near the fire.

At times Dick found he could move about very easily. Then the hip would stiffen and he would be obliged to lean against a tree for a few moments.

For ten minutes or longer he moved thus down the road.

"I'd better be getting back soon, I guess," he mused, "or I may find it too much of a job."

Looking back, as he turned, he could just make out the glow of the fire, very dim, indeed, from where he stood.

"I've got a beacon," smiled Dick, as he rested against a tree trunk just off the road. He was about to take a step when a figure glided stealthily by.

"By all that's astonishing, it's Tag Mosher!" Prescott gasped. He clutched at the tree trunk again, watching, for Tag had halted and appeared to be peering hard through the foliage at the fire some distance away.

"I wouldn't want him to find me, now!" thought Dick, a cold chill running over him at the thought of Tag's desperate savagery.

But at that moment Prescott accidentally made a sound, which, slight though it was, caught young Mosher's ear.

In a twinkling Tag wheeled about, listening, peering. Then, straight toward Prescott he came.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" demanded young Mosher harshly.

"Yes," Prescott admitted, speaking as steadily as he could, though his heart sank for the moment. He knew that Tag would have time to give him a beating that would be doubly severe in his present condition of weakness and pain. That beating could be given in a few swift seconds, and the help within reach of Dick's voice could not arrive until young Mosher had had time to slip away among the trees of the forest that he knew so well. "What do you want with me?" demanded Tag, bringing his leering face closer to Prescott's.



CHAPTER XIV

THRASHING AN AMBULANCE CASE!

"I want you to stand right where you are until some of my friends come," Dick made answer.

Then he braced himself for the violent assault that, he felt, was sure to come. To his intense astonishment, however, Tag heaved a sigh of dejection, then muttered:

"I may as well do it. You owe me a grudge, anyway, and you've got the upper hand this time."

What on earth could it mean? For a brief instant Dick almost believed that the exciting incidents of the night had been but parts of a dream. But he raised his voice to shout:

"Dave! Oh, Dave! Come here! You, too, Greg."

"Coming," came the call, in Darry's voice. The sound of running feet sounded on the road.

Tag Mosher glanced uneasily about, as if meditating flight. Then his keen eyes scrutinized Prescott's face.

"What's up?" demanded Dave, as, even in the darkness he caught sight of another figure.

"Darry," smiled Dick, "I wish to present my friend, Mr. Tag Mosher."

"What?" gasped Darrin. "This Tag Mosher. By Jove, it is, it? How on earth did you make him wait for us?"

Then, all in a flying heap Dave projected himself against young Mosher, clinching with him and bearing him down to the ground. In order to make doubly sure Greg joined in the assault. But Tag, though he struggled, did not put up much of a fight.

"Quit!" he ordered sullenly. "I'm all in. Can't you fellows see that? But if I hadn't been sick I'd either have gotten away, or would have given you fellows a fight that you'd never forget!"

Quick-witted Dave was not long in discovering that Tag really was weak, as though from a recent illness.

"Say," demanded Darry, "have we been exerting ourselves to thrash an ambulance case?" His voice rang with self disgust.

"If I'd been a well one," growled Tag, "you never would have put me down, or held me. But I'm like a kitten to-night——strength all gone!"

"What's going on here?" asked Deputy Valden, putting in a more leisurely appearance.

"Something right in your line," Dick answered. "Dave and Greg are holding down Tag Mosher."

"You're not fooling, are you?" demanded the deputy. "You're not making any mistake, either?"

"We know Tag Mosher when we see him," Darry retorted. "We've good enough reason for knowing him."

With his uninjured left hand Deputy Valden reached for his pair of handcuffs, passing them to Dave.

"Here you are, Darrin," said the officer. "You know how to put these things on, don't you?"

"I can figure the job out, sir," Dave made reply.

Tag submitted, wearily, to having the steel bracelets snapped over his wrists. Then he heaved a sigh that had something of a sob in it.

"I let you put these on, but I wish you'd take them off again," he said, addressing Valden. "I know I'm bad, and I know I'm tough, but I never had these things on my hands before. Take 'em off, won't you? Please!"

Such submission was tame, indeed. Deputy Valden, who had never seen young Mosher before glanced sharply at young Prescott.

"This fellow doesn't seem much like the hardened criminal I've been told about," remarked the officer.

"Did Prescott tell you I was tough?" demanded the prisoner. "He ought to know! He had a touch of my style when I was feeling better than I feel to-night. I suppose I've been nabbed for helping myself to a sandwich or two from their camp."

"Do you demand to know why you're under arrest?" inquired Deputy Valden.

Tag nodded.

"Well, then," continued the deputy, "you're wanted for cracking the skull of a farmer named Leigh. There's a doubt if Leigh will live and you may be charged with killing him."

"I? Killed a farmer?" demanded Tag, in what appeared to be very genuine amazement.

"Leigh says you're the chap that did it," Valden answered.

"I never heard of a man of any such name," argued Tag. "Still, if he says I did it, oh, well, he ought to know, and I suppose it will be all right."

"It'll have to be all right—-whatever the courts may do to you, Mosher," Deputy Valden rejoined curtly. "Darrin, will you help the prisoner to his feet and lead him back to where the bridge was? Simmons will expect to find us there when he gets back."

So Darry and Greg Holmes assisted young Mosher to his feet. Dave took hold of Tag's arm, though the latter did not resist, but walked along like one in a dream.

"Want any help, Dick?" asked Greg.

"I believe I wouldn't object to having a friendly arm to lean on," Prescott replied. "I've been standing here so long that my hip is stiff again."

As the leader of Dick & Co. moved down the road, Tag turned in astonishment.

"What's the matter?" Tag asked, at last.

"We were in an automobile accident, and I was slightly injured," Dick confessed.

"And you can hardly walk?"

"I can walk only with effort and considerable pain," said Dick.

Tag Mosher whistled softly.

"My luck is leaving me," declared Mosher ruefully. "Prescott, when I saw you and looked you over I didn't see that you are a cripple. I thought you were in as good shape as ever. As for me, I can't do much to-night, I'm so weak. I thought that, if I tried to fight, you'd handle me easily enough. If I ran, I knew I couldn't run far, and you'd jump on my back and bear me to the ground. So I thought it easier to let you have your own way with me. Whee! I didn't do a thing but surrender to a cripple that ought to be on crutches! My luck is gone!"

This last was said with an air of great dejection, as though Tag never looked to have any further pleasure in life. Presently he muttered, half aloud:

"And now they say that I've committed a murder! They'll prove it on me, too. Tag Mosher, you're done for."

"Anyway, you're in a rather bad fix, young man," confirmed Deputy Valden. "Even with the best luck you'll be locked up for some years to come."

"That will kill me!" muttered Tag sullenly. "I can't live anywhere outside of the big forest. In jail—-why, I'd die of lack of fresh air! My father, old Bill Mosher, can get along in jail all right—-he's used to it. But me? The first two weeks behind bars will kill me!"

"You should have thought of that before you cracked Leigh's skull," retorted Deputy Valden.

"I tell you that I didn't do it, and that I never before heard of a man of that name!" cried Tag Mosher fiercely.

"Leigh says you did," the deputy again informed the prisoner.

"Oh, well, then, we'll say that I did," agreed Tag moodily. "I'm as good as finished, if the charge has been made. No one around here would think of believing anything that Tag Mosher might say."

Somehow, despite the unsavory reputation of the prisoner, Dick Prescott found himself feeling more than ordinary sympathy for this dejected prisoner. Could it be possible that Tag really was innocent of this last and most serious charge against him? It didn't seem likely that the officers had gone after the wrong young man.

"Tag is bad, and yet there's also good in him that is very close to the surface," Prescott told himself. "It seems really too bad to think of this young fellow being locked up, away from the sunshine and the fresh air of the woods. And yet, if he makes a sport of manslaughter, of course he'll have to be put away where he can't do any harm. Oh, dear! I wonder why I feel so much sympathy for a fellow of this kind?"

They were at the broken bridge, now, with the wreck of the automobile lying in the creek.

"Mosher," said the deputy sternly, "Officer Simmons suspects that you believed we'd be after you, and that you tore up some of the planks from this crazy old bridge, so that our car would be wrecked. Did you do that?"

"Oh, I suppose I must have," replied Tag, with the air of one who feels it fruitless to deny what peace officers were prepared to charge against one of his bad reputation.

"Then you admit damaging the bridge?" asked Valden.

"I admit nothing of the kind," Tag retorted.

"Who ripped the boards up?"

"I don't know."

"We'll prove it against you," declared Valden positively.

"Oh, I s'pose you will," grumbled Tag. "It's easy to prove anything against old Bill Mosher's son. My dad's where he can't help me."

"Are you going to play the baby act?" asked the deputy, half-sneeringly.

"Wait until I've had a week of good eating and sound sleeping, and then see if you can find anything babyish about me," snapped the prisoner.

Dick Prescott watched the pair, feeling a rising resentment against the deputy. Yet Valden was only resorting to tricks as old as the police themselves—-the taunting of a prisoner into talking too much and thereby betraying his guilt.

"Pardon me, Tag," Dick now interposed, "but it's a principle of law that a prisoner doesn't have to talk unless he wants to. I don't believe, if I were you, I'd say anything just now."

"I'm not going to say anything more," Tag retorted moodily, yet with a flash of somewhat sullen gratitude to Prescott.

"Humph! You'd better talk, and get all you know out of your system," advised Deputy Valden contemptuously. "And the first thing you'd better own up to is pulling the missing planks up from this crazy old bridge."

Tag snorted, yet had no word to say. Instead, as best he could with his hands in the steel bracelets, he helped himself to a seat on the ground his back against a tree. Either he was extremely weary, or he was pretending cleverly.

"Come! I guess you can talk better standing up," admonished Deputy Valden, seizing Tag by the coat collar and dragging him to his feet. Mosher accepted the implied order in sullen silence.

"Is it necessary, Mr. Valden, to torment the prisoner?" asked Dick quietly.

"The way I handle a prisoner is my business," replied Valden rather crisply.

"You'd rather sit down, wouldn't you, Tag?" Dick inquired. Young Mosher answered only with a nod.

"It makes you feel weaker to stand, doesn't it?" Prescott continued.

Another nod.

"Mr. Valden," Dick pressed, "I hope you won't think me too forward, but I believe this prisoner, and I am going to urge you to let him find comfort by sitting down and resting."

"What have you got to say about it?" demanded Mr. Valden, so brusquely that Dick flushed.

"I'm not in a position of authority, and I admit it," Prescott replied. "But I think I have a right to object when I see a human being tormented needlessly, haven't I?"

"You have no right to interfere in any way with an officer," rejoined Valden less brusquely.

"Nor do I intend trying to interfere with a peace officer in anything proper that he does," Dick went on quietly, though with spirit. "It seems that Tag Mosher has a right to rest himself by sitting down. If he tries again to sit down, and if you stop him from so doing, then Tag, if he wishes, may have me summoned to court to tell how he was tormented. I'll be willing to tell just whatever I may see here."

Valden snorted, almost inaudibly, then turned away. Tag slid down to the ground again, resting against the tree trunk, and preserving absolute silence.

The time passed slowly, but at last Deputy Simmons came in a car, followed by another car which contained a young man whom he introduced as Dr. Cutting.

"I'll take you right back to camp," announced Dr. Cutting, after Simmons had looked over his prisoner and then introduced the physician to Prescott. "I can examine you better when I have you at your summer home and handy to your bed. Can you get into the car?"

"I can use my arms to draw myself up," Dick answered.

"Then let me see how well you can do it," urged the young physician, stepping back to watch Prescott, yet ready to assist him if necessary.

Dick got himself into the tonneau of the car, after some painful effort.

"Doc, you'll take the boys back to their camp, won't you?" called Simmons.

"Certainly."

"And remember, Prescott," called Simmons, "you've been aiding the county to-night, and the county will pay Doctor Cutting's bill."

Valden and Simmons exchanged some words in an undertone, after which the latter deputy came over to where Prescott sat.

"Valden tells me you have been interfering between him and Tag Mosher," began the officer. "How was it?"

Dick gave a quick, truthful account of his interference.

"You did right, Prescott," agreed Simmons, gripping the boy's hand. "Remember that any citizen has a right to interfere when he sees a prisoner being abused. Valden is a good fellow at bottom, and he's a brave fighter in time of real trouble. But he's just like a lot of other policemen who feel that they have to get all the evidence in a case. All a peace officer has to do is to find a criminal and make the arrest. It's the district attorney's business to get the evidence, but there are a good many peace officers to whom you can't teach that. Prescott, the next time you see a prisoner being abused you are to do the same as you did this time. I hope your hip will soon be all right again. I'll try to look in on you in a day or two at your camp. Thank you for what you did for law and order to-night. Good night!"



CHAPTER XV

THE INTERRUPTION OF A TRAINING BOUT

"Hazelton, the trouble with you is that you tackle a dummy just the way you'd catch a sack of potatoes that was being thrown out of a burning house!" laughed Dick.

"I don't see any other way to tackle a dummy," grunted Harry, looking puzzled.

"Why, you are supposed to tackle the dummy just as you'd tackle a running football player coming toward you," Prescott rejoined. "Greg, stand off there about fifty yards. At the word, run straight toward Harry. Hazelton, you grab hold of Holmes and don't let him get by you. Just hang on, and try to put him on the ground at that. All ready, Greg! Run. Tackle him, Harry!"

This time Hazelton entered into the play with great zest. Just in the nick of time he leaped at Greg, tackled him and bore him to the ground.

"That's the way!" cheered Dick. "Now, you look alive, Hazelton."

"That was because I had something to tackle that was alive," Harry retorted. "It's much easier to tackle a living fellow than a stuffed dummy. What's the good of using the dummy, anyway, when we have plenty of live fellows around here?"

"Oh, the dummy has its uses," Dick replied wisely. "A lot of faults can be better observed with a dummy for a background than is the case when you tackle a live one. The dummy is better for showing up the defects in your work. Now, Reade, you make a few swift assaults on the dummy."

Tom did his work so cleverly as to call forth admiration from all the onlookers.

A stout pole had been lashed across the space between two trees, being made secure in the forks of the lower limbs of the trees. The dummy itself had been made of old sail canvas and excelsior. It was not a very impressive-looking object, but it made a good substitute for the football dummies manufactured by sporting goods houses.

It was a little more than a week since the night when Tag Mosher had been captured. Dick's hip which had been pronounced by Doctor Cutting as only bruised and strained, had now mended so far that nothing wrong could be observed in his gait. In fact, Prescott had all but ceased to remember the accident.

For the others, the days had been full of football training, with long tramps and fishing and berrying jaunts thrown in for amusement. Now that Tag Mosher was safely locked up in the county jail there had been no more raids on the food supplies of the camp. It was now necessary, therefore, to leave but one boy at a time in the camp, and Dick, while his hip was mending, had usually been that one.

Every member of Dick & Co. was brown as a berry. Muscles, too, were beginning to stand out with a firmness that had never been observed at home in the winter time. Enough more of this camping and hard work and training, and Dick & Co. were likely to return to Gridley as six condensed young giants. Nothing puts the athlete in shape as quickly as does camping, combined with training, in the summer time.

This morning the work had begun with practice kicks, passing from that to the work of tackling the dummy. Two hours of hard work had now been put in, and all were comfortably tired.

"Let's keep quiet and cool off," urged Dick at last. "Then for the swimming pool and clean clothes."

"I wonder if Tag has died yet, as he expected to, now that he's out of the forest and locked up in a jail?" mused Tom Reade aloud.

"He must be in fearfully depressed spirits," muttered Dick sympathetically.

Dave Darrin regarded his chum curiously.

"Dick, you seem to have a positive sympathy for that fellow."

"I have," Prescott avowed promptly.

"You even seem to like him," pressed Darry.

"I do like him," Dick assented. "Darry, I believe that a lot of good might be found in Tag Mosher if he could have the same chance that most other fellows have. Usually, when a fellow says he has had no chance in life, the fact really is that he has been too lazy to take his chance. But I don't believe that Tag ever had a real, sure-enough chance. He has spent his days with a drunkard and a vagabond."

"Yet Tag has been to school," objected Tom Reade. "Tag talks like a fellow who has had a very fair amount of schooling. Schools teach something more than mere book lessons. They give a fellow some of the first principles of truth and honor. Despite his schooling, however, Tag prefers to steal as a means of supplying all his needs. And now, at last, he is in jail, charged, perhaps, with killing a fellow being."

"I wonder if Mr. Leigh is dead yet?" mused Dick. "I like being off here in the deep forest like this, but there's one drawback. We don't hear much news."

"What news do you want?" asked a familiar voice behind him. Soft-footed Deputy Simmons stalked into the circle.

"We were just wondering, Mr. Simmons," spoke Prescott, rising, "if Mr. Leigh is dead yet?"

"Not yet," replied the peace officer, "but the doctors say that he is likely to die any day now."

"Then will Tag be charged with manslaughter—-or murder?"

"He may be charged with murder, if we can catch him," replied the deputy.

"If you can ca——-Why, what's up?" asked Dick eagerly.

"Tag broke out of jail last night," replied the officer.

"He's—-at large?"

"That's what he is," nodded Simmons. "Tag was looked upon as a kid, and wasn't watched as carefully as he should have been. So he got out. Not only that, but he visited the warden's office, late at night. So, when he left, he took with him a sawed-off shotgun—-one of the wickedest weapons ever invented—-and a revolver and plenty of ammunition. That's what I'm doing in the woods now. I came to see if you had seen Tag to-day, but your asking for news of him shows me that you haven't."

"Is Mr. Valden with you?" asked Dick.

"Yes; he's over at the road, in the car. He wouldn't come to camp. I guess the truth is"—-Simmons' eyes twinkled—-that Valden is ashamed to see you after the rebuke you gave him the other night, Prescott. After we got young Mosher to the jail and locked up, I gave Valden a talking-to, and told him I'd report him to the sheriff if I ever heard of his abusing a prisoner again."

"So Tag escaped, with some field artillery, and you officers are out after him?" Tom asked.

"Yes; and three other pairs of deputies are out also," nodded Mr. Simmons.

"Did you get that car out of the creek?" asked Darry. "We never heard."

"That car was a complete wreck," replied the officer. "We got it out of the creek, but left it in the woods nearby. The bridge has been rebuilt, and is stronger than before. How's your hip, Prescott?"

"As well as ever, thank you," replied Dick.

"I'm glad to know that, boy. Meant to drop in on you before. I must hurry along now. Of course, if Tag shows up about your camp, you won't tell him that you've seen me."

"Certainly not, sir," nodded Dick. "We'll also try to get word to you, if we see him. Where is your home?"

"Five Corners is my address," replied the deputy. "So long, boys! Glad to have seen you again."

The cat-footed deputy was soon lost to sight among the trees.

Dave was the first to speak, and that was some moments later.

"Dick, you're foolish to feel any liking for Tag Mosher. He's bad all the way through. As it was he was locked up on a charge of possible manslaughter, and now he has escaped, taking with him firearms and ammunition enough to rid the county of peace and police officers. He'll do it, too, if he's cornered. Now, where's the good in that kind of a pest?"

"I don't know how to answer you," sighed Dick. "Perhaps I am foolish, but I'm not yet prepared to admit it. Instead, I still contend that I feel a sneaking liking for poor Tag."

"'Poor Tag,' indeed!" mimicked Tom Reade. "Poor wives and kids of the deputy sheriffs whom Tag may shoot down in their tracks before he's cornered at last! Dick, young Mosher is a budding outlaw and a bad egg all around."

"No decent citizen should feel any sort of sympathy for him," affirmed Harry Hazelton.

"Let Dick alone," objected Greg Holmes. "Dick generally knows what he's about, even in regard to his emotions and sympathies."

"What do you say, Danny?" asked Dave.

"May the sheriff deliver me from Tag Mosher!" replied Danny Grin.

"You're a prejudiced lot," smiled Dick, as he rose from his camp stool. "Who'll watch camp this time while the rest of us go to swimming pool?"

"I will," Darry volunteered.

Carrying clean underclothing, soap and towels from the tent, the other five started through the woods to a new swimming pool that had been discovered lately.

When they returned Dave went away alone for his bath. Tom Reade, as the cook for the day, lifted the lid of the soup pot to examine the contents.

"I wish one of you fellows would go out into the woods and bring in some of that flowering savory herb for the soup," called Tom.

"I know the kind you mean," nodded Prescott. "I'll go and get it."

He strolled off in the opposite direction from the pool. Yet, truth to tell, his mind was very little on the herb he was seeking. His mind dwelt almost completely on the thought of Tag Mosher, once more at large, and most likely roaming about somewhere in this vast expanse of woods.

"I don't believe it's so much badness in Tag, as it is that he's just a plain, simple savage, with the instincts and the passions of the savage," Dick reflected. "I wonder if Tag ever did really have a chance to be decent? Poor fellow! If he must be caught and returned to jail, and by and by pay the penalty of his attack upon Farmer Leigh, then I don't believe he ever will have a real chance to try to be decent again. I wonder if I'm wrong and the other fellows are right? Perhaps Tag would scorn a chance to be an all-around decent fellow. I wonder. I wonder!"

His musings led Prescott rather far afield. At last he halted, looking about him in some bewilderment.

"Humph! That's queer!" he muttered. "Now, I wonder if I can really remember what it was I came out here for?"

For a few moments the bewilderment continued.

"Oh, yes! Now, I know," he laughed. "I am after some of that savory herb for the soup."

It was necessary to retrace his steps considerably, and to go in a somewhat different direction. At last he came upon a patch of the herb.

"This stuff has been burned by the sun," he said to himself, turning away from the first specimens of the herb. "Over there in the shade it will be fresher and greener."

Dick took a few rapid steps, halting before a fringe of bushes. Bending over, he extended a hand to pick some of the herbs.

Just then he heard a slight sound, like the catching of someone's breath. Starting, Prescott raised his head just a trifle, to find himself looking straight into the eyes of Tag Mosher, as that youth lay flat on the ground. Two muzzles of a shotgun stared Dick in the face, while the fingers of the fugitive rested on the triggers of the gun.

"If you're looking for me," grimaced Tag, "you've found me! I'm right here, and this is going to be my dizzy day!"



CHAPTER XVI

TEN MINUTES OF REAL DARING

Still keeping his eyes turned on the fugitive, Dick took three quick, backward steps.

"Halt!" ordered Tag.

"I was going to stop, anyway," smiled Dick. "Now, put your hands up!"

"Why?"

"Because I'm boss here!" remarked Tag.

"I didn't know that you were boss of anything," Dick replied, still smiling.

"I'm telling you," declared Mosher. "Want me to make good?"

"I wish you'd make something of yourself, instead," rejoined Prescott in a voice of intense earnestness.

"Get your hands up!" ordered Tag, with a decided increase in emphasis.

"That's a silly demand on your part," Dick retorted calmly. "Why should you want my hands up? I'm not armed, and am in no position to attack you. Are you such a coward, Mosher, that you're afraid of an unarmed fellow that you could thrash even if you were unarmed? I can't bring myself to believe that of you.

"You've a mighty fine opinion of me, haven't you?" jeered Tag.

"I'd like to have a fine opinion of you," Prescott declared.

"Oh! And what must I do to win that fine opinion?" demanded Tag mockingly.

"If you want to know, I'll tell you," Dick continued. "Just put down that gun and step away from it."

"And then you'll pounce on it and hold me up!" jeered Tag. "Fine!"

"You get away from your weapon," Prescott urged, "and I'll give you my word of honor not to touch it without your leave."

"Your word of honor?" asked Tag, driven to wonder despite himself. "What good would your word of honor be?"

"It would be as good as anything I'm capable of," Prescott responded. "Tag, didn't you ever have any respect for a man's word of honor? Didn't you ever respect your own?"

"I got that game played on me at school, once," leered Mosher. "As soon as I swallowed the bait the other fellow kicked me in the shins and ran off and left me there. Now, Prescott, I don't want any more nonsense. Put up your hands!"

"I've already declined," Dick smiled calmly. "To that refusal I'll add my thanks."

"Put up your hands, or I'll keep the gun turned on you and pull a trigger or two."

"Then the gun isn't loaded," chuckled Dick.

"Oh, isn't it?"

"No, for you're not bad enough, Tag, to shoot down an unarmed person who isn't your enemy."

"You'll tell the officers you saw me here, won't you?"

"Certainly."

"Then you're my enemy," young Mosher argued, with thorough conviction. "So you'll put up your hands, and take further orders, as long as I give 'em, or you'll be found taking a long nap on the grass here!"

"That's another wrong guess you've made, Tag."

Laughing softly, Dick dropped to a seat on the grass.

"You're a mighty sassy fellow," scowled young Mosher.

"I'm very disobliging sometimes," Prescott admitted. "For instance, Tag, I won't believe that you're half as bad as you try to paint yourself."

"Bad?" snorted young Mosher, with something of sullen pride in his voice. "I'm about as mean as they make them. You know what they say I did to that farmer?"

"Well, did you?" challenged Prescott.

"I'm not saying," came the gruff answer. "For one thing, it wouldn't do me a bit of good to deny it. When a fellow has a bad name everywhere any judge and jury will hang him. Now, I happen to object to being hanged, or even to being locked up for perhaps twenty or thirty years. Queer in me, isn't it?"

"What you ought to do," pursued Dick, "and what you will do, if you are brave and manly, is to drop that gun, face about, and march yourself back to jail."

"And be locked up some more?" quivered Tag in excitement.

"If you're guilty of assaulting Mr. Leigh, you should be also brave and manly enough to walk back to jail, ready to pay the price of your act like a man. If you're not guilty, then you should be man enough to face the world and prove your innocence like a real man. Don't be a cowardly sneak, Tag!"