The Boy Land Boomer | Page 2

of waiting for the passage of a law which they knew must come
sooner or later, and they intended to go ahead without legal authority.
It was a dark, tempestuous night, with the wind blowing fiercely and
the rain coming down at irregular intervals. On the grassy plain were
huddled the wagons, animals and trappings of over two hundred
boomers. Here and there flared up the remains of a campfire, but the
wind was blowing too strongly for these to be replenished, and the men
had followed their wives and children into the big, canvas-covered
wagons, to make themselves as comfortable as the crowded space
permitted.
It was the rattle of the rain on the canvas covering of the wagon which
had aroused the boy.
"I say father!" he repeated. "Father!"
Again there was no reply, and, kicking aside the blanket with which he
had been covered, Dick Arbuckle clambered over some boxes piled
high in the center of the vehicle to where he had left his parent resting
less than three hours before.
"Gone!" cried the lad in astonishment. "What can this mean? What
could take him outside in such a storm as this? Father!"
He now crawled to the opening at the front of the wagon and called at
the top of his voice. Only the shrieking of the wind answered him. A
dozen times he cried out, then paused to strike a somewhat damp match
and light a smoky lantern hanging to the front ashen bow of the
turn-out's covering. Holding the light over his head he peered forth into
the inky darkness surrounding the boomer's temporary camp.
"Not a soul in sight," he mused. "It must be about midnight. Can
something have happened to father? He said he felt rather strange in his
head when he went to bed. If only Jack Rasco would come back."
From the front end of the wagon Dick Arbuckle shifted back to the rear.

Here the same dreary outlook of storm, mud and flapping canvases
presented itself. Not so much as a stray dog was in sight, and the
nearest wagon was twenty feet away.
"I must find out where he is. Something is wrong, I feel certain of it."
Thus muttering to himself the youth hunted up his overcoat and hat, put
them on, and, lantern in hand, swung himself into the sea of
half-submerged prairie grass, and stalked over to the other wagon just
mentioned.
"Mike Delaney!" he cried, kicking on the wagon wheel with the toe of
his boot; "Mike Delaney, have you seen my father anywhere?"
"Sure, an' Moike Delaney is not here, Dick Arbuckle," came in a
female voice. "He's gone off wid Pawnee Brown, and there's no tellin'
whin he'll be back. Is yer father gone?"
"Yes, and I don't know where," and now Dick stepped closer, as the
round and freckled face of Rosy Delaney peered forth from a hole in
the canvas end. "He went to bed when I did, and now he's missing."
"Saints preserve us! Mebbe the Injuns scalped him now, Dick!" came
in a voice full of terror.
"There are no Indians around here, Mrs. Delaney," answered the youth,
half inclined to laugh. "But he's missing, and it's mighty strange, to say
the least."
"He was sick, too, wasn't he?"
"Father hasn't been real well for a year. He left New York very largely
in the hope that this climate would do him some good."
"Moike was sayin' his head throubles him a good bit."
"So it does, and that's why I am so worried. When he gets those awful
pains he is apt to walk away and keep right on without knowing where
he is going."

"Poor mon! Oi wisht Oi could help yez. Mebbe Moike will be back
soon. Ain't Jack Rasco about?"
"No, he is off with Pawnee Brown, too. Rasco and Brown have been
looking over the trails leading to Oklahoma. They are bound to outwit
the United States cavalry, for the boomers have more right to that land
than the cattle kings, and right is always might in the end."
"Especially wid Pawnee on the end o' it, Dick. He's a great mon, is
Pawnee, only it do be afther givin' me the shivers to hear him spake the
Pawnee language loike he was a rale Injun. Such a foine scout as he is
has no roight to spake such a dirthy tongue. How illegant it would be
now if he could spake rale Oirish."
"His knowledge of the Indian tongue has helped both him and our
government a good deal, Mrs. Delaney. But I mustn't stop here talking.
If my father----"
A wild, unearthly shriek cut short further talk upon Dick Arbuckle's
part. It came from the darkness back of the camp and caused Mrs.