Rick and Ruddy Out West

CHAPTER I

A MYSTERIOUS MESSAGE

“What’s your hurry, Rick? Going to a fire?”

Chot Benson called to his chum Rick Dalton who was racing down the Belemere street with every appearance of being in great haste. He was not going to a train—that was evident, for he was hatless and coatless—and though Rick and the other boys of the seacoast town often went without these pieces of wearing apparel, still they did not start train journeys in this style.

And there was no fire—Chot was sure of that, for he would have heard the whistle of the pumping engine at the water tank had there blaze.

Still Rick Dalton was in a hurry.

“Wait a minute!” called Chot.

“Can’t!” flung back Rick, over his shoulder. “I’ve got to see about Ruddy!”

“Whew!” whistled Chot.

This explained it then. Rick’s beloved dog, Ruddy the red setter that had been saved from the sea—Ruddy was in danger. No wonder Rick ran. But what threatened Ruddy? Chot was as anxious to know as any boy could be who had a chum with a dog.

“I’m coming!” cried Chot and then, he too, coatless and hatless, sped down the street after Rick.

It looked like a race, and in fact it was a sort of race, for Rick was urged on by a certain anxiety, and Chot wanted to overtake his chum to find out what it was all about. For a time the same distance separated the two lads—Rick in the lead. And then, because Rick had been running longer than had Chot, the latter began to forge ahead and soon he was his chum’s side.

“Hey, slow up, can’t you?” panted Chot. “What’s the rush? There isn’t a fire; is there?”

“No,” came in rather gasping tones from Rick, “but I just heard that a dog’s been shot and I was afraid it might be mine.”

“Who’d shoot Ruddy?”

“I don’t know—nobody—I hope. But I was afraid—”

“Who told you?” demanded Chot, jog-trotting with his chum at a little slower pace now, as their laboring hearts and increased blood pressure, together with a shortening of breaths began to cause pains in their sides.

“Tom Martin,” was the answer. “He says somebody’s going around killing dogs, and he says he heard shooting down near my house. It might be Ruddy.”

“I don’t believe so,” spoke Chot. “I been around here all morning and there wasn’t any shooting.”

“Might have been a silencer on the gun.”

“Sure—but—”

Chot clapped a hand to his left side, a look of pain came over his face and he stopped running.

“What’s the matter?” asked Rick, pausing.

“Got a fierce pain in my side. I got to turn over a stone. Go on, I’ll catch up to you.”

“I got a pain, too. We’ll each turn over a stone.”

The boys bent down very low and slowly turned over the nearest stones they could reach. Then they gradually straightened up again.

“Mine’s gone,” remarked Chot.

“So’s mine,” said his chum. “Funny, ain’t it, how that makes a pain go away.”

“Sure is,” agreed Chot.

They ran on again after performing this boyish rite, which, doubtless, you also have practiced, perhaps with some variation, as I have myself. I think that the turning of the stone, or whatever you might have done when you had a pain in your side caused by running, did not cause the sharp spasm to pass away. Rather, I think, the stooping over, and so compressing the muscles and the stomach organs, was what did it. But I may be wrong at that.

Anyhow, Chot and Rick, relieved of the stress of the side-pains, ran on, turning the corner from the main street and hurrying along the more quiet thoroughfare that led to Rick’s house.

“Why didn’t you take Ruddy with you?” asked Chot, for seldom was Rick seen without his setter companion.

“He wasn’t around when I started off, and I was in a hurry. I only hope he isn’t shot!”

“So do I!” murmured Chot.

The fear that had been in their hearts passed away as they raced into the yard and saw, under an old and gnarled apple tree, a man and a dog.

“There’s Ruddy now!” cried Chot.

“Yes,” said Rick with a sigh of relief. “As long as he’s with Uncle Tod he’s all right. I guess maybe it was a false alarm.”

Ruddy, who had been asleep with his head between his extended fore paws at the feet of Uncle Tod (who was also, apparently, slumbering) awakened with a start as the boys entered the yard. The dog sprang up, looked for a moment rather doubtfully at the lads, and then, as he caught their familiar odors (for a dog’s scent is much better than his sight) Ruddy sprang forward with delighted barks and frantic waggings of his tail.

This, of course awakened Uncle Tod who sprang from the bench under the gnarled apple tree, rubbed his dazed eyes and cried:

“Has it come? Has it come?”

“Has what come, Uncle Tod?” asked Rick in surprise as he tried to keep Ruddy from excitedly climbing all over him.

“Oh—nothing—nothing,” hastily answered the elderly man who appeared a bit confused at having asked the question. “I guess I was dreaming—yes, I must have been dreaming. But what’s the rush?” he asked, just as Chot had inquired.

“Rick thought Ruddy had been shot,” chuckled his boy chum. “But he’s pretty lively for a shot dog; aren’t you, Ruddy old fellow?” and he fondled the dog’s drooping ears.

“Ruddy shot? What do you mean?” demanded Uncle Tod. “Have those scoundrels—”

Then he checked himself and seemed rather sorry he had been so excited.

“Ruddy’s all right,” he went on more calmly. “He and I have been asleep here under the tree. But what do you mean, Rick—shot?”

“Oh, there’s a rumor down town that a lot of dogs have been shot lately,” said Rick, throwing himself down on the grass, an example followed by Chot, while Ruddy crouched beside them. “Tom Martin said he heard shots around this way, and I thought maybe they were after Ruddy.”

“Who?” asked Uncle Tod, and Chot wondered if the man was still thinking of “scoundrels,” and who these “scoundrels” might be. “Who would shoot Ruddy?” asked Uncle Tod.

“I don’t know,” Rick confessed. “Might be the dog catchers are starting in, now that summer is here, but I haven’t seen any warning in the paper about keeping dogs tied up. Anyhow, you’re all right; aren’t you Ruddy?”

Again there was a wild demonstration of affection on the part of the red setter and Rick had to hide his face in his arms to keep it away from the dog’s eager tongue.

“Oh,” murmured Uncle Tod, “I didn’t know but what it might be—I guess you got a bit excited; didn’t you?” he asked, and both Chot and Rick noticed the sudden manner in which he changed what he was going to say. Clearly Uncle Tod had been startled when the boys rushed into the yard, and his thoughts must have been along the line of shooting, though whether it concerned a dog or himself was not quite clear.

“Yes, I was excited,” admitted Rick with a laugh. “But I’m all right now. Oh, quit it, Ruddy!” he cried as the dog again sought to use his tongue as a wash rag. “Just because I don’t want you shot isn’t a sign that I want you to lap me all over! Quit!” he yelled, laughing, and he rolled over and over in the grass to get away from the loving demonstrations of his four-footed chum. Not very successfully, however, did Rick escape, for Ruddy followed, and he did not cease until Rick tossed a stick which the dog rushed down to the end of the yard to retrieve.

“You didn’t hear any shooting; did you, Uncle Tod?” asked Rick, when Ruddy, panting and with his red tongue hanging out over his white teeth, was resting on the grass more quietly between the two boys.

“Shooting? No, I didn’t hear any. I was asleep until you woke me up.”

Afterward Rick and Chot wondered why Uncle Tod had asked such queer questions about “scoundrels.”

“Do they use dog-catchers here in Belemere?” went on Uncle Tod, for he was somewhat of a stranger in the seacoast town.

“Sometimes,” answered Rick, “but they generally give you notice when they’re going to start to round up the homeless ones. Lots of times dogs with good homes get taken in, or killed by the catchers, and that’s why I was worried about Ruddy.”

“Um,” murmured Uncle Tod, which might mean anything or nothing. “Well, I guess everything’s all right. I’d better go in and see if your mother wants me to take any mail for her, Rick. I’m going to the post office and—” Uncle Tod suddenly ceased speaking, and Ruddy and the boys started up, the dog with a menacing growl, as something was thrown over the rear fence of the yard, landing with a thud on the ground not far from the apple tree.

“Hello!” exclaimed Rick. “What’s that?” It was a green object, tied with cord into a round shape and it rolled toward Ruddy after it landed. The dog sprang toward it.

“Look out! Maybe it’s poisoned meat!” exclaimed Chot.

Rick caught hold of his dog’s collar and pulled him back. Uncle Tod looked at the object for a moment and then picked it up. The boys could now see it was a cabbage leaf wrapped about something and tied with string.

“Somebody’s playing a joke!” laughed Rick.

“One of the fellows,” was Chot’s opinion. “Tom Martin, I reckon.”

Uncle Tod slowly opened the cabbage leaf. There dropped from it a stone and another small object which Rick picked up.

“It’s a bullet!” he cried. “What does this mean?”

There was a strange look on Uncle Tod’s face.

“Let me see that!” he cried.

Rick handed over the bullet—it was not a cartridge, but a leaden missile from one and as he passed it to Uncle Tod the boy noticed some peculiar marks on the bit of lead.

“Whew!” whistled Uncle Tod. “It came—sooner than I expected,” and then, gathering up the parts of the mysterious message—the string, cabbage leaf, stone and bullet, he hurried into the house.