George in Camp; or, Life on the PlainsCastlemon, Harry
General
George in Camp; or, Life on the Plains
Castlemon, Harry
Children's stories; Frontier and pioneer life -- Juvenile fiction; West (U.S.) -- Juvenile fiction
“So I did,” said Philip, after reflecting a moment. “I didn’t think, at
the time, that he would be likely to find his horse and mule, but it
seems he did. However, you’ve got a chance to try your hands again.
George has just started for Brownsville!”
Both the men uttered ejaculations when they heard this, and one of them
began to roll up his poncho.
“There are three of them together,” continued Philip, “but you will have
no trouble in recognising George when you find them. He’s the largest of
the lot, wears a red shirt and high boots, and rides a black horse. You
want to look out for that same black horse, for if you give him the
least show he’ll carry George so far out of your reach that you’ll never
see him again. He’s just lightning. Your best plan would be to wait
until the boys go into camp, and then jump down on them before they know
it. Hold fast to George when you get him, but don’t harm the other two.
Don’t waste your time, either, in following the big trail. Put for the
river as fast as you can, and there’s where you will find them.”
While Philip was giving these commands the men were busy rolling up
their blankets and ponchos and making their preparations for an
immediate departure. Their horses, which were staked out close by, were
quickly caught and saddled, and when all were mounted, Philip led the
way out of the timber. He paused when he reached the open ground long
enough to add a few words more to the instructions he had already given,
and then galloped off toward the rancho, while the Americans rode away
in pursuit of George.
When Philip reached home he put his horse into the corral and let
himself into the kitchen without being seen by anybody. After making
sure that the rest of the servants had retired for the night, he
hastened along the hall to the office, at the door of which he paused
for a moment to listen. He heard the sound of footsteps passing back and
forth at regular intervals, but there was no murmur of conversation, and
so Philip knew that the man he wanted to see was alone. He entered
without taking the trouble to knock, and having closed the door and
pushed the bolt into its socket, he hung his sombrero upon the knob to
cover the key-hole. Uncle John, who was walking restlessly about the
room, turned quickly and hastened forward to greet him.
“Philip, I am overjoyed to see you,” he exclaimed. “Where have you been?
I have hunted the house over to find you. Do you know what has happened
here to-night?”
“I know all about it,” replied Philip, taking possession of one of the
easy chairs, with the air of a man who felt perfectly at home. “I heard
everything that passed while George was here except the conversation he
had with you in this office. He talked so low that I couldn’t hear much
of that, but I know about what he said.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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