The fact that they “saw” did not keep them from being considerably disgruntled. They were apprehensive, too, for Phil’s safety.
“If he gets spotted by a band of those guerrillas,” grumbled Dick, “he won’t have one chance in a hundred of getting out of it alive. I don’t care what the Captain says, I believe in the safety of numbers.”
“Oh,” said Dick impolitely, “Hang the message!”
However, as far as any danger was concerned, Phil might have been cantering along a bridle path in his beloved Castleton. His horse, a beautiful big bay, was possessed of a steady, apparently easy going stride which, nevertheless, ate up the miles with surprising rapidity.
He passed some rangers on the way whom he saluted easily, but not a Mexican of any kind did he see. Mixed with relief over this fact, was a queer disappointment. The journey was not living up to its reputation, as far as danger was concerned. If he could have looked ahead for only a few hours into the future—but then, perhaps, it was just as well that he couldn’t.
By noon time he had reached the ranger camp. He handed the message to Major Gaynor,—a weather-beaten old soldier who had seen many long years of guerrilla warfare,—with a tremendous feeling of relief. He had accomplished his mission, anyway and now, if anything happened to him it would be his own affair.
The rangers received him like a long lost brother and insisted that he should stay and have some “chow” with them. This they had little trouble in persuading him to do for he was nearly famished and the smell of cooking things from the mess tent was irresistible.
And after “chow” he lingered, so interested in the merry stories of camp life bandied about by the fellows that it was with surprise and a bit of consternation that he realized the afternoon was “getting on.” And not even Phil was anxious to ride far in the Mexican country after dark.
His new-found friends, flung jolly farewells after him, mingled with advice as to how to find the shortest way back to camp. Phil shouted his answers and then urged on his horse, determined to reach his destination before nightfall.
His horse had been well fed and cared for and the two or three hours rest bore fruit now in his speed. He put out at a great rate and probably everything would have been well had not Phil, in some way or other, mistaken his path. Probably the many suggestions of the rangers had confused him. At any rate, he did mistake the way and spent an hour or two of fruitless wandering before he struck the right path again. And when he once more started for camp, the shadows were lengthening in the west.