"About fifteen miles over thar," pointing toward the east, "Blue Jacket lies thar, and is on the Missouri, Kansas and Texas."
"We'll make for it. You take the prisoner behind you and I will mount with Sam."
The cavalcade were soon in motion, leaving the dead horses to be devoured by the buzzards and coyotes which were already beginning to gather around.
Arriving at Blue Jacket, the party left Chip and his prisoner, and turning to the north cantered off for Kansas City.
CHAPTER XIII. SWANSON'S RANCHE—THE DETECTIVES IN ROBBER'S RETREAT—THE SUCCESS OF THE DOCTOR—ANOTHER ROBBERY PLANNED.
In the center of a beautiful valley, with high, rugged bluffs rising on all sides, and intersected by a clear stream of spring water, which fell in tiny cascades and little waterfalls, turning and twisting like a silver snake, stood Swanson's Ranche. The low frame building, surrounded on four sides by a wide porch, and standing on a gentle elevation which fell away to the creek, was the home of the redoubtable Swanson, who was monarch of all he surveyed for miles around. The evening was rapidly advancing into night, and the large open fireplace, huge and yawning, was roaring with the cheerful fire which Swanson's obedient squaw had built, that her liege lord might not be chilled by the cold wind which whistled over the plains.
The floor of the large room, covered with fur rugs and huge buffalo-skins, was made of pounded clay, and the feet of many years had hardened it to almost stone-like solidity.
Saddles, lariats, rifles, high boots, and all the trappings and harness belonging to a cowboy's outfit littered the place, and stretched out on the robes and furs, in easy, careless attitudes, lay some half-dozen men.
Jim Cummings and Dan Moriarity were of the number. Thick clouds of tobacco smoke curled and eddied to the low ceiling, and seated near the fire to get the benefit of the light were a couple of card-playing ranchmen, indulging in a game of California Jack.
Standing with his back to the blaze, his feet spread apart, and his hands deep in his pockets, stood the owner of the ranche—Swanson. Cast in a Herculean mold, he stood over six feet tall, his broad shoulders surmounted by a neck like a bull, and his red, cunning face, almost hid from sight by the thick, bushy whiskers which covered it.