“Falcon, I can’t sleep! My brain’s going like a herd of longhorns milling.”
“Neither can I,” he told her. “Come around and we’ll cook our breakfast; and then we’ll get to our planning.”
“All right; I’m coming.”
CHAPTER XVII
THE SEARCH
THE face of Squawtooth Canby was drawn and haggard as he rode his big black into the Mangan-Hatton camp and dismounted before the office tent.
“Tell Mr. Mangan I wanta see him, will ye?” he asked plaintively of the assistant bookkeeper, who just then appeared around the corner of the tent.
“He’s up in the cut, Mr. Canby,” informed the young man. “I’ll phone up for him.”
“Do that,” said Canby. “Tell ’im I’ll be ridin’ to meet ’im.”
He rode off toward the calico buttes, and soon saw the contractor riding toward him from the fifty-foot rock cut in the saddle.
Hunt Mangan’s face was serious, too, as he unsmilingly rode up and gripped the cowman’s hand.