“Listen yourself. Maybe it will break out again.”
The lads were almost at the top of the rise where the trail pitched downward into the mining camp. Consequently they were so close to the stamp mill that its racket interfered with the sounds they were listening for. But the noise came again, and it was clear enough.
“It’s the whinny of a horse,” said Clancy.
“That’s how it struck me,” answered Ballard. “The horse is in a thicket, over there on the left of the road. What’s a horse there for, at this time of night?”
“Probably it’s a stray horse, Pink. Horses break loose occasionally, you know.”
“Well,” declared Ballard, “I’m going to find out whether it’s a stray horse or not. If the animal’s loose, we’ll lead it on to the mine. Chances are, that’s where it came from.”
“Lead on, old man. If trouble lurks in yonder thicket, don’t forget that Clancy is ready to shoulder his share.”
There wasn’t much trouble in the thicket, that is, not so far as the lads could see. What they did find, however, were a couple of horses, saddled, bridled, and hitched to a white thorn bush. Here, certainly, was food for reflection.
“What do you know about this?” demanded Ballard.
“There’s no law against a couple of riders leaving their horses in a patch of scrub, Pink,” remarked Clancy.