By then, the boys were galloping past the mine, and the roar of the stamp mill was loud in their ears. Their course carried them on beyond the mine, and, as they got farther and farther away from it, the song of the stamps died by degrees into silence.
Dolliver’s ranch was fifteen miles from Ophir. Frank and his chums knew the place well, for they had made free use of Dolliver’s telephone, several weeks before, when the Ophir football squad was in camp at Tinaja Wells, in Mohave Cañon.
Dolliver’s home was entirely surrounded by a wild, unsettled country. Close to the pioneer’s adobe, the bridle path through the cañon began its course, separating from the road that was used by wagons freighting for the Fiddleback outfit.
“You don’t think this can be any sort of trap, do you, pard?” asked Blunt suddenly, while they were pounding along.
“Trap?” Frank laughed. “What sort of a trap, Barzy?”
“Give it up. If somebody wanted to get us into trouble, I reckon this would be a good way to do it.”
“I don’t know of anybody who’d want to get us into trouble. Anyhow, Dolliver wouldn’t. He’s a pretty good sort of a chap, that Dolliver.”
“You can bet your spurs on that!” declared the cowboy heartily. “I’ve known Dolliver ever since I was knee-high, and he’s sure the clear quill. You’re positive it was Dolliver talking at t’other end, of the line?”
“When you’ve heard Dolliver’s voice once,” said Frank, “you couldn’t mistake it for anybody else’s. Sure it was Dolliver talking.”
“The whole thing is so blamed queer that it sort of set me to wondering.”