It promised to be a banner year for Circle Ranch. There were half again as many young cattle to brand with the well known ring, designed to stamp them as the property of Colonel Haywood. Besides, the main herd had wintered better the preceding year than for a long time; there had been less loss through wolves, and the depredations of rustlers; and, to cap the climax, many unclaimed cows and steers had fallen to the colonel, after his raid on Lost Valley.
All these things made everybody feel “bully,” as the cow punchers themselves expressed it. And as Frank and Bob passed group after group they could see that, tired as the workers must be, this feeling was constantly cropping out.
“Nobody seems to think of anything like
danger right now,” said Bob, in a low tone, as they passed a bunch of the wild riders, among whom were several dark-faced Mexicans.
“I should say not,” echoed his chum. “You see they believe our friend Mendoza is across the border before now, and likely to stay on Mexican soil for some time, if he knows what’s good for his health.”
“Did you notice that fellow on the outskirts of the bunch; and how he turned deliberately around to look at us when we rode past?” asked Bob.
“Sure,” came the quick reply, “but if we didn’t know what we did, I reckon neither of us would have thought it queer for him to do that. If he’s a stranger here, as seems likely, it would be only natural for him to look, when one of the others remarked that the colonel’s son was coming.”
“I agree with you there, Frank; but seeing that we do know something, don’t you admit that there was something suspicious in the quick way he turned? For my part, I only gave him one peep as I waved my hand to the lot; but that seemed to tell me he was frowning to beat the band. How?”
“Just what he was, Bob.”
“Then you noticed that too, did you?” demanded the Kentucky boy, eagerly.