“Oh! they’re up to all that sort of thing,” Frank replied. “I’ve heard some of our boys say an Indian would be clumsy at hiding tracks alongside a few of Mendoza’s best hands. But wait and see what happens, Bob; perhaps we’ve
got a few fellows along just as smart at finding a trail as they are at hiding one.”
“I hope so,” Bob rejoined. “I’d just hate to have to go home like a whipped dog, that carries his tail between his legs. And Frank, don’t you remember what your father said about Thunder Mountain, and how we saw a string of horses being led into the canyon that night?”
“Sure,” replied Frank, quickly and significantly; “that’s part of the game. We’re bound to scratch Thunder Mountain all over with a fine-tooth comb before we give up beat. If Mendoza does have a hidden cache in some little valley, where he keeps his stolen herds, and changes the brands before driving them to market, we expect to find it, and get back our property.”
“We must be getting near the place where Andy wrangled his herd last night,” Bob went on.
“Right ahead there,” replied Frank. “How are you feeling just now, Bob?”
“Fine and dandy; and just wild to know how we’re going to come out,” Bob answered. “Fact is, I wouldn’t have a single care or worry on my mind right now, if it wasn’t for that knife!”
“Oh! rats! will you never forget that, Bob? I was in hopes you’d dream where it was,” laughed Frank.
“Well, I didn’t, and that’s a fact,” the other
went on, with a quick look at his chum’s face; “and I don’t suppose you did, either, Frank?”