“I wonder how many men there are in this place?” Bob continued, for he was so filled with a desire to obtain information that he could not keep from asking questions.
“No telling,” Frank replied; “but enough to give us a tussle in case we have to get down to hard blows, which I hope we won’t. All we want is to get back our stock.”
“But if the rustlers try to keep us from recovering the herd, what then, Frank?”
“Trouble, and of the worst kind,” was the reply. “But between dad and Scotty and Bart I reckon they’ll be able to manage things. We’ve got one chap with his wings clipped right now; perhaps there may be others, sooner or later.”
“You mean, take them prisoner?” asked Bob.
“That would be what my dad would want if he had his way. But all we have to do is to lie low and obey orders. I’m ready to help as far as I can; and I know you are too, Bob.”
“We seem to be creeping closer all the time,” remarked Bob.
“Yes, and for that reason, suppose we stop talking now. If it’s really necessary you can whisper close to my ear; but better keep quiet all you can,” said Frank; and his chum took the hint.
They could now easily make out the men as they walked back and forth, or lounged in the camp. The several cabins and tents could also be plainly seen, as the fires burned cheerfully, or the moon looked down on the scene, mounting higher above the rim of the ridge to the east, fringed with a straggling row of stunted trees.
Bob had never expected to be given a chance to look in on the camp of a rustler band, and especially one so notorious as Pedro Mendoza’s. More than once he rubbed his eyes as though suspecting that he might be dreaming; but the voices of the men around the fires, the clashing of long-horned cattle near by, and the picture of the cabins still remained to prove the truth, and show him that it was real.