“Oh! they’ve got it all arranged,” Frank answered, between gasps; for he was breathing hard, after his recent exertions.
“You mean about capturing the herd, Frank?”
“I mean about making prisoners of the rustlers,” replied the other; “because, you understand, we couldn’t run the cattle out of this place without first clipping the claws of Mendoza and his crowd.”
“I suppose that’s so,” replied Bob; “because such a big bunch of long-horns must make considerable racket when on the jump.”
“Sure; but then that isn’t the only thing,” Frank remarked.
“What else would hinder us running ’em off?” his chum demanded.
“’Sh! not so loud, Bob. Drop down to the whisper again. Why, stop and think, how do you suppose cattle could run along that path where you nearly took a header, and in the dark too?”
“Shucks! I should say so, Frank. Funny now I didn’t think of that. Why, to be sure, the chances are, half of ’em would drop over. It’s bad enough in daylight, let alone with that tricky moon, or the darkness. Well, go on; what’s to be done?”
“I’ll tell you,” Frank continued. “The scheme is this—to wait ’till later in the night; then perhaps we’ll find a chance to shut the crowd up in one of the cabins, that biggest one, it might be. While some kept the rustlers there, the rest of us, at dawn, could start the herd going. Once out of this valley they couldn’t hold us from driving the cattle home.”
“Sounds fine, Frank, and I reckon I can see your dad’s hand back of the scheme.”