down over the western ridge, and it must be about four o’clock.”
“And I’ve been asleep over four hours, then; why, it didn’t feel more’n a few winks,” remarked Bob, astonished at the truth; “but I feel better, Frank, and ready to do my part in the game. So let’s get a move on, as the others are doing.”
CHAPTER XII
BOTTLING UP THE RUSTLERS
“How do you like it, Bob, as far as you’ve gone?” asked Frank, as they prepared to follow after the others, who were slowly moving off in Indian file, pressing close to the earth, and looking not unlike a string of great cats, creeping upon their quarry.
“Is that a fair question, Frank?” said the Kentucky boy, with a sign of hesitation in his low voice. “Because if it is, I’m bound to answer you straight.”
“You don’t care much for this sort of thing, then; is that it?” asked the other.
“Well, between us honestly, then, I don’t seem to,” came the reply. “You see, when I looked forward to it, the idea seemed rather fine; but somehow the experience feels different. And, Frank, I hope when I say that, you won’t believe for a minute it’s because I’m timid.”
“I know better than that, Bob. You mean, I take it, that this thing of hunting men somehow doesn’t seem to appeal to you?”
“That’s just what I mean, Frank,” replied the other, hastily. “It’s hard to explain how I feel, but I’d rather ten times over be galloping across the plains on my good old Domino, than crawling all over these mountains, looking for rustlers, and feeling ugly in my heart because they’ve robbed Circle Ranch of its prize herd.”
“But you don’t blame the rest of us for wanting to get those cattle back again, do you, Bob?”