“I pass,” he declared. “When it comes to arguing I’m not in it with you, Frank.”
“But answer my question—wouldn’t Old Baldy be apt to head straight for home?” insisted the boy.
“Sure he would, every time,” admitted Bart.
“And that’s a strong point you’ve made, son,” declared the stockman, with a proud glance at Frank. “The chances are three to one Old Baldy got out of this valley by some other trail than the one we took in entering, and which has just been blocked by the rustlers. Now, the question comes, can we find that other exit, and make use of it to take the herd out this same way?”
He had already sent a messenger back to the
camp to tell the two guards of the bunk-house what had happened, so that they might not relax their vigilance, and allow the prisoners a chance to escape during broad daylight.
“And that same is going to tax us some, I opine,” grumbled Bart.
“Not if we can only find the trail of Old Baldy,” said Frank, cheerfully.
“His trail!” echoed Bob, in dismay, as he looked down at the ground, which just at that point had been torn up by scores of hoofs. “Well, I should say that would be a tough old job, just as Bart declared. How can you do it, Frank?”
“Well, stop and think a minute,” replied the other. “Don’t you remember my telling you that Old Baldy has a marked hoof, one so much longer than any other steers, that a tracker could tell it anywhere at a glance?”