“Well, anyway, we’ll soon know, Frank.”
“Yes, because we’re nearly there,” the other remarked, as he reached around to unfasten his repeating rifle from the saddle, where he often carried it, rather than over his back by means of a strap.
“And before we leave here it’s going to be a hard winter for Mr. Wolf, if that’s what’s making the trouble. If he runs, the steer will catch up with him; and if he stays, it’s a bit of lead between his ribs. I’m sorry for him, Frank; but I reckon he’s been responsible for more than a few heifers that have disappeared mysteriously from time to time.”
“Yes, that’s so,” replied Frank. “Stockmen hate wolves more’n anything on four legs. There’s only one thing that hits ’em worse.”
“Rustlers, you mean, Frank?” remarked the Kentucky boy.
“Yes, the Mexicans or halfbreeds, who drop down on a herd of cattle, or the saddle band of the punchers’ horses, and disappear with them. And of all the rustlers in Arizona, there’s none equal to Pedro Mendoza. Look at the steer, Bob!”
“Seems to just know we’re coming to lend a helping hand,” laughed Bob. “There he gallops around to the other side of the timber, as if he wanted to cut off Mr. Wolf before he took a start from that side. He’s a sharp one, that steer.”
“None smarter, and I ought to know, because that’s Old Baldy!” remarked Frank.
“What!” cried Bob, “didn’t you tell me a long time ago that Old Baldy had been nipped, with a bunch of cattle; and your foreman believed the rustlers had him?”
“That’s what we felt sure of, and I believe it yet,” Frank said. “But all the same, I don’t think I’m mistaken when I say that’s our Old Baldy, come back as straight as he disappeared.”