“He can own the ranch,” replied the stockman, readily. “He’ll be in clover for the rest of his days, I promise you, son.”
The way grew more difficult; yet no matter what obstacles seemed to loom up ahead, there was always a way around them, and Old Baldy knew the trail. Many times Bob lost all signs, and would have been compelled to give up in despair; but Frank pointed out where a stone had been displaced, or it might be a twig ground under the weight of the heavy steer.
“He climbs like a mountain goat, that Baldy!” declared Bob, after an unusually hard effort, that winded him more or less.
“Oh! all cattle can do that,” Frank assured him. “Wait till you see the whole herd putting up this steep slope; even the youngest will surprise you by the way they hang on to the side of the hill, and climb over all sorts of things that give us more or less trouble.”
“One thing I notice,” remarked Bob.
“And what’s that?” asked his chum.
“We don’t get even an occasional peep in at the camp. The big spur or shoulder of the mountain that juts out hides it. And Frank, by the same token, it would keep any one down there from noticing Old Baldy, if he climbed this place in the daytime.”
“That’s right, Bob,” replied the other. “I didn’t think of that myself. And perhaps the rustlers never took the trouble to look around to see if that pass was the only way in and out. You know they’re a lazy lot, taken as a whole, and hate to do the least thing except when in the saddle.”
“Huh!” grunted Scotty, who heard the remark, “they’s a lot o’ cow punchers in that same class, don’t you forget it, Frank. In the saddle they kin ride, and cavort around hours an’ hours. Drop ’em on their feet, an’ they act like ducks on dry land. A cowboy has no business afoot when he kin git a pony under him.”
Scotty came to a halt a little further on. He seemed to be interested in something ahead.