Frank himself looked quite grim as he said this. Evidently he was of the same mind as his father, the rancher.
When two hours had passed, and they had placed a good many miles between themselves and the ranch house that lay far to the north, Frank drew up his horse.
“Better let ’em take a breathing spell,” he remarked. “And you notice, now, that your black doesn’t seem quite so eager to rush things.”
“I knew he would get over it,” laughed Bob, as he patted the shiny flank of his mount. “But what lies away yonder toward the Southwest?”
“That’s the Arrowhead Ranch buildings, with a grove of timber about them,” Frank replied. “You know they’ve got a fine stream of water there, that comes down from the mountains. Father tried to buy that ranch, but some one else had the option. I’m afraid it’s going to drop into the hands of the Syndicate that is gobbling up all the good properties around here.”
“You mean the crowd of Eastern capitalists, headed by the father of Peg Grant, the fellow we had the trouble with on Thunder Mountain?” Bob went on.
“Yes, the same bunch,” Frank continued. “They have it in for dad, I’m afraid, just because he chooses to run his own business in his own way, and refuses to throw in with the Syndicate.”
“You won’t go over to the Arrowhead, then?” Bob asked.
“Not to-day. I’ve been there lots of time, though. One of our boys got in a peck of trouble with some of their punchers a short time ago; and just now there’s bad blood between us. Come on, and we’ll hit out for the hills some miles off.”
Frank gave Buckskin the signal with his heels, and away the two horses flew over the level.