"Right!" announced the foreman, whereupon the sheepmen, headed by Luke and Tad Butler, started up at a brisk gallop, headed straight across the mesa, taking a course that would lead them to the foothills, a short distance ahead of them. Beaching the foothills, they continued on for some two or three miles. Here the foreman gave the order to open the fan, he taking the lead on the left and Tad on the right. The searchers were now moving with a space of about a quarter of a mile between them, shouting out the name of Phil Simms now and then, these calls running down the line to the lower end of the fan-shaped formation.
After a time Tad found that he could no longer hear the shouts of his companions, yet from the position of the sun, which he consulted frequently, he felt sure that he was following the right course.
On and on he rode, until the sun lay on the western horizon. The others of the party were making a thorough search, investigating every gully and draw that lay in their course, shouting for Phil, hut not shooting their guns, as this was to be the signal that the lost boy had been found.
"I'm afraid we are going to miss him," mused the foreman. "If we fail to find him, then they've got him, sure."
At last he had completed his half of the sweep of the fan, and his face wore a troubled look as his pony emerged from the foothills onto the open mesa again. The sun was setting.
Luke rode out and waited a few moments, and when joined by the rest of his section, started back to the camp.
Old Hicks had prepared the hated mutton for supper by the time the right side of the fan formation got in. Not a trace had one of them found of the missing Philip Simms.
The rancher said nothing when told that they had failed. He strode away to his tent and they saw him no more for hours.
They had just gathered about the table for the evening meal, all unusually silent, when Ned Rector, glancing about, made a sudden discovery.
"Where's Tad?" he demanded.