"Look! If that isn't Len Molick I'll eat my rope!" cried the young cowpuncher. "Len Molick started that fire!"
"It's him all right," agreed Pete, after an instant's glance.
The figure racing on ahead so desperately had turned for a moment in the saddle, and this turning gave a view of his face. Dave had seen it was his enemy—the enemy who had taunted him with his lack of knowledge concerning his birth and parentage.
"And we've caught him with the goods," remarked Pete, indulging in the slang which meant so much. "He'll go to jail for this."
"If we catch him," suggested Mr. Bellmore.
"Oh, we'll get him," declared Pete. "Come on here you cayuse you!" he called merrily to his mount.
But alas for Pete's hopes. Whether the extra burst of speed was more than his horse could respond to, or whether in the excess of his zeal Pete forgot his usual caution probably would never be known.
But the fact of the matter was that his horse Stepped into the burrow of a prairie dog, and, a moment later, the foreman went flying over the head of his steed, landing on the soft grass some distance away.
Dave and Mr. Bellmore pulled up at once, but they had hardly done so before Pete leaped to his feet.
"Ride on I Ride on!" he yelled. "Don't mind me. Get that skunk!"