Jack pointed toward the southeast.
“Right yonder and in the same direction we’re heading,” he replied.
Ned frowned and looked even more serious.
“Then it begins to look as though this messenger pigeon might have been freed from somewhere about your uncle’s ranch, Harry, and was making for its coop when the hawk killed it. You know they’ve been known to fly hundreds and hundreds of miles, even from New York to Pittsburgh, and arrive safe, tired, and half-starved after a couple of days.”
“It always did beat my time how they did it,” said Jack, “though what you say is true, every word of it, Ned. But what is there so stunning about the fact of this bird having been set loose at the ranch? Some puncher may be a homing pigeon fancier and sends a bird to his home, many miles away, once in so often. It would be a great little stunt, I should think.”
“Yes, ditto here,” added Harry, “so tell us why you think it’s queer, Ned.”
“On account of the message,” replied the scout master.
“Well, we don’t know what that is, so read it out!” urged Jack.
“All right, I will,” Ned told them, and then glancing down once more at the thin piece of paper he held he continued: “‘Some talk of both bosses going to W. soon. Be ready to act. Will let you know in time! Chances good for big sweep! We count five!’”
“Glory hallelujah! what’s all that patter mean?” gasped Jimmy, who seemed unable to make head or tail out of the communication.