“Yes, I planned shipping the yearlings in a few days. The empty cars are on the side track at Silver Creek station this very minute. As soon as Lucky and I had them loaded, we were to wire Douglas and the cars were to be picked up by the freight that night.”
“I know what Betsy thinks,” Virginia said. “She believes that some tenderfoot rustler tried to steal the cattle and ship them as his own. Would such a thing be possible, Malcolm?”
“Possible, but not probable,” was the answer.
“Then what do you make of it?” Margaret asked.
“I don’t,” was the smilingly given reply. “But I do know that we will all starve and that Sing Long will be on the rampage if we don’t go out and eat the fine breakfast he has prepared for us.”
“Whizzle! I have been so interested and excited that I had actually forgotten that I am almost starved,” Betsy declared as they entered the big sunny kitchen, at one end of which was a table that could seat twelve without crowding, for, on the desert, one never knew when a passing cowboy, or a group of them, might stop at meal time.
When the first pangs of hunger had been satisfied, Virginia said: “Now brother, tell us your theory.”
“I’d like to hear Betsy’s first.” Malcolm was much amused by the small, bright-eyed girl who took such an unusual interest (for one feminine) in the solving of mysteries.
They all turned to listen and so Betsy began. “Well, of course I know very little about the ways of the desert, but I should think that Virginia’s suggestion, a little while ago, might be the right one. But since you doubt it, Malcolm, I’m beginning to think that the something the writer didn’t know what to do with, might not be the stolen yearlings after all.”
The lad nodded. Then glancing at Margaret, he asked, “Who else has a theory?” Flushing prettily as she always did when her guardian addressed her, the quiet Megsy replied, “I don’t believe that I have one, but I just know that you have, Malcolm. Won’t you tell it to us?”