Slim’s fingers, exploring an inside pocket, came in contact with the cartridge he had found at the scene of Adam Marks’ ambush. He had two definite clues, the exploded shell and the V-shaped hoofprint. Somewhere in the valley he must find the rider of that horse.
The cowboy detectives returned to the bunkhouse. The foreman was still at the ranch house and the other Box B riders were engaged in various personal tasks.
Slim and Chuck rolled in early, and a few minutes later the others were in their blankets.
Slim fell into a restless sleep, for even after his body relaxed his mind was working on the rustling mystery. Thus it was that he heard a slight noise down at the corral and awakened almost instantly.
Slim pulled on his trousers, picked up his boots, and left the bunkhouse silently. Someone was in the corral saddling a horse. Slim moved swiftly forward. The moon, which had topped the Cajons, was shrouded with clouds.
The cowboy detective paused beside the main gate of the corral to see what was going on inside and had just stuck his head above the top rail when a rope swished out of the shadows and settled over his head. Before he could utter a sound, it was jerked tight and he fell sprawling to the ground, gasping for breath.
Slim clawed at the rope, but it was too tight. Someone was running toward him, coming out of the corral.
The moonlight brightened for an instant and Slim looked up into a masked face.
“Smart guy,” came a hard, chilling voice. “Well, you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
Slim tried to dodge, but the other man struck him with a short, heavy club, and the cowboy detective lost consciousness. When he finally opened his eyes, the moon was well toward its zenith and his head throbbed dismally.