“I heard enough when they went by me to warn us that we’d better get over to the Box B as soon as possible. That gang is drawing a tight net around every entrance or exit from this country. Something big is going to happen and unless there’s some outside help on the job, Adam Marks may be wiped out.”
“Got any idea who’s running the rustlers?”
“They mentioned ‘the chief’ once or twice, but never repeated his name. I’ve a hunch he’ll be a hard one to run down. A man operating a gang as efficient as this one seems to be won’t leave many loose strings around.”
Slim gave Lightning her head and the sorrel picked her way across the bubbling stream. He unfastened Chuck’s saddle and let it drop to the ground. Then he went back across the creek and Chuck managed to mount behind Slim, riding back across the stream in this manner.
Chuck had found an ideal camp spot. The grass was rich, there was plenty of wood, and the swale was deep enough to hide their fire.
Slim turned Lightning out to graze and then both turned a hand to the task of getting their simple camp in shape for the night. That done, they went down to the creek bank, and loafed in the rays of the afternoon sun. Chuck watched the swift-moving waters.
“There’s a pool below with plenty of trout. I watched them this morning, but didn’t have a thing to catch them with. Gosh, a mess of mountain trout would taste good.”
“You’re sure there’re trout in the pool?”
“Saw them with my own eyes.”
Slim hastened back to their camp and dug deep into his saddlebags. He pulled out a small oilskin packet and from that produced a length of sturdy line and two artificial flies, a little the worse for wear, but still usable. Slim fastened the best one to the line and returned to the stream.