“How’d you know Hassell used them? Maybe they just floated down the river.”
“We ain’t as careless as that with our timber,” explained the westerner, twisting in his seat. “They wouldn’t be here if some one had cut ’em loose. They’re ours because the ends are red. And Mike has been on ’em because they’re roped together.”
“Then Hassell is up here somewhere?” suggested Roy excitedly.
“On this side,” said Mr. Cook, as if his mind were on something else.
Roy was now beginning to get busy on Mr. Cook’s theory.
“How fast is that stream running?” he asked—he knew that his companion was searching the plains.
“’Bout seven miles an hour.”
“How far is this point from Montezuma Creek?”
“Nearly forty miles.”
“When do you reckon he’d leave the creek on his raft?”