“We get you, boss,� Gus Tripp drawled. “No fireworks! Just clean up this job, hey?�
“Right!� Mr. Manley tugged at one end of his mustache. “Now there’s something else. I reckon you all don’t know much about this rustlin’. Here’s how it happened.�
He told, as briefly as possible, how the horses had been stolen.
“When I talked to the punchers down by the railroad corral, I got an idea,� he continued. “You remember Gilly Froud, don’t you?� Short nods came in answer. “Well, Froud had a scar on the left side of his face. So did one of the men who stole our broncs, accordin’ to the fellers I talked to. That mean anything?� he questioned.
“Sure does, boss!� Pop Burns exclaimed excitedly. “Proves what I been thinkin’ all along. This Froud is a rustler! I knowed that as soon as I saw him tryin’ to carve out an X Bar X from a hunk of wood one day down by the river. Came upon him sudden like, an’ he tried to hide the wood on me. But I seen it. Seen the X Bar X brand, too.�
“Did, hey?� Mr. Manley asked in an interested tone. “You never told me that. But let it go. We know who to look for now. Golly, she’s sure some dusty!�
“I’ll tell a maverick!� Roy murmured, wiping his brow.
The excitement of the first dash had somewhat worn off, and they rode along now with a show of quiet determination.
Mr. Manley and Roy were in the lead. Their horses took on that long, easy gait that carries a cowboy comfortably over thirty miles of prairie in a day. No one knew just how long this chase would last.
Gus Tripp urged his mount closer to Mr. Manley’s.