Just now something in the distance caught the widow's restless eye. Arising, she went to the porch edge and shaded her face against the sun, which was sinking, very red, behind the distant Rockies.
"Dust showing down the valley," she reported. "We'll know how they fared before very long."
Stepping into the house, she returned in a moment with a pair of field glasses.
"How many riders?" demanded her uncle. "How many riders?" he repeated querulously, before she was able to give him an answer.
"Only two."
"That means no prisoners," grumbled the pioneer.
"But——" The significant look of her flashing eyes made it unnecessary to complete the sentence which would not have become her tender lips.
"Yes, possibly they've killed them," he agreed. "Possibly. But I doubt it. Men don't seem to have the nerve to shoot to kill out on the range these days."
It was half an hour before Fitzrapp and the queerly named buster rode into the yard. The two on the porch waited with such patience as they could command while saddles and bridles were stripped off and the soaking wet blankets hung on the fence of the stable corral to dry. Any departure from this program of horse comfort first would have been an unheard of violation of ranch tradition.
Presently the arrivals approached the house. Their expressions told the story, and a single glance was sufficient for the reading. The Rafter A had been despoiled again. It only remained to learn the extent of the loss and the details of the raiders' escape.