The boy surveyed himself. He was a mass of scratches and bruises, his shirt was ripped and hung in shreds, his chaperajos alone remained intact. Even his saddle was badly torn, and, as for the poor buckskin, he was in as bad shape as his master.
“Well, I am a disreputable looking object,” thought the boy. “The Rangers wouldn’t own me if they could see me now.”
********
It was late afternoon at the Reeves ranch when Bud and the two boys rode in with the news that they could find no trace of the missing cattle. Nor, of course, had they any news of Jack. Mr. Reeves was much downcast at this, almost as much so as Walt and Ralph. Yet somehow the two latter felt sure that Jack would come out all right.
They had not had an easy night of it, either. The battle to the eastward of the herd that had started the stampede had resulted in a flesh wound for Walt and a bad cut on the hand for Ralph. But the boys and the cow–punchers had managed to make prisoners of ten of the hooded Mexicans, so that they felt they had not done a bad night’s work. If only they had possessed a clew to Jack’s fate, they would, in fact, have been jubilant. Ralph’s behavior during the fight had quite won him back the respect he had lost by his poor exhibition with the rope. The Border Boys were declared “the grittiest ever” by every puncher on the range.
The ten prisoners were confined in the barn, but they all denied vigorously having seen anything of Jack. They confessed that their raid had been made for the purpose of getting beef for the rebel army, which had been practically starved out by the government troops.
Bud had just dismounted by the corral and Walt and Ralph were dispiritedly doing the same when Mr. Reeves uttered a shout and pointed to the far southwest.
“Wonder what that is off there, that cloud of dust!” he exclaimed.
“I’ll get the glasses, boss,” declared Bud.
He dived into the house and speedily reappeared with a pair of powerful binoculars such as most stockmen use.