“’Tain’t them, Mr. Witherspoon,” the puncher went on to say, earnestly, as he slapped his leather chaps with the stick he held; “p’raps Rustler Carlos’d fill the bill more like, sir.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put such a job past that sneak one minute,” declared the rancher, promptly, “and he certainly has plenty of cause to hate me, after the way we took that bunch of stolen long-horns away from him last spring, and gave him a close call before he could cross the border into Mexico. But he hasn’t been heard of around here since then; so it must be only a wide guess you boys are making. But I’d a thousand times rather think that, than have a man in my employ be careless, or ready to play a low-down trick like that.”
“If we thought it was done a purpose, Mr. Witherspoon, and could find out the feller that done it, there’d be some queer fruit a-growin’ on one of them telegraph poles along the Santa Fe railroad; ain’t it so, boys?” and the indignant Buckskin turned around upon the cluster of listening hustlers.
The instantaneous shout of wild approval that greeted these words would have convinced any listener of the evident sincerity of the group. If there was one among them who had yielded to any sort of temptation, it was evident that he could not be easily persuaded to make a second attempt. But after all, it seemed silly to think such a thing could be true; when the Bird boys did not have an enemy down here in this new country, where every one had been an utter stranger until now.
“But let’s forget all about it,” said Frank, at this juncture. “Not a speck of harm has been done, and we’re as sure that no one here would dream of trying to injure our machine as we are that we draw breath.”
“Bully for you, Frank!” shouted one of the punchers; and of course another wild cheer had to allow some of the pent-up enthusiasm to break loose.
Had any one been passing along the trail that led to the mines, and which ran about a mile from the ranch buildings, and heard all this clamor at dead of night, he must have been greatly puzzled to account for the racket; and possibly think that the Double X outfit were making a night of it with good cheer.
“There’s one thing sure,” said Uncle Jethro, positively, “after this we’re not going to let this flying machine of yours, boys, lie unguarded. I leave it to my foreman, Waldo Kline, here, to see that it holds safe; and he’ll be accountable to me for it.”
“Wow! we’ll all camp around it, if so be he says the word!” cried Buckskin, with a look toward his chums, which brought out encouraging comments.
“Come on back to the house, Frank and Andy,” remarked the rancher, “and you can just as well make up your minds that after this no piece of property was ever so jealously guarded as your machine will be. I’m sorry for the wretch that tried to do it any injury after this. He’ll sure believe he’s run up against the biggest hurricane ever, the way those boys will rustle him.” And Frank believed him.