“You’ll sure have one wild time,” grinned a dark-haired, blue-eyed youngster called Broncho. “Gabby’s about as sociable as a rattler. I wouldn’t change places with yuh for no money.”
No one seemed to suspect any ulterior motive beneath the plan, and when Buck rode off about one 190 o’clock, leading his pack-horse, his spirits rose insensibly at the ease with which things seemed to be working out.
He reached Red Butte camp in a little more than three hours and found the adobe shack deserted. It was similar in size and construction to Las Vegas, but there all likeness ceased, for the interior was surprisingly comfortable and as spick-and-span as the Shoe-Bar line camp was cluttered and dirty. Everything was so immaculate, in fact, that Buck had a moment of hesitation about flicking his cigarette ashes on the floor, and banished his scruples mainly because he had never heard of a cow-man dropping them anywhere else.
Gabby appeared about an hour later, a tall, stooping man of uncertain middle age, with a cold eye and a perpetual, sour droop to his lids. At the sight of Buck the sourness became accentuated and increased still more when he observed the ashes on the floor. His only reply to Stratton’s introduction of himself was a grunt and Buck lost no time in easing the fellow’s mind of any fear of a prolonged spell of company.
Even then Gabby’s gloom scarcely lightened. He listened, however, to Stratton’s brief explanation and in a few gruff words agreed that in the unlikely event of any inquiry he would say that the new hand was off riding fence or something of the sort. Then he 191 swept out the offending ashes and proceeded methodically to get supper, declining any assistance from his visitor.
His manner was so dispiriting that Buck was thankful when the silent meal was over, and even more so an hour later to spread his blankets in one of the spare bunks and turn in. His relief at getting away early the next morning was almost as great as Gabby’s could be to see him go.
It was late in the afternoon, after a careful circuit of the southern end of the Shoe-Bar, that Buck reached the foothills. Bud had told him of a spring to the northwest of Las Vegas camp, but the rough traveling decided him to camp that night on the further side of the creek. In the morning he went on through a wilderness of arroyos, cañons, and gullies that twisted endlessly between the barren hills, and made him realize how simple it would be for any number of men and cattle to evade pursuit in this wild country.
Fortunately Jessup’s directions had been explicit, and toward noon Buck found the spring at the bottom of a small cañon and proceeded to unpack and settle down. Bud himself had discovered the place by accident, and as far as Stratton could judge it was not a likely spot to be visited either by the Shoe-Bar hands or their Mexican confederates. A wide, overhanging ledge provided shelter for himself, and there was plenty of forage in sight for the two horses. 192 Taken all in all, it was as snug a retreat as any one could wish, and Buck congratulated himself on having such safe and secluded headquarters from which to carry on his investigations.
These first took him southward, and for five days he rode through the hills, traversing gullies and cañons, and spying out the whole country generally, in a systematic effort to find the route taken by the rustlers in driving off their booty.
Once he found the spot where they had taken to the hills, the rest was comparatively simple. There were a number of signs to guide him, including the bodies of two animals bearing the familiar brand, and he succeeded in tracing the thieves to a point on the edge of a stretch of desert twenty miles or more below the Shoe-Bar land. About twelve miles beyond lay another range of hills, which would give them cover until they were within a short distance of the border.