Idaho Jones interrupted the conversation when he came galloping up to the party.
“Hey, Boss!” he called. “I been lookin’ all over fer ye.” The voice of the cowpuncher held an urgent note that each member of the party before him felt.
“Eh? What’s wrong?” demanded Bindloss sharply.
“Pop Skinner jest rode in, an’ he’s lookin’ fer ye hot-foot. He says as he reckons thar’s trouble up in the valley.”
“What about?”
“He didn’t wait to tell me.”
“Find him—find him and fetch him here almighty quick! Hump yourself!” commanded Bindloss.
“Co—o-o-o-o! Pop, heah,” yelled Idaho, his quick eye discovering the man for whom he was looking, and out of the darkness shot a gray mustang bearing down on them. “Thar he is now.”
“What’s wrong?” shouted Bindloss.
“I don’t reckon as I know, Boss, but as I was comin’ down to jine the outfit heah, I runned across Sallie guardin’ the number six herd. He said as he’d seen a bunch of riders come out of the foothills, ’bout four mile above heah an’ head off in the direction of the ranch an’ he thought ye better know ’bout it. As I was comin’ down anyway, I made a hustle. ’Bout half way down I heard rifle shots up-valley. Thet’s all I knows ’bout it, but I reckoned you ought to know.”