'JACK RUSHED INTO THE MIDST OF THE HORSES TOWARDS A YELLOW-COATED BRONCHO.'
'Joe!' he shouted joyfully. 'Just see! Here's Buckskin, our old "Buck," as I've told you about!'
Everyone looked at the excited boy, and the Sheriff glanced rather suspiciously at him, for, strange to say, the brand on the yellow broncho had puzzled him more than all the others, being quite unknown to him.
He called out sharply, 'Say! what does that boy know about that horse? Tell him to come here.'
Jack led Buckskin up to where he stood, and said quietly, 'This horse belongs to my dad. Here's his brand, V.C., on his hip, and he has an old scar that was done once when he was shot just afore we got him.'
'Where is it?' asked the Sheriff dubiously.
'Here!' returned Jack promptly, as he lifted Buckskin's mane and showed the place, plain enough, where a bullet had once passed through the neck. 'I could swear to Buckskin anywhere.'
'You're right, my lad,' said the Sheriff, after looking carefully at the scar. 'And who's your dad?'
'George Wilson,' answered Jack. 'He lives on the Cochetopa Creek, and freights up and down the mountains.'