“Might have been along by the lake a bit seeing some of that bunch at Larry Woodcock’s place. Larry’s gang 321 and the Redmans lot are pretty much of the same kidney.”
“Well,” said Phil, dismissing the subject, “I guess it is up to us to keep our eyes peeled, anyway.”
It was two weeks after this, following a run to town, that Jim came in with an angry look in his eyes.
“Say, Phil!––there’s some darned monkey-doodle business afoot. I wish I could get to the bottom of it.”
“What is it now?”
“I saw Red McGregor on the main road yesterday, and to-night I met him, Stitchy Summers and Skookum full in the teeth, jogging into town. Darned funny thing,––I never saw them on this road before.”
“Well,––it is a good job we haven’t started in with any stock yet. Like enough somebody will be hollering again about being shy a few fat steers or calves. There were three hundred head of cattle reported missing off the ranges last year and about that much or more every year for a dog’s age––if all reports be true. Funny thing they can’t lay the rustlers by the heels and hang them by the necks in the good old-fashioned way.”
“Yes!” commented Jim, “if that crowd are mean enough to thieve feed and grain, I wouldn’t care to turn them loose among anybody’s cattle, especially now the feed and grain stealing business is unhealthy.”
“But how can they get away with it, Jim? The cattle are branded.”
“Sure thing, Simple Simon! But they are not branded under their hides.”