“How do you mean?”
“Only one thing I can think of:––the thieves must be driving off the cattle, two or three at a time, and killing them in some lonely spot out over the ranges; skinning them and burying or burning the hides. They could then sell the fresh meat to butchers in some of the border 322 towns who might buy it from them innocently enough through the breeds, or who might be in the ring and getting their meat dirt cheap.
“However,––let’s forget it. It is none of our funeral. And I promised Mrs. Clunie for both of us that we’d take a run back to her place at nine o’clock. She is having a birthday party for all her old friends, and wants us help her celebrate.”
“I guess we had better go then, Jim, or we’ll never hear the end of it.”
Half an hour later, they set out. Five hours later still, after a merry time––as merry times went at Mrs. Clunie’s––they returned, and it was a much speedier return than their going had been, for there was a great glare of red in the sky, near to the lake, that was suspiciously close to their own ranch.
Neither spoke a word, but, as the feeling of idle curiosity gave way to one of interest, interest to suspicion and suspicion to anxiety, their horses––as if sensing their masters’ feelings––started off themselves from a walk to a canter, from a canter to a gallop and from a gallop to a hell-bent-for-leather race which never slackened until the two riders threw themselves breathlessly from their backs, among a crowd of neighbouring ranchers who had been doing their best to combat the flames in the absence of the owners.
But it was all over. The heavy horses had been saved, the barns were practically uninjured, but the dwelling house itself was but a charred heap of smoking debris.
Phil looked dumbly at Jim. Jim threw out his hands, palms up and showed his big teeth.
“Well, Philly, old cock!––there, there, by the grace of God, goes up in smoke my ambitions to be the greatest fruit rancher and stock breeder the world has ever known.”