CHAPTER III.
THE RANCHMAN’S VOW.
The ranchman’s assertion that the spectre was of human invention and their foreman’s declaration that it was but a ruse to cover the raiding of the cattle, produced an instantaneous reaction upon the cowpunchers.
“By my saddle, you’re right!” assented Deadshot. “That’s what the trouble is. Somebody’s trying to lift the cattle. I’ve seen ’em started on a stampede too many times not to recognize the symptoms. And here we’ve been afraid of a spook, giving the thieving cusses just the chance they planned. Say, Sam, I wouldn’t blame you for sacking the whole kit and boodle of us!” he added, his shame and contrition evident in his voice.
“Don’t waste time being sorry, get busy and help calm the cattle!” returned his employer. “You boys ride round ’em, and get ’em to milling, if you can. I want to keep my eyes open for another sight of Mr. Spook.”
Deeply chagrined to think they had allowed such a trick to be played on them, for they realized that when the story got out, the Double Cross outfit would be the laughing stock of all the other cowmen in the region, the cowboys set about their work with a will.
But the job was too big for them!
Even before they had ridden fifty yards along the barbed wire fence, they learned that their efforts would prove fruitless.
With crashing of horns, snorting and bellowing, a bunch of the cattle dashed out onto the plains, the outlines of their bodies just visible as they plunged along.
As though this breaking away from the herd had been prearranged, other bunches raced away into the darkness.