It was not a cow, but a horse, which lay at the bottom of the ravine; a gray horse, partly eaten by buzzards, but with the brand still showing. Sleepy quickly noticed that its right fore leg was broken about half-way between knee and hock. Further investigation showed that the animal had been shot through the head, and that the shooter had held his gun so close that the powder had scorched the hair.
“Broke a leg and had to be shot,” said Sleepy. “Not so very long ago.”
They mounted and rode back to Marion, who had waited for them. Sleepy explained what caused the buzzards to congregate.
“What brand was on the animal?” she asked. Sleepy rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Well, it happens to be a Double Bar 8.”
“One of our horses?”
“Yeah—a gray. Weigh about a thousand. Got some dark spots on the rump, and its fetlocks are almost black.”
“Why, that horse belonged to Buck! He didn’t ride it often. But I never heard Buck say anything about shooting it.”
“And pretty close to home, too,” observed Jimmy.
The little ravine where the horse lay was not over an eighth of a mile from the Double Bar 8 stable.
“If the wind had blown down from that direction, we’d ’a’ knowed it before this,” grinned Sleepy.