How fine it would be, he reflected, if through his efforts some clue to the whereabouts of the bandits’ stronghold could be obtained. There were many places in the rugged country along the Rio admirably adapted for their purposes. By making a little haste he might actually trail them to the very spot and then—well, the Texas Rangers put in possession of such valuable information ought to have no difficulty in getting hot on their track.
In his imagination Tom could see all this accomplished. His face was flushed.
“Yes, sir, I’ll try it,” he exclaimed. “Of course, Bob must realize that I’m all right. Anyway, a few hours more or less can’t make much difference now.”
All annoying reflections of this character fled from Tom Clifton’s mind as he sprang to his feet. The dangers to which he might be exposed, should his deductions prove correct, occurred to him, but were dismissed with an impatient shrug of his shoulders and a thought voiced aloud: “Well—it’s worth all the risk.”
He took another look at the prostrate steer, satisfying himself that after a sufficient rest he would be all right again.
“Only wish I could do something to help you, old bovine,” he chuckled. “Who knows? Maybe by keeling over you’ve done the Texas Rangers the biggest kind of service.”
Unfastening his pony he leaped into the saddle and was off. Almost every instant his eyes were keenly fixed on the ground, and often he halted to examine patches of turf which still retained the slightest signs of moisture. In the hollows, or where vegetation grew in abundance, he often managed to pick up the trail.
It was a glorious morning; the dew on the leaves and grasses glittered and sparkled like diamonds in the sunshine. Birds flitted from place to place or from leafy coverlets sent their blithesome songs over the air. Sometimes a jack-rabbit scampered across the rider’s path, and then in headlong flight quickly disappeared from view.
Tom’s thoughts, however, were so intent upon the work in hand that he paid but little attention either to the beauties of nature or the life about him.
The difficulties of his self-imposed task made the Rambler all the more determined to keep on, but half an hour’s ride was sufficient to bring even his sanguine, hopeful nature to a realization that only failure had repaid him for his hard, toilsome work.