“INTO THE SADDLE, BOYS!”
“About fifty miles from the town,” replied the Ranger. “And it’s one of the finest in southwestern Texas. The colonel, besides being a cattleman, is a farmer, and has some of the best artesian wells in this section.”
“He’s sure a fine man too,” put in Raulings, “an’ the last time I seen him, he was all broke up. ‘I’m bankin’ on the Texas Rangers to help me out,’ he says; an’——”
“Was he talking about the cattle rustlers?” queried Tom.
“No—somethin’ that worried him a heap sight more’n them critters,” grunted the Ranger in reply.
Tom, whose curiosity had been greatly aroused, might have asked some other questions but for the fact that Don jumped to his feet, exclaiming in disgusted tones:
“Say, fellows, I can’t stand these torments a minute longer!” He looked toward Alvin, who nodded.
“Into the saddle, boys!” said the Ranger.
Through openings here and there in the break they could see the river, a narrow and muddy stream. In a straight line the distance was short, but the route which the riders soon followed proved to be so winding and irregular that a considerable time elapsed before they reached its bank. In places the trees on either shore met to form a leafy archway, which sparkled and glittered in the sunlight.
The gravel bottom of the stream enabled the mustangs and burro to wade across.