“Well, if they ever got started, we’d be in a fine pickle, that’s all,” he murmured, studying with critical attention a gigantic steer, which defiantly forced his mustang to make a detour around him. As his stirrup leathers brushed against the animal’s side he gave a muffled snort of anger, and for an instant stood with lowered head as though about to charge.
Nothing more than an unpleasant jar to Don Stratton’s nerves resulted, however. This part of the journey seemed to drag out interminably, and as they finally rode out of the main herd, to see only scattered groups between them and the vast open range beyond, he felt like shouting with relief.
“I don’t wonder rustlers manage to get away with stock now and then,” he said to Sam, some time later. “So far we haven’t seen a single cowboy.”
“It probably isn’t as easy as it looks,” replied Sam. “Cow-punchers, no doubt, very quickly discover when any of the stock is missing, and in these days of telegraph and telephone, it doesn’t take long to notify the authorities.”
“Then again, cattle can be driven only at a certain rate of speed,” put in Dave, who had overheard. “There is always a chance, too, that the animals may leave a trail, which expert plainsmen can easily pick up.”
A few miles farther on the rolling, verdured prairie began to be replaced by a rougher country. Yucca, mesquite and cactus grew in greater profusion, and here their mustangs were often obliged to thread a tortuous passage at the bottom of dark, narrow ravines or climb steep slopes, where the great spiked stems of the cactus seemed to bristle threateningly at their approach. The ponies’ hoofs, dislodging stones and earth at almost every step, sent miniature avalanches slipping and sliding down to the bottom.
This progress was slow but steady; therefore none of the lads was surprised when on reaching the crest of a high ridge they saw not far beyond the yellow, sluggish water of the Rio Grande, winding its way through a broad grassy valley.
“That’s certainly a fine sight,” commented Dave. Through half-closed eyes he looked at the sun, a glittering ball, slowly approaching the irregular contours of the Mexican hills. The sky was full of gorgeous color, which, sending a glow over the succession of barren ridges rolling off to the distance, transformed them into objects of delicate and poetic beauty.
“Say ‘glorious,’ Dave, do,” said Sam with a smile.
“That word seems scarcely strong enough to suit the present case,” laughed the other.