“Hello!” yelled Bob Somers. “Is Mr. Duncan in?”
A short, stout man, whose face, deeply browned by exposure to the weather, wore a most jovial expression, spoke up.
“My name’s Duncan,” he exclaimed. “For gracious sakes, boys, who are you, and——”
“I’ll finish the sentence,” laughed Tom. “Where do you come from? I never saw a parcel of boys traveling over the country like this before.”
“Exactly; you couldn’t have hit it better.”
The lads did not lose any time in acquainting Mr. Duncan and his cowpuncher with enough information to satisfy their curiosity.
“Jed Warren!” exclaimed the ranchman reflectively. “Why, to be sure, I know him. He was often around these hills, and, excepting for the border patrol which you mention, the very last man to see him was a chap back there.”
A comprehensive wave of the hand indicated that “back there” meant the same direction in which the boys had been traveling.
“What’s his name?” asked Tom, eagerly.
“Oscar Lawton. How far is it? Oh, about five miles. Easy to get there? Yes—in an aeroplane.”