Some time later they came once more in sight of the range of hills in which Duncan’s ranch was situated, though at a point considerably further to the east. The late afternoon sun sent a mellow glow over the landscape, touching boughs and branches with golden luster, and sending long purplish shadows down the slopes or trailing over the ground.
“No far now,” announced Thunderbolt.
He swerved to the right, leading them toward the base of a hill which jutted out a considerable distance on the prairie.
“And I, for one, propose to stay there for the night, if the owner is willing,” announced Dave.
“I’ll back you up,” cried Larry. “Who runs this ranch, Thunderbolt?”
“Him called Hank Styles,” answered the young Cree.
“And I do certainly hope to goodness Hank is in,” said Tom.
“He hasn’t much of a looking ranch-house,” remarked Bob, as the building gradually came into view.
Certainly the abode of Hank Styles and his cowpunchers was not calculated to impress the visitors with favor. It had a crumbling, neglected appearance. Everything about the place suggested age and decay.
“I hope Mr. Styles doesn’t correspond in looks to his building,” remarked Sam Randall. “If he does, perhaps we’d better keep on to Jerry Duncan’s.”