“Come right in, fellows!” he called. “I straightened things up a bit; an’ there’s a nice room where you kin rest jist as long as you like.”
Bob Somers, Dave Brandon and Larry Burnham kept to the rear of the little procession which immediately started off.
Just as they reached the steps of the ranch-house Bob Somers dropped behind, and, while the rest crowded toward the entrance, the Rambler, with a quick, noiseless tread, slipped around the side of the house.
Pausing for an instant to study his surroundings, he headed directly toward a spur in the hills thickly overgrown with bushes and only about a hundred feet distant. Several times he turned, half expecting to see other men around the ranch.
But from the rear the old house presented a picture of loneliness and desolation. Even the dilapidated sheds and stable close by were apparently deserted, although, through an open door, he caught a glimpse of several horses.
“I’ll admit if a motion picture photographer had his camera trained on me I’d feel rather foolish,” muttered Bob, when he reached his goal and threw himself flat on the ground behind the bushes. “I don’t know exactly why I’m here—but I am here! If I don’t see anything suspicious within a half hour or so guess I’d better go back to the crowd.”
From his position he was able to get a good view of both buildings, and at the same time was thoroughly concealed by the bushes.
The lone watcher, busily debating in his mind the question as to whether he was acting foolishly or pursuing a course of wisdom, answered the problem to his own satisfaction within the next five minutes.
The back door of the house opened, and three men came hurriedly out, almost running toward the stable; and the one in the rear he recognized as Hank Styles.
“Good gracious!” murmured Bob. “There’s something doing, sure as I live. Wonder what in the world has become of the fellows?”