Reaching the point where the mad race had begun, they looked earnestly about for any signs of their horses. Those belonging to Bob and Jack Conroy were soon discovered peacefully browsing in the direction of a heavily-timbered section on the west, but the packhorse had disappeared.
"Oh, ginger!" groaned Dick. "Isn't that about the limit? Hello—he went right down into the valley."
"How do you know?" asked Tommy, quickly.
"It's easy; the little dub has jolted off some of the stuff. See that shiny thing on the ground?"
"Oh, yes!"
"That's one of our canteens, sure; and—why—say, there's the commissary department now, away off, just coming up on that rise; eh, fellows?"
"Yes; that must be the little brute," agreed Tim, shading his eyes. "Havin' the time o' his life, too."
"An' somebody'll have the time o' his life bringin' him back," remarked Jack, with a glance toward his own broncho near the timber line. "It'll take about an hour an' eighty minutes, Dave."
"Correct," sighed Dave. "It was my fault; so the job is up to me."
"Not on your life," chirped Tim. "You'd be back 'bout the time the moon dragged itself up over the hills. Say, Dave, that's a great expression for your book—'dragged itself up'—eh?"