"Have to rope him, I guess!" cried Nort, who was a little in advance of his brother.
"Go to it! We got to find out what's wrong!"
There was an exciting race for a few minutes but in the end Nort and his trusty lariat won. The coils settled over the head of the runaway and he was gently brought to a halt. Once caught he was tractable enough. It was as though he had wanted to show off.
"Bridle's gone; eh?" remarked Dick as he cantered up alongside his brother and the captured horse. "That looks bad."
"Unless Bud took it off himself, to let his pony graze in more comfort."
"He wouldn't do that without hobbling him, and look—there's his rope."
Dick pointed to the coils on the saddle horn.
"Then what happened? Is there any——"
Nort did not like to use the word "blood," but that is what he implied.
And his brother knew the thought—that Bud might have been shot by some
rustlers or roving desperados and so had been dropped from the saddle.
But there were no evidences of foul play, and no signs of a struggle.
No marks showed on the pony, either.
"Well, this sure is a mystery!" exclaimed Nort when the casual examination, was over. "What has become of Bud?"
"That's what I'd like to know," echoed Dick. "What's the next move?"