"We can not catch dem!" cried Laguerre ten minutes later.
"We'll try, anyhow," replied Loudon, standing up in the stirrups to ease his horse, and wishing that he had ridden Ranger.
Half an hour later it became obvious that pursuit was useless. Brown Jug and the gray had the legs of the pursuer's horses. The sun was setting, too. Loudon and Laguerre pulled in their panting mounts.
"Here comes Johnny an' Chuck," said Loudon.
"Could yuh tell who they was?" demanded Johnny, breathlessly.
"They kept their backs to us," Loudon replied, drily, "an' they didn't leave any cards."
"Ain't got no manners at all," said Johnny Ramsay. "They're headin' northwest, an' they shore ought to get there. C'mon back, I'm dry."
"They was seven 88 ponies in Block's corral," said Chuck Morgan. "Let's hurry. Maybe we can get the owners yet."
"If they ain't already been got," said Johnny Ramsay.
"Seven 88 ponies," repeated Loudon. "I seen 'em in the corral, but I couldn't see the brand. Seven. That means seven o' the outfit was in Farewell, an' more'n seven, maybe. I don't believe Blakely was there. He's been mighty cautious lately. Well, anyhow, countin' seven at Farewell, there'd ought to be eight more at the four line-camps. Rudd's quit, an' Marvin is hogtied, an' Shorty Simms is dead. Accordin' to my figurin', that makes eighteen."