"It must 'a' been my hoss," averred Loudon, solemnly. "I guess now Rufe might have been anxious to get him back—some."
"Yeah," cut in Johnny Ramsay, "but who stole him from the 88? Guess the mystery's thicker'n ever, Tom."
"Looks like it," agreed Loudon. "Scotty or any of 'em in town now, Bill?"
"Scotty ain't. Him an' the Flyin' M bunch have rode south—Damson, I heard Mike Flynn say. Jack Richie's around some'ers. Here he comes now!"
"Which I'd admire to know where you fellers went," exclaimed Jack Richie, his expression radiating relief. "I was bettin' yuh'd been bushwhacked, but Scotty he said no, yuh was more likely bushwhackin' somebody else, an' yuh'd all turn up like plugged dollars bimeby. By the looks of that led horse Scotty had yuh sized up right. Who'd yuh gather in?"
"Blakely," Loudon replied, quietly.
At this juncture Richie perceived the scalp on the gray's bridle.
"I see," said Jack Richie. "Run across any one else?"
"Fellah named O'Leary—yuh don't know him. He got away. We was at the 88 at the time. Before—before Blakely went he confessed to a whole raft o' stuff. We followed up part o' what he said, an' over in a blind cañon south o' Smoky Peak in the Three Sisters we found a hundred an' twenty Bar S, Hawg Pen, an' Cross-in-a-box cows. Some o' the brands was almost healed up, but there was enough that wasn't to tell where they come from. There wasn't nobody with 'em."
"Smoky Peak, huh? Hoofs shaved down or burnt, I s'pose?"