The others had not stirred. The involuntary dismounting of the young boss was too familiar an episode to provoke anything more than a laugh tinctured with mild satisfaction—
“No Easterner can ride a Western broncho, anyhow.”
“Pass your baccy, Bob,” came a voice from the ring. But the cowboy holding the riderless horse now brought them all to instant attention.
“By God, he’s been shot! There’s blood on the horn, and here’s the rip of the bullet.”
Everyone was on their feet now, and the situation was being eagerly discussed while the saddle was undergoing confirmatory inspection.
“Something’s happened, boys,” exclaimed the big husky fellow addressed as Bob, conclusively, if somewhat obviously. “And I guess we’d better investigate.”
As he spoke he swung himself into his saddle—he had been one of the late arrivals and his horse was all ready for the road or the range.
“Up toward the hills then,” remarked another, indicating the direction whence the riderless horse had come. And a moment later he, too, was astride his broncho.
“I’ll borrow your pony, Ted,” cried out Jack Rover as he jumped astride a third mustang.
And a moment later all three riders were pelting along the road leading to La Siesta. There was no difficulty whatever in picking up the long galloping strides on the dusty highway, and the speed of the trackers depended only on the swiftness and endurance of their mounts.