“I guess we had better get the horses corraled, hadn’t we, Skipper?” inquired Juarez. “It’s beginning to get dark.”
“Right you are,” agreed Jim. “They have had a two-hour graze. We will take them down to water and then bring them into camp. Jo, you stay here and guard the goods.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said Jo.
It was already growing dusk when the boys started across the level meadow to get the animals. They had no difficulty in picking up the trailing lariats. Only the mules acted rather queer. Their long ears were pitched forward and they were gazing fixedly in the direction of the mountain back of the camp. Then Missouri, the leader, a big buckskin with a brown stripe down his back, suddenly put his ears back and began to squeal loud and viciously.
“What’s the matter with old Missouri?” inquired Jeems anxiously. “You don’t suppose that the grass has given him a pain in his tummy?”
“No,” said Jim, “the old chap scents trouble of some kind.”
“Maybe it’s a mountain lion,” suggested Tom, “that would make him act up.”
“Maybe,” admitted Jim.
Now they had arrived at the stream that was roaring through the meadow. It was no brook either, but a brawling stream about forty feet in width, very clear and wonderfully cold, as it came from the snow-clad summits to the northwest. There were a good many large boulders that checked its course and made a roaring music in the quiet of the valley. It was a full half mile from the hill where the camp was.