Two or three cigarettes were a-light, and the “makings” were passing from hand to hand among those not yet engaged in the leisurely blowing of smoke rings. The topic of conversation was the rumored sale of the ranch, which some declared to be assuredly impending, while others dismissed the possibility of such a big deal going through as the merest moonshine. Jack Rover was among those who had no illusions as to the future. “Believe me, fellers,” he was remarking, “it’s no false alarm this time. The old rancho is as good as sold, the stock is a-going to be shipped out, the farmers is a-coming in, and in a few months’ time we’ll all be hunting jobs if there’s any more cow-punching jobs left in this blamed new topsy-turvy world. And that’s the straight goods—hell!” Just as this terse and vigorous summation of the whole dispute found utterance, all eyes were turned in a particular direction. It was young Thurston’s riderless steed that had attracted attention as it swept toward its accustomed quarters in the corral. “It’s Marshall’s horse,” observed one of the boys. “Off again, on again, gone again, Flannigan,” laughed another—an adaptation of a popular story that evoked a general grin. But one youth had sprung to his feet, and skilfully caught the bridle of the panting animal as it passed him. “Whoa, beauty!” 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. Meanwhile the boy who had caught Marshall’s horse had disencumbered it of saddle and bridle, and turned it into the corral with a kindly pat on its heaving flank.