"Are you sure?" Dave asked. "Positive. No one around here rides a horse in that sloppy way but him." "Then he must have found some of his father's strays, and is taking them to the ranch." "I'm not so sure of that," Pete said. "Not so sure of what?" "That the cattle are all his strays. I wouldn't be a bit surprised but what some of ours had got mixed up with 'em. Things like that have been known to happen you know." "Do you' think---" began Dave. "I'm not goin' to take any chances thinkin'," Pete said significantly. "I'm going to make sure." "Look here, Dave," he went on, spurring his pony up alongside of the young cowboy's. "My horse is good an fresh an' Len's doesn't seem to be in such good condition. Probably he's been abusin' it as he's done before. Now I can take this side trail, slip around through the bottom lands, an' get ahead of him." "But it's a hard climb up around the mesa, Pete." "I know it. But I can manage it. Then you come on up behind Len, casual like. If he has any of our cattle--by mistake," said Pete, significantly, "we'll be in a position to correct his error. Nothin' like correctin' errors right off the reel, Dave. Well have him between two fires, so to speak." "All right, Pete. I'll ride up behind him, as I'm doing now, and you'll head him off; is that it?" "That's it. You guessed it first crack out of th' box. If nothin's wrong, why we're all right; we're up this way to look after our strays. And if somethin' is wrong, why we'll be in a position to correct it--that's all." "I see." There was a smile on Dave's face as his cowboy partner, with a wave of his hand, turned his horse into a different trail, speeding the hardy little pony up so as to get ahead of Len Molick. Dave rode slowly on, busy with many thoughts, some of which had to do with the youth before him. Len Molick was about Dave's own age, that is apparently, for, strange as it may seem, Dave was not certain of the exact number of years that had passed over his head. It was evident that he was about eighteen or nineteen. He had recently felt a growing need of a razor, and the hair on his face was becoming wiry. But once, when he asked Randolph Carson, about a birthday, the ranch owner had returned an evasive answer. "I don't know exactly when your birthday does come, Dave," he had said. "Your mother, before she--before she died, kept track of that. In fact I sometimes forget when my own is. I think yours is in May or June, but for the life of me I can't say just which month. It doesn't make a lot of difference, anyhow." "No, Dad, not especially. But just how old am I?" "Well, Dave, there you've got me again. I think it's around eighteen. But your mother kept track of that, too. I never had the time. Put it down at eighteen, going on nineteen, and let it go at that. Now say, about that last bunch of cattle we shipped--"