Cowboy yells sounded as the pair of runners started directly toward the marksman's stand, but it was answered by a mocking laugh. Then followed the rapid pounding of a horse's hoofs, telling them that their intended quarry was in no hurry for the punishment which they would only too willingly bestow upon him, could he be overtaken. Of course, they could not pursue on foot, for cowboys as a rule are badly handicapped when out of the saddle. After blazing away several times in the vague hope of crippling the unseen pony or winging its rider by a lucky shot, the two armed men ran for the corral, to get astride their mounts. But all that of course consumed time, and when they were ready to start it was too late. Listen as they might, the keenest of ears proved unable to catch the least sound. Even the faint night breeze was against them, for it came out of the wrong quarter. It was an angry bunch of punchers that gathered around where Frank once more assumed the task of digging. He had seen how recklessly Lanky worked, and considered it the part of wisdom to exercise a little more caution, not knowing whether there might be dynamite or some other explosive that lay buried there, and this action of the stranger only a trap to lure them on to their own sorrow. It proved a wise move on Frank's part, as succeeding events turned out. Those hovering close around him, watching with more or less curiosity, heard a queer clicking sound. Evidently the carefully handled spade had come in contact with some object. "Another iron box, I bet my dandy new quirt!" ejaculated Zander Forbes, showing signs of unusual excitement. Probably he or the rest of the bunch had never before been at the digging up of a treasure-trove until that night when Josh Kinney's secret receptacle was unearthed deep down in the cellar under the ranch pantry. "Pull off another one, Zander, old hoss!" snorted Hoptoad Atkins. "Reckon I know the sound of metal hittin' glass." "Shoot, Frank, and let's see who's got the correct answer!" Buster urged. Frank Allen was not to be hurried an atom. He leaned toward Hoptoad's guess, for the peculiar clink that followed his gently striking some object made him think of a glass bottle. The times were such that bootleggers drifted all over the prairie, disposing of their illegal wares to customers on different ranches. Could it be possible that there was a regular cache of bottled goods hidden here so close to the ranch house? He had heard that Lanky's Uncle George had had more or less trouble with some of his former employees along these very lines; for they seemed able to get the stuff and go on protracted sprees in spite of all his precautions. So when he reached over and lifted a bottle out of the hole it was with a feeling akin to bitter disappointment. Would this explain the persistent attempts of the queer little man to carry out some plan? Low laughter and then grunts came from the group of punchers.