He put the reins between his teeth and drew the Winchester from the scabbard under his left leg. He threw down the lever a trifle. There was a cartridge in the chamber. The loading gate resisted the pressure of his thumb. There was at least one cartridge in the magazine, but by the weight of the rifle he judged it to be fully loaded. Loudon returned the Winchester to its scabbard and slowed the willing little bay to a lope. "Yo're all right, old hoss," he said, "but yuh can't never catch that hoss o' mine. Not in a million years. We just got to wait till he stops." Rufe Cutting could have devised no better revenge than the stealing of Loudon's horse. Since Loudon had owned Ranger no one save himself and Kate Saltoun had ridden him. Ranger's legs were frequently hand-rubbed. Ranger was curried. With his fingers--no true horseman would dream of using the comb of commerce--Loudon frequently combed Ranger's mane and tail. When a horse in the cow country is curried and combed, that horse is a highly valued horse. Johnny Ramsay accused Loudon of wrapping Ranger in blankets when the air was chilly, and of taking his temperature on all occasions. Undoubtedly Loudon was somewhat of a crank where Ranger was concerned. And now the inconceivable had come to pass. Ranger had been stolen--stolen almost under the very nose of his master. Loudon did not swear. His feeling was too deeply grim for that. But he promised himself an accounting--a very full accounting. Loudon rode onward at a steady lope. Before him stretched the dusty ribbon of trail. Blank and bare it led between the low hills and lifted over the ridges. He saw no more specks ahead. The quarry had outdistanced him. Fifteen miles out of Paradise Bend he heard a faint shout in his rear. He looked over his shoulder. A half mile distant two men were galloping toward him. One of them waved an arm half red, half blue. "Scotty," muttered Loudon, and checked his horse. The two clattered up, their horses' out-blown nostrils whistling. One of the men was the owner of the Flying M. The other was the proprietor of the Chicago Store. "Seen him?" demanded Scotty. "Once," replied Loudon. "He's ridin' with Block now, but they pulled away from me. I ain't seen 'em for over a hour." "They're stickin' to the trail," grunted the store proprietor, who rejoiced in the name of Ragsdale, glancing at the hoof-marks in the dust. "C'mon!" snapped Scotty Mackenzie. Three miles farther on Ragsdale's mount began to falter. "He's done," growled Ragsdale. "Give 'em one for me." Ragsdale halted. Loudon and Scotty Mackenzie rode on. "Where did yuh get that bay?" queried Scotty, eying the Flying M brand on the bay's hip. "It was his--Cutting's," replied Loudon. "Cutting's? Djuh mean Rufe Cutting is the hoss thief?" "Shore! I clean forgot yuh didn't know about Cutting's quittin' his job." Loudon explained the manner of the cook's departure and his subsequent actions to Mackenzie.