“I don’t know. The night-riders weren’t there last night when I rode down, en’ this mornin’ I met no day-riders.” “Judkins! Bern, they’ve been set upon—killed by Oldring’s men!” “I don’t think so,” replied Venters, decidedly. “Jane, your riders haven’t gone out in the sage.” “Bern, what do you mean?” Jane Withersteen turned deathly pale. “You remember what I said about the unseen hand?” “Oh!... Impossible!” “I hope so. But I fear—” Venters finished, with a shake of his head. “Bern, you’re bitter; but that’s only natural. We’ll wait to see what’s happened to my riders. Judkins, come to the house with me. Your wound must be attended to.” “Jane, I’ll find out where Oldring drives the herd,” vowed Venters. “No, no! Bern, don’t risk it now—when the rustlers are in such shooting mood.” “I’m going. Jud, how many cattle in that red herd?” “Twenty-five hundred head.” “Whew! What on earth can Oldring do with so many cattle? Why, a hundred head is a big steal. I’ve got to find out.” “Don’t go,” implored Jane. “Bern, you want a hoss thet can run. Miss Withersteen, if it’s not too bold of me to advise, make him take a fast hoss or don’t let him go.” “Yes, yes, Judkins. He must ride a horse that can’t be caught. Which one—Black Star—Night?” “Jane, I won’t take either,” said Venters, emphatically. “I wouldn’t risk losing one of your favorites.” “Wrangle, then?” “Thet’s the hoss,” replied Judkins. “Wrangle can outrun Black Star an’ Night. You’d never believe it, Miss Withersteen, but I know. Wrangle’s the biggest en’ fastest hoss on the sage.” “Oh no, Wrangle can’t beat Black Star. But, Bern, take Wrangle if you will go. Ask Jerd for anything you need. Oh, be watchful, careful.... God speed you.” She clasped his hand, turned quickly away, and went down a lane with the rider. Venters rode to the barn, and, leaping off, shouted for Jerd. The boy came running. Venters sent him for meat, bread, and dried fruits, to be packed in saddlebags. His own horse he turned loose into the nearest corral. Then he went for Wrangle. The giant sorrel had earned his name for a trait the opposite of amiability. He came readily out of the barn, but once in the yard he broke from Venters, and plunged about with ears laid back. Venters had to rope him, and then he kicked down a section of fence, stood on his hind legs, crashed down and fought the rope. Jerd returned to lend a hand. “Wrangle don’t git enough work,” said Jerd, as the big saddle went on. “He’s unruly when he’s corralled, an’ wants to run. Wait till he smells the sage!” “Jerd, this horse is an iron-jawed devil. I never straddled him but once. Run? Say, he’s swift as wind!”