They had not had an easy night of it, either. The battle to the eastward of the herd that had started the stampede had resulted in a flesh wound for Walt and a bad cut on the hand for Ralph. But the boys and the cow–punchers had managed to make prisoners of ten of the hooded Mexicans, so that they felt they had not done a bad night’s work. If only they had possessed a clew to Jack’s fate, they would, in fact, have been jubilant. Ralph’s behavior during the fight had quite won him back the respect he had lost by his poor exhibition with the rope. The Border Boys were declared “the grittiest ever” by every puncher on the range. The ten prisoners were confined in the barn, but they all denied vigorously having seen anything of Jack. They confessed that their raid had been made for the purpose of getting beef for the rebel army, which had been practically starved out by the government troops. Bud had just dismounted by the corral and Walt and Ralph were dispiritedly doing the same when Mr. Reeves uttered a shout and pointed to the far southwest. “Wonder what that is off there, that cloud of dust!” he exclaimed. “I’ll get the glasses, boss,” declared Bud. He dived into the house and speedily reappeared with a pair of powerful binoculars such as most stockmen use. Mr. Reeves applied them to his eyes and gazed long and carefully at the distant object that had attracted his attention. “What is it?” demanded Bud. “I don’t know yet. I can’t see for dust. But I’m pretty sure it’s a band of cattle.” Walt and Ralph held their breaths. “_Our_ cattle?” almost whispered Bud, in a tense voice. “I can’t be sure. It might be any band of steers crossing the state. Tell you what, Bud, saddle the big sorrel for me and we’ll go and find out.” Ten minutes later the band of horsemen was riding at top speed toward the distant moving objects. As they drew closer it was seen that they were unmistakably cattle. All at once Bud gave a sharp cry. “Boss, they’re our cows. See the big muley steer in front? That’s old Abe. I’d know him among a thousand.” “By George, Bud, you’re right! But who can be driving them?” He was interrupted by a mighty shout from Ralph Stetson. “It’s Jack!” he cried. “It _is_ the broncho bustin’ Tenderfoot as sure as you’re a foot high!” bawled out Bud. “But who’s that with him?” demanded Walt. “Dunno; looks like a greaser,” growled Bud, who had no liking for the “brown brothers” across the Border. And then, at the risk of starting another stampede, the cavalcade dashed forward, waving their hats and yelling like wild Indians. Mr. Reeves rode right down on Jack. “Boy, you’re a wonder. How did you do it? No; stop; don’t tell me now. I can see you’re about tuckered out. How are you?” “Roasted out,” rejoined Jack with an attempt at a smile. But his voice was hoarse as a crow’s and his lips were too baked and cracked to smile naturally.