"Uppish, huh?" chuckled Luke. "Well, young man; mebby ambushin' ain't yore style, but I feels free to remark that it's mine in any game like this. Them pants feel good. That river's gettin' colder every year." "River!" ejaculated Johnny, pausing in his surprise. "What river?" "Deepwater, of course. How many rivers do you reckon we got out here?" "Th' devil!" muttered Johnny. "Say! When did you leave th' ranch?" "'Bout three o'clock. I'd 'a' been here sooner, only I hoofed it from th' river. Cayuses can't go where a man can; they make a lot of noise, an' a man sticks up too cussed prominent in a saddle. They ain't worth a cuss in this kind of country when trouble's afoot." "Well, I'll be hanged!" grunted Johnny. "Pull up; here we are," said Luke, stopping and bending over some rocks, which he rolled aside. "Rocks are reg'lar telltales. They has a dark side an' a light side; an' th' deeper they're set in th' ground, th' bigger th' dark side is. When you want to cache with 'em, you picks them that sets _on_ th' ground; an' you don't turn 'em wrong side up, neither. Then a little sand used right will fix things so that only me or an Injun can tell that anything's been moved. Here's yore ca'tridges an' tobacco. Tote 'em yoreself." "Much obliged. But how did you find me so cussed quick?" demanded Johnny, breaking open the boxes and distributing their contents about his person. "Smelled you," chuckled Luke, fixing the pack on his back. "Yo're an old liar!" retorted Johnny. "Tell me about it." "Can't; there ain't nothin' to tell," replied Luke, winking at the sky. "It's just experience, instinct, brains, knowin' how, an' a couple more things. Us old-timers done better'n that, forty year ago. I'm glad to get my hand in ag'in; punchin' cows shore does spoil a man. Now, you know this layout; where we goin' now? An' what you goin' to do with that four-laigged nuisance?" "Put her in a draw east of here. She'll stay where I leave her." "Then she ain't no fe-male. It just can't be did. I know 'em!" "You an' our Pete oughta get acquainted with each other," chuckled Johnny. "You fellers has th' same ideas 'bout some things." "Foreman, or owner?" "Just a plain puncher." "He oughta be th' foreman; he's got sense. I buried one, an' left two more. You can't fool me about th' sex." "Yo're a reprobate. Come on, Pepper," said Johnny, whistling to the horse, who heeled like a dog. "It'll be light purty soon, an' we want to hide this cayuse." "It's yore say-so; I'll string along, ready to chip." CHAPTER XXI SCOUTING AS A FINE ART