“Send word, if you can, son. I suppose I ought to go with you myself; but that game leg still troubles me on a long ride. Besides, you and Bob have done so well lately, that I think it would be safe to trust anything in your hands.” “We’re going to do the best we can to get the tangle ironed out at the mine, whatever it proves to be; and have matters running smooth again. Good-by, Bart Heminway! All kinds of good luck with you on the range while we’re away. So-long boys! Wish the whole bunch of you could gallop with us! Ready, Bob? Then we’re off!” A series of parting salutes, such as only wide-awake cowboys know how to give, followed Frank and his chum as they galloped away from the Circle Ranch cattle corral. Frank’s father, the owner of the place, sat stride his big roan, and surrounded by his dozen tried and true “punchers” watched his boy Frank, accompanied by his comrade, Bob Archer, from Kentucky, as they topped a slight rise of the prairie about half a mile away. “One last shout, and then we lose sight of the old ranch house!” said Frank. They turned in the saddle, and waved their hats three times, accompanying each movement with a clear call that brought an answering whoop from the little cluster of horsemen. Then the word was given, and the eager, mettlesome horses sprang down the easy descent. The distant white-washed buildings, that constituted the heart of the famous Circle Ranch in Arizona, disappeared from sight. Before the two boys lay the great level plains, with the mountains in the distance. Frank had been brought up amid such surroundings, and was fairly well versed in such things as went with life on a big cattle ranch. He was never so happy as when mounted on his sturdy and swift pony, “Buckskin,” and galloping over the country, either pursuing some of the duties of a cow puncher, or hunting such game as might be found within a radius of twenty miles. Frank was a athletic fellow, as might be expected of one who spent so much time on horseback. His clear blue eyes gleamed fearlessly, and he had proved this trait of his character on numerous occasions. Bob Archer, his chum, had until recently lived in Kentucky, where he attended a military academy at Frankfort. His father having entered into partnership with Colonel Haywood in several mining ventures, the old home had been left behind for a new life in Arizona. These two lads had early taken a great fancy to one another. Of course when Bob first came to the cattle country he was a real “tenderfoot;” but experience was fast taking that title away. Indeed, the boys of Circle Ranch declared that it was seldom a “greenhorn” picked up so quickly a knowledge of the thousand-and-one things essential to the genuine cowboy.