The rough men went on with their prisoner, tossing the rail up and down and making his seat as uncomfortable as possible. Chet stopped in the trail and halted Digby by clinging to his coat-sleeve. “Let’s go back,” he said. “I wish the men hadn’t angered Tony so. Perhaps he _will_ do my father some harm.” “A fat chance he’d have of doing that!” exclaimed the other boy. “He’ll never dare come back here again. You tell your father. He’ll be on the lookout for Tony.” “No, no! He’s got enough to worry him. I wouldn’t say anything now that would disturb his mind. And say, Dig, that reminds me! Let’s try and get ’em to let us go to Grub Stake.” “Huh? To Grub Stake?” cried Digby, in surprise. “What for? Though I’d go quick enough if it were only to buy a lemon.” “There’s a bigger reason than that,” laughed Chet Havens. “Didn’t you hear my father say something about getting some papers signed by a man named Morrisy who lives at Grub Stake?” “Yes, I remember.” “Well, it’s important. Father can’t go because his foot’s hurt. Let’s tease to go. And on the trail we might run across that big buffalo.” “By the last hoptoad that was chased out of Ireland!” ejaculated the excited Dig, falling back upon his favourite exclamation, “that would be great. But you do the askin’, Chet. My father will think I’ve got something up my sleeve if I undertake even to hint at such a trip.” Chet agreed to this; but it was not a propitious moment to broach the subject when the chums returned to the shaft of the Silent Sue. Mr. Havens had just been helped upon Chet’s horse again, and was going home. He expected to remain at home for some weeks, and the business of the Silent Sue was to be under Mr. Fordham’s sole direction. The partners in the mine knew nothing about the trouble Tony Traddles had gotten into with the rougher element of the miners. Nor did the boys say anything about what they had seen. The next morning Digby was over bright and early at the Havens house to see if Chet had spoken to his father regarding the Grub Stake trip. He found his chum in the lot beside the corral, where his mother had a flock of hens, with his small, twenty-two calibre rifle. It was the little weapon Chet had learned to shoot with. “What are you doin’ with that little play gun?” chuckled Digby. “Shootin’ horseflies?” “Just you keep still a minute,” whispered Chet, who was crouching behind a shed wall. “Stoop down here. Keep still. I’m watching a hawk.” “You can’t shoot even a chicken hawk with that thing!” exclaimed Dig, scorning a weapon of small calibre. “You wait and see,” commanded Chet. “There he comes now!” Far off against the sky appeared a dark spot, circling ever lower and lower. The great hawk swept down in narrowing circles, its objective point plainly being Mrs. Havens’ hen-run. “Why don’t you get a gun?” growled Dig, for although he well knew Chet’s skill with firearms, he thought the tiny rifle a foolish thing.