“Wait a second, boss!” he called again. “I just heard about it! Snakes! The fust time the old X Bar X brand has been stolen! Me, I’m comin’ with you, ain’t I, boss? Ain’t I?” He reached Mr. Manley, breathing hard. “Yes, Pop, you can come,” Mr. Manley answered. “Wondered how long you’d be reachin’ here. Git your pinto an’ come on.” Pop Burns clapped his hat on his head, and made for the corral, to return in a moment upon his horse. “All right, men!” he exclaimed. “After ’em! Snakes! No rustler kin steal any X Bar X brand an’ get away with it!” Mr. Manley turned from the old wrangler to Roy. “Son,” he said slowly, “get your rifle. Bring Teddy’s out, too. Hurry up!” The boy ran up the steps and into the building. Mr. Manley handed his own gun to Teddy. “Hold this,” he ordered. “I’m going to say good-bye to your mother.” He made for the side of the house where Mrs. Manley and Belle Ada were waiting in the garden. When he returned his face wore a grim look. The time for action had come. Roy had brought the rifles, and he, Mr. Manley, and Teddy vaulted into the saddle. The others, Pop, Nick, and Gus Tripp, were already mounted. The news of the theft had gone the rounds of the ranch like wildfire. Every puncher on the place, except those riding herd, were watching from the top rail of the corral fence. Even Sing Lung, the cook, deserted his kitchen and came to the door of the mess-house, carrying in his hand a huge spoon. Mr. Manley gave a yell. Spurs raked the sides of the steeds. There was the sound of hoofs on the hard earth. The six horses swung into action. Down toward the road swept the riders. Past the corral, the punchers astride the top rail yelling encouragement. Past the mess-house, Sing Lung waving his spoon wildly and shouting Chinese in a fluent stream. Out of the yard and into the road leading to Eagles. A cloud of dust arose. The chase was on. “Take it easy for a while, boys,” Mr. Manley advised, as he pulled his horse down to a slower pace. “There’s some things I want to tell you. First of all, I want to say this. I see you all have got rifles along. Well, don’t do any promiscuous shootin’. We want to get those hosses back, but we don’t want any more trouble than we can help. Savvy?” “We get you, boss,” Gus Tripp drawled. “No fireworks! Just clean up this job, hey?” “Right!” Mr. Manley tugged at one end of his mustache. “Now there’s something else. I reckon you all don’t know much about this rustlin’. Here’s how it happened.” He told, as briefly as possible, how the horses had been stolen. “When I talked to the punchers down by the railroad corral, I got an idea,” he continued. “You remember Gilly Froud, don’t you?” Short nods came in answer. “Well, Froud had a scar on the left side of his face. So did one of the men who stole our broncs, accordin’ to the fellers I talked to. That mean anything?” he questioned.