The boy peered keenly down at the stream. The others grouped themselves eagerly around Teddy, while the sun, almost at the horizon, threw a cloth of gold upon the water. Suddenly Teddy saw a silver flash about five feet out. He brought the gun to his shoulder and took careful aim. Crack! “Get him?” Pop asked excitedly, forgetting his former declaration of unbelief. “Wait a minute,” Teddy grinned. “Give me time. There--what’s that?” He pointed toward a spot a little out from where they were standing. Bug Eye gave a yell. “A fish, sure as shootin’! An’ dead! Teddy, yo’re a wonder! I’ll get that one for you!” Shoes and all, he waded into the stream and seized the trout that floated on the surface of the river. “Boy, it’s a wonder!” Pop exclaimed, as Bug Eye held the fish up for inspection. The veteran rancher gazed at Teddy and shook his head. “One too many for me,” he muttered. “You win, Teddy!” “Golly, it did work, didn’t it?” the young lad marveled, touching his prize. “What do you think of that, Roy?” “I think you’re the luckiest boy in seven counties,” his brother laughed. “But, anyway, we’ve got our supper, and we’ll give you credit, Ted. Hail to the chief!” and he bowed low. “May he continue to have much success in his chosen career.” “It’s the concussion,” Teddy remarked, apropos of nothing. “The bullet hits the water, and the shock stuns the fish. At least that’s the technical explanation of the phenomenon,” and he pretended to choke over the long words. “But I suppose it’s useless to tell you birds that. Come on, let’s eat.” Had it not been for the fact that the mission before them was of such a weighty nature, the memory of that supper underneath the sky on the banks of the river would have remained in the minds of Teddy and Roy as one of the happiest they had ever enjoyed. But they could not entirely throw off the responsibility that burdened them, and behind all the jests that enlivened the meal was a feeling that this was superficial, and, at most, a respite. Still, worry does not sit long on young shoulders, and the occasion was a jolly one. Supper over, they saw to it that the boat was safe from possible attacks by the turbulent river. Then, wrapping themselves tightly in their blankets, the four cast themselves down upon nature’s bed. The light from their dying campfire flickered eerily, casting strange shadows. Above them the wind caressed the tree tops, humming or whistling as trees will. And far down the stream, under these same stars, rode a man with a haunted look on his face--a man on a stolen pony and with four hundred dollars in bills in his pocket. He heard no whispering winds, saw no stars; the river to him was no friend, nor could he find comfort in the prospect of a camp by the side of a stream. But he soon must stop, for even he must rest and give respite to the wearily lagging pony. CHAPTER XII Voices in the Night