“There’s another little item that sticks in my mind,” Teddy remarked in a low voice. “It happened near the corral the night the horse and the money were stolen. Guess you know what I mean, Roy. Though I’d rather have it sticking in my mind than in my chest,” he added significantly. “The knife with J. K. on it,” Roy returned. “Sure, I know, Teddy. But the sooner we forget The Pup the better. He’s gone. If we catch him, fine! If not--well, charge it up to profit and loss.” “That’s the right idea, Roy,” Mr. Manley agreed. “We’ve got enough on our hands now. If we get our cattle back I’ll be satisfied.” “I suppose I ought to be--and maybe I’ll have to be; but it sure sticks in my craw to let a thing like that get by me!” muttered Teddy. The gloom of evening was at hand, and the men rode in close formation, talking in subdued tones. Pop and Bug Eye were ahead, leading. Roy and Teddy brought up the rear, their father riding just ahead of them. They had planned to cover as much distance as possible before dark, so that when morning came they would be near enough to the rustlers to seize them before they had a chance to escape. They soon came to the lowlands just beyond the range of Whirlpool River Ranch. The air here was damp and chill, due to the moisture from the river which had settled in the depressions. To add to this, the night promised to be cloudy, with no moon showing. Already the dull, gray canopy was curtaining the evening sky, cutting off, in the fullness of its glory, the western sunset. “This is the first real touch of fall we’ve had,” Roy remarked, buttoning his shirt collar higher. Then, raising his voice: “Where are you figuring to stop, Dad? Going to ride part of the night?” Mr. Manley, the better to reply, wheeled his pony and circled back toward his son. “Nope,” he answered. “Soon as we top this rise ahead we’ll call a halt. We sure don’t want to camp in this place. Golly, it’s damp!” and he shivered slightly. The leaders of the column quickened their pace, so that they might leave the lowlands as quickly as possible. Pop, like most old ranchmen, had his pet superstitions, and one of them was that it was unlucky to stay long in such a place. “Things happen,” he declared vaguely. “The mountains are all right--don’t care how high they are. Open range is all right. But every time I ride through land that sets low, I get a feelin’ that somethin’ is goin’ to turn up. Don’t know why, but I do.” “Ever hear that dampness was bad for rheumatism?” Teddy chuckled. “That might have something to do with it, Pop.” “No sir,” and Pop shook his head obstinately. “It’s got nothin’ to do with rheumatism. Even Nat Raymond’s pony knows what I mean. Look at the way he’s actin’.” In truth, the bronco Nat rode, which had come from the home ranch with him, was acting queerly. The pony would come to a dead stop, lift its head, whinny, and proceed. This performance was repeated several times. Mr. Manley observed the horse with interest.