To the railroad men the country offered no unusual difficulties. The Youngs were as much at home on a horse as on a hand car. Kennedy, though a large and powerful man, was inured to hard riding, and Bob Scott and Whispering Smith in the saddle were merely a part--though an important part--of their horses; without killing their mounts, they could get out of them every mile in their legs. The five men covered twenty miles on a trail that read like print. One after another of the railroad party commented on the carelessness with which it had been left. But twenty miles south of the railroad, in an open and comparatively easy country, it was swallowed completely up in the tracks of a hundred horses. The railroad men circled far and wide, only to find the herd tracks everywhere ahead of them. "This is a beautiful job," murmured Whispering Smith as the party rode together along the edge of a creek-bottom. "Now who is their friend down in this country? What man would get out a bunch of horses like this and work them this hard so early in the morning? Let's hunt that man up. I like to meet a man that is a friend in need." Bob Scott spoke: "I saw a man with some horses in a canyon across the creek a few minutes ago, and I saw a ranch-house behind those buttes when I rode around them." "Stop! Here's a man riding right into our jaws," muttered Kennedy. "Divide up among the rocks." A horseman from the south came galloping up the creek, and Kennedy rode out with an ivory smile to meet him. The two men parleyed for a moment, disputed each other sharply, and rode together back to the railroad party. "Haven't seen any men looking for horses this morning, have you?" asked Whispering Smith, eying the stranger, a squat, square-jawed fellow with a cataract eye. "I'm looking for horses myself. I ain't seen anybody else. What are you looking for?" "Is this your bunch of horses that got loose here?" asked Smith. "No." "I thought," said Kennedy, smiling, "you said a minute ago they were." The stranger fixed his cataract on him like a flash-light. "I changed my mind." Whispering Smith's brows rose protestingly, but he spoke with perfect amiability as he raised his finger to bring the good eye his way. "You ought to change your hat when you change your mind. I saw you driving a bunch of horses up that canyon a few minutes ago. Now, Rockstro, do you still drag your left leg?" The rancher looked steadily at his new inquisitor, but blinked like a gopher at the sudden onslaught. "Which of you fellows is Whispering Smith?" he demanded.