"It ain't the boy we're chasin' up, Jeff," he said, with a deep
assurance.
"How d'you know that?"
The demand was incisive, almost rough.
"These folks weren't pelt hunters. Not by a sight. I bin around."
Jeff had turned to the speaker, and a great relief shone in his eyes.
"What--who were they--then?" he asked sharply.
"Maybe it was a ranch--of sorts."
"Of sorts? You mean----?"
"Rustlers. Come right on out of here, an' I'll show you."
With gentle insistence he drew his friend away from the painfully
fascinating spectacle which held so difficult a riddle. And presently
they were again with their horses, which were grazing unconcernedly
upon the sweet blue grass which the valley yielded so generously.
"Well?" There was almost impatience in Jeff's monosyllable.
For answer Bud pointed at a number of rough fences, uneven, crude,
makeshift, some distance away.
"See them? Oh, yes, I guess they're corrals sure. But it don't take a
feller who's lived all his life among cattle more'n five seconds to
locate their meanin'.
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