The Boy Ranchers: or, Solving the Mystery at Diamond X

"It is very kind of you, to take this trouble."

"'Sall right," remarked the assistant foreman, as he handed over the bottles of medicine. "Tell th' boss to use it just as it is – don't need any dilutin' with water."

"Oh, you mean Professor Wright," said the other, so translating the cowboy's use of the word "boss."

"Yep," answered Babe. "Tell the boss to use it straight."

"Well, he isn't here just now," said the other. "The men who were shot seem to be doing well, however. I'll attend to them myself. Thank you again."

His voice was cultured and his manner pleasant. But it was evident that he invited no confidences.

Little could be made out, even in the moonlight and the gleam of the fire, save the usual scattered camp outfits, and the white tents.

The boy ranchers and Babe had done what they set out to do – deliver the medicine, and no incident had marked their trip, unless the singing of the assistant foreman can be called such.

"Some of us'll ride over to-morrow," promised Babe, as he and the boys turned to take the trail back to the ranch.

"Thank you, but we may not be here," remarked Professor Blair. "We may move on. But thank you, just the same."

"Don't mention it," begged Babe, slightly sarcastic of the other's cultured accent and words. "We aim to please, an' be neighborly."

"Of which you have given ample evidence," was the rejoinder.

"Guess that'll hold him for a while," murmured Bud to his cousins.

"Good-nights" were called and the outfit from Diamond X ranch was on its way again. Nort and Dick were eagerly questioning Bud about western matters, learning to their delight that there would be chances to go hunting and fishing after the big round-up, and Babe was beginning on about the forty-seventh verse of his favorite song, when Bud suddenly stopped in the midst of telling some incident, and gazed intently across the rolling range.

"What's the matter?" asked Dick in a whisper, for the silence of the night, and the strangeness of their surroundings, seemed to call for whispers.

"I thought I saw cattle moving," said Bud. "Yes, I do!" he went on, quickly. "Look, Babe!"

Babe broke off his song at a point where a dying cowboy was begging to be "toted back to the chuck house," and looked to where the boy rancher pointed.

"That's it, shore as rattlers!" the assistant foreman said. "It's about time they tried suthin' like this! Got your guns, boys?"

"What for?" asked Nort, a thrill of excitement leaping through his veins. "What is there to shoot?"

"Rustlers!" said Bud, grimly. "Somebody – Greasers, likely – are trying to run off some of our fat steers! Come on, we'll ride 'em down!" He clapped spurs to his horse, an example followed by Nort and Dick, but, quick as they were, Babe had shot ahead of them, and in the moonlight the city lads caught the gleam of his gun as he pulled it from the holster.

CHAPTER VII

A CRY IN THE NIGHT

Needless to say that Nort and Dick were thrilled through and through. Having lived in a city nearly all of their lives, though with the usual city lad's dreamings of adventures in the open, of camps, of desperate measures against desperate men, they had never hoped for this.

"Crickity! Think of it!" hoarsely whispered Nort to his brother as they galloped along side by side. "We haven't been here a day yet, and we're run into cattle rustlers!"

"Great!" commented Dick. "Oh, boy!"

"We haven't run into 'em yet, that's the trouble," spoke Bud grimly, as his pony worked in between the two brothers. "But we will in a little while – Babe'll fix 'em."

"Can't we take a hand?" asked Nort eagerly, as his hand sought the weapon at his side.

"We may have to," Bud admitted, "but dad doesn't think I'm old enough, yet, to mix up in a man-sized fight. Maybe he's right, but he always tells me to hold back until I'm needed."

"We can take a hand then, can't we?" asked Nort eagerly.

"Sure thing!" exclaimed Bud. "But there may not be any need of a scrap. These rustlers know they're caught now, and they may run for it. They can't get away with the steers, anyhow, without a fight. Of course if they get Babe covered – and us – they'll make their getaway, but he may bluff 'em off."

"What does it all mean, anyhow?" asked Dick, as the assistant foreman spurred off through the night, following the trail of the now running steers. If there were rustlers driving the cattle away the men themselves gave no sign, but remained hidden.

"It means cattle rustlers – that's all," explained Bud, as he led the way for his cousins to follow, since the young representative of the Diamond X ranch knew the trail. "Rustlers are just men who take other folk's cattle, drive 'em off, change the brands and sell 'em wherever they can. Sometimes they get away with it and sometimes they don't!"

"And are they running off your dad's cattle now?" asked Nort.

"Looks that way," admitted Bud, "though I haven't seen any of the men doing it. You know some of our cowboys drove in a bunch of fat steers from one of dad's distant ranches the other day. They're being taken over to the railroad to be shipped. Not the station where you fellows came in, but another, about two days' trip from here. It's a bunch of these cattle that's being hazed away from us, I reckon."

"I didn't know they hazed steers, like they do college Freshmen," ventured Dick.

"Hazing cattle means to sort of work 'em along easy like – drive 'em where you want to go," explained Bud. "We have to do a lot of hazing when we have the round-up – that's when the cattle owners send their cowboys to collect the animals that have been feeding on the open range during the year. Each man separates into a bunch the cattle with his brands, and also the little calves, or the mavericks, and hazes them toward his corrals."

"What's mavericks?" asked Nort. He could not forbear the question, even though considerable excitement seemed just in the offing. He wanted to learn all he could about ranch life.

"A maverick gets its name from an old Texas ranchman named Sam Maverick," answered Bud. "He didn't brand his cattle, and one day, during a stampede, his steers mixed in with a lot more that were branded. He and his men cut them out and hazed over to his range all cattle that weren't branded. Every cow, calf or steer that didn't have a brand on was called one of Maverick's, and so we call, now, any unbranded animal a 'maverick.' Anybody who finds it can brand it and claim it as his, though; in some places all the mavericks are bunched together and divided. But say, I wonder what Babe's doing, anyhow? I haven't heard a shot, and he must be up to that bunch of rustlers now, if that's what they were."

"What else could they be?" asked Nort.

"I don't know," Bud replied. "Anyhow, here's some of the cattle. Look out you don't run into 'em!" he called sharply, as he pulled in his pony.

He spoke just in time to warn Nort and Dick, for, in another instant, they found themselves among the tail-enders of a bunch of cattle that had run from them at first.

No men were in sight – not even Babe – and there was a haze of clouds over the moon now, and a sort of fog close to the ground, that prevented clear vision.

"Are these your cattle?" asked Dick.

"Tell you in a minute," responded the young cattleman. He rode up alongside one of the animals and focused on its rump the gleam from an electric flash light. Bud carried one of these mighty handy pocket articles, which are much more effective than matches for making observations at night. In the bright gleam of the little light the boy ranchers saw, plainly branded in the hide of the animal, a large diamond, with the letter X in the centre.

"Dad's stock – all of 'em, I reckon!" exclaimed Bud, as he flashed his torch on others in the bunch, revealing more of the Diamond X brand.

"But where are the rustlers?" asked Nort, in a tense whisper, and his hand sought the holster where his newly-acquired weapon rested.

"I don't know," began Bud. "They may have ridden off, or it may be that – "

He stopped suddenly and listened. Dick and Nort heard, as did Bud, the rapid approach of a horseman. In an instant Bud had switched off his pocket electric light, and then in the half hazy light of the partly obscured moon he and his cousins peered forward. Nort and Dick had drawn their guns, an example set them by Bud.

"Don't do any shooting until you hear me," ordered Bud. "There may be no need of it!"

The rider, unseen as yet, was coming nearer and nearer, the thud of his horse's feet pounding hard on the turf. He seemed to be approaching from the direction in which Babe had disappeared.