"If it was they took th' wrong trail home-that ain't th' way to
Mexico."
Hopalong tossed aside his half-smoked cigarette. "Well, come on
home; what's th' use stewin' over it? It'll come out all O.K. in th'
wash." Then he laughed: "There won't be no piebald waitin' for it."
Evading Buck's playful blow he led the way to the door, and soon
they were a cloud of dust on the plain. The proprietor, despairing of
customers under the circumstances, absent-mindedly wiped oil on the bar,
and sought his chair for a nap, grumbling about the way his trade had
fallen off, for there were few customers, and those who did call were
heavy with loss of sleep, and with anxiety, and only paused long
enough to toss off their drink. On the ranges there were occurrences
which tried men's souls.
For several weeks cattle had been disappearing from the ranges and
the losses had long since passed the magnitude of those suffered when
Tamale Jose and his men had crossed the Rio Grande and repeatedly
levied heavy toll on the sleek herds of the Pecos Valley. Tamale Jose
had raided once too often, and prosperity and plenty had followed on
the ranches and the losses had been forgotten until the fall round-ups
clearly showed that rustlers were again at work.
Despite the ingenuity of the ranch owners and the unceasing
vigilance and night rides of the cow-punchers, the losses steadily
increased until there was promised a shortage which would permit no
drive to the western terminals of the railroad that year.
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