The father was inordinately proud of his son, Quincey, who in many respects took after the mother.  He, too, was quiet, self-possessed, and somewhat pale.  He worked for us and other cattlemen, not for his father, and after the lad left school Ajax fell to speculating about him, as he speculated about the mother.

“Is Quincey on to the old man’s games?” he would ask.

It must be recorded that John Jacob was very careful to keep within the limits of the law, but he ploughed close to the line, where the soil, as we all know, is richest and, comparatively speaking, virgin.  But no man in the county was louder than he in denouncing such crimes as horse-stealing or cattle-lifting, crimes in those days disgracefully common.  He might ear-mark a wandering piglet, for instance, or clap his iron upon an unbranded yearling; but who could swear that these estrays were not the lawful property of him upon whose land they were found?

At that time Ajax and I were breeding Cleveland Bays, and amongst our colts we had two very promising animals likely to make a match team, and already prize-winners at the annual county fair.  One day in October, Uncle Jake, our head vaquero, reported the colts to be missing out of our back pasture.  Careful examination revealed the cutting of the fence.  Obviously the colts had been stolen.

Ajax suggested that we should employ old man Dumble to help us to recover the stolen property.  He was shrewd and persevering, and he knew every man, woman, and child within a radius of fifty miles.

“Why, boys,” said he, when we asked him to undertake the job, “I’d do more than this to help friends and neighbours.  It’s a dooty to hunt down these scallywags, a dooty, yas—­and a pleasure.”

We took the trail that night.  The thief, so far as we could conjecture, had about twenty hours start, but then he would be obliged to travel by night and by devious mountain-paths.  According to old Dumble, his objective would be Bakersfield, and to reach Bakersfield some dry plains must be traversed.  At the watering-places upon these plains we might expect to hear from sheep-herders and vaqueros some information respecting animals so handsome and so peculiarly marked as our colts.

And so it proved.  At a dismal saloon, where water was nearly as expensive and quite as bad as the whisky, we learned that a bright bay colt with a white star and stocking, and another with a white nose, had been seen early that morning.  Old man Dumble gleaned more.

“We’re dealing with a tenderfoot and a stranger to the saloon-keeper,” he said, as we struck into the sage-brush wilderness.  “The fool didn’t know enough to spend a few dollars at the bar.  He called for one lemonade.”

“Well,” said Ajax, “you are teetotal yourself; you ought to respect a man who calls for lemonade.”

“I ain’t a thief,” said our neighbour.  “If I was,” he added, “I reckon I’d cover my tracks around saloons with a leetle whisky.  Boys, there’s another thing.  This feller we’re after is ridin’ too fast.  Them colts won’t stand it.  Young things must feed an’ rest.  The saloon-keeper allowed they were footsore a’ready, and kinder petered out.  We must keep our eyes skinned.”