The artist tried to eat; but with little success.  He was again mounted and ready to go when the Ranger rode up from the barn on the chestnut.

When they reached the point where the road to Morton’s ranch leaves the main canyon road, Brian Oakley said, “It’s barely possible that she went on up to Carleton’s.  But I think we better go to Morton’s and see the Doctor first.  We don’t want to miss him.  Did you meet any one as you came up?  I mean after you got within two or three miles of the mouth of the canyon?”

“No,” replied the other.  “Why?”

“A man on a horse passed the Station about seven o’clock, going down.  Where did the Doctor pass you?”

“He didn’t pass me.”

“What?” said the Ranger, sharply.

“No one passed me after I left Fairlands.”

“Hu-m-m.  If Doc left town before you, he must have had a puncture or something, or he would have passed the Station before he did.”

It was ten o’clock when the two men arrived at the Morton ranch.

“We don’t want to start any excitement,” said the officer, as they drew rein at the corral gate.  “You stay here and I’ll drop in—­casual like.”

It seemed to Aaron King, waiting in the darkness, that his companion was gone for hours.  In reality, it was only a few minutes until the Ranger returned.  He was walking quickly, and, springing into the saddle he started the chestnut off at a sharp lope.

“The baby is better,” he said.  “Doctor was here this afternoon—­started home about two o’clock.  That ‘auto’ must have gone on up the canyon.  Morton knew nothing of the man on horseback who went down.  We’ll cut across to Carleton’s.”

Presently, the Ranger swung the chestnut aside from the wagon road, to follow a narrow trail through the chaparral.  To the artist, the little path in the darkness was invisible, but he gave his horse the rein and followed the shadowy form ahead.  Three-quarters of an hour later, they came out into the main road, again; near the Carleton ranch corral, a mile and a half below the old camp in the sycamores behind the orchard of the deserted place.

It was now eleven o’clock and the ranch-house was dark.  Without dismounting, Brian Oakley called, “Hello, Henry!” There was no answer.  Moving his horse close to the window of the room where he knew the rancher slept, the Ranger tapped on the sash.  “Henry, turn out; I want to see you; it’s Oakley.”

A moment later the sash was raised and Carleton asked, “What is it, Brian?  What’s up?”

“Is Sibyl stopping with you folks, to-night?”

“Sibyl!  Haven’t seen her since they went down from their summer camp.  What’s the matter?”

Briefly, the Ranger explained the situation.  The rancher interrupted only to greet the artist with a “howdy, Mr. King,” as the officer’s words made known the identity of his companion.

When Brian Oakley had concluded, the rancher said, “I heard that ‘auto’ going up, and then heard it going back down, again, about an hour ago.  You missed it by turning off to Morton’s.  If you’d come on straight up here you’d a met it.”