With the rising of the sun, the mountain folk, summoned in the night by the Ranger’s messengers, assembled at the ranch; every man armed and mounted with the best his possessions afforded.  Tied to the trees in the yard, and along the fence in front, or standing with bridle-reins over their heads, the horses waited.  Lying on the porch, or squatting on their heels, in unconscious picturesque attitudes, the mountain riders who had arrived first and had finished their breakfast were ready for the Ranger’s word.  In the ranch kitchen, the table was filled with the later ones; and these, as fast as they finished their meal, made way for the new arrivals.  There was no loud talk; no boisterous laughter; no uneasy restlessness.  Calm-eyed, soft-voiced, deliberate in movement, these hardy mountaineers had answered Brian Oakley’s call; and they placed themselves, now, under his command, with no idle comment, no wasteful excitement but with a purpose and spirit that would, if need be, hold them in their saddles until their horses dropped under them, and would, then, send them on, afoot, as long as their iron nerves and muscles could be made to respond to their wills.

There was scarce a man in that company, who did not know and love Sibyl Andres, and who had not known and loved her parents.  Many of them had ridden with the Ranger at the time of Will Andres’ death.  When the officer and his companion appeared, they gathered round their leader with simple words of greeting, and stood silently ready for his word.

Briefly, Brian Oakley divided them into parties, and assigned the territory to be covered by each.  Three shots in quick succession, at intervals of two minutes, would signal that the search was finished.  Two men, he held to go with him up Oak Knoll trail, after his messenger to the Sheriff had returned.  At sunset, they were all to reassemble at the ranch for further orders.  When the officer finished speaking, the little group of men turned to the horses, and, without the loss of a moment, were out of sight in the mountain wilderness.

A half hour before he was due, young Carleton appeared with the Sheriff’s answer to the Ranger’s letter.  “Well done, boy,” said Brian Oakley, heartily.  “Take care of your horse, now, and then get some rest yourself, and be ready for whatever comes next.”

He turned to those he had held to go with him; “All right, boys, let’s ride.  Sheriff will take care of the Fairlands end.  Come, Aaron.”

All the way up the Oak Knoll trail the Ranger rode in the lead, bending low from his saddle, his gaze fixed on the little path.  Twice he dismounted and walked ahead, leaving the chestnut to follow or to wait, at his word.  When they came out on the pipe-line trail, he halted the party, and, on foot, went carefully over the ground either way from the point where they stood.

“Boys,” he said at last, “I have a hunch that there was a horse on this trail last night.  It’s been so blamed dry, and for so long, though, that I can’t be sure.  I held you two men because I know you are good trailers.  Follow the pipe-line up the canyon, and see what you can find.  It isn’t necessary to say stay with it if you strike anything that even looks like it might be a lead.  Aaron and I will take the other way, and up the Galena trail to the fire-break.”