“Good idea,” acquiesced Bill, and the shift in mounts was made, after which the boys headed for the ranch house.

As they were starting on the long forty-mile ride, Mr. Wilder and Nails were ending it.  Though forced to ride carefully so long as they were on the mountain trail, when the latter reached the plains they had “cut loose.”  Both were expert horsemen and the ponies under them were mettlesome.  Indeed, Blackhawk had not entirely recovered his temper since his roping and it was he that set the pace.  Yet the riders did not allow the ponies to run themselves out in the first few miles, holding them down to a long, steady lope that covered the ground rapidly.

“Where do you suppose we are the most likely to strike the outfit from the Three Stars, at home or in Tolopah?” asked Mr. Wilder after a time.

“At home.  They were to get the cattle day before yesterday, and Sandy told me they planned to stay at the ranch to-day to pack grub so as to save a trip of the wagon.”

“Then we ought to find the whole crew at home.”

“That’s just what Pete and I were banking on,” returned Nails.

This point settled, the ranchman refused further conversation, to the disappointment of his companion, occupying himself with mapping out his campaign.

After a time the ponies began to slacken their stride, but the vigorous rowelling they received from the spurs of the men on their backs told them they were bound on pressing business, and they responded gamely.

“I hope Ned is at home,” Mr. Wilder exclaimed suddenly.  “If he isn’t, there won’t be any but slow ponies in the corral.  And that means it will take me the whole afternoon to get to the Three Stars.”

“No, it don’t,” asserted Nails.  “I kinder thought you might be off somewhere, so I cut out three ponies from the bunch and brought them up with me.  When they told me you were hunting with the kids, I naturally knew you wouldn’t go far into the mountains, so I left the best ones at the Half-Moon.”

This foresight of his cowboy pleased the ranchman, and he commended him heartily.

“You seem to have a pretty level head, Nails.  What do you make of these raids on my herd?  This makes the third.  It rather seems to me as though the thieves had marked me for their particular victim.”

“That’s my idea exactly,” declared the cowboy.  “And that’s what makes me so sure Gus Megget had a hand in the raid.”

“But what grudge has Megget against me?” asked Mr. Wilder in surprise.

“You are the one who leased the Long Creek bottoms, aren’t you?” returned Nails, answering the question, Yankee fashion, by another.

“To be sure.  But what has that to do with it?”

“Everything.  Megget’s been rustling cattle for years, and the Long Creek bottoms were where he used to drive the cattle he’d lifted.  If any one jumped him, he could either cross the line into old Mex or strike out for the mountains.  Maybe you don’t know it, but there’s a greaser just across the line—­they call him Don Vasquez—­who makes a fat living buying stolen cattle.  He’s got some old Indian remedy for making hair grow, and he cuts out the old brands, makes hair grow out and then burns in his three crosses.”