Caldwell, leading, kept well up on the slope above the river and after two hours’ hard going they were well around the northwest end of Mystery Ridge which flared like a lady’s old-fashioned skirt, and heading down into the glades that broke the jumbled ridges of the Upper Country.
Here Bossick, a rich man, ran his cattle and had his holding.
His ranch lay well back from the river and up, but his stock ranged down. That was why it had been easy prey for the mysterious rustlers of Nameless River.
These men did not talk.
They rode with a purpose and they were alert to every sound, their nerves were taut as fiddle strings.
Where the slanting glades came down toward the river they dropped to the level and presently rode up along a smooth green floor that led directly toward Bossick’s place, though a sharp spine cut it off at the head. The outlet from the ranch to the river lay over this ridge and parallel to it.
As they trotted up the glade the little wind that drew down from the cañon at its head brought the scent of cattle, and presently they came upon a horse and rider standing like a statue in the shadows.
Caldwell drew rein sharply.
“Dickson?” he asked in a low voice.
“O. K.” came the answer as the other moved forward to join them.