“Seventy-one head,” he said quietly, “and all ready.”
“Then let’s get busy,” said the foreman, “and get out of here.”
With pre-arranged and concerted action the seven men divided and circled the herd which was bedded and quiet. On the further edge they were joined by another shadowy rider, and with silence and dispatch they got the cattle up and moving.
They made little noise, drifting down the level floor of the glade in a close-packed bunch. At its mouth they headed south along the shore of the river and followed along the stream for a matter of several miles. Where the western end of Mystery turned, Nameless curved and went down along the ridge’s foot in a wide and placid flow. It was here that the drivers forced the cattle to the water and kept them in it, riding in a string along the edge. This was particular work and took finesse and dispatch.
The bewildered stock tried at first to come out, but everywhere along the shore were met with the crack of the long whips, the resistance of the string of horsemen, so that presently, following the several dominant steers which traveled in the lead, the whole herd splashed and floundered along the sandy bottom of the river, knee deep in water.
This was the trick which had baffled cattleland, and it was both easy and clever, comparatively.
And so Bossick’s seventy-one head of steers were disappearing and there was none to see.
That is, at this stage of the proceedings.
There was one to see—one who had spent many weary weeks of night riding, of patient watching which had seemed likely to be unrewarded—Sheriff Price Selwood sitting high on the slope above Kate Cathrew’s trail, as he had so often, doggedly following his “hunch” and the prospector John Smith’s discovery.
Since that ride up Blue Stone Cañon he had taken turns with Smith in picketing Cattle Kate’s outfit, but nothing untoward had taken place.