CHAPTER ITHE STRANGE RETURN OF OLD BALDY

“Did you find your knife, Bob?”

“No such good luck, Frank.”

“That’s kind of queer, isn’t it?”

“I’m beginning to think so myself,” and Bob Archer looked meaningly at his chum, as though a suspicion might be forming in his mind to the effect that there was a practical joke back of it all; and that Frank Haywood really knew more about the missing article than he chose to admit.

And yet, Frank, as a rule, was not given to pranks.

“Did you go all over the ground where Ted Conway was teaching you yesterday how to pick up a handkerchief from the back of a galloping pony?” Frank continued.

“Covered every foot of it, and more,” replied Bob.

“And still didn’t find the knife you value so much?” persisted his chum.

“Never saw a sign of it,” replied Bob; whose home had originally been in Old Kentucky, although a year or so back he had come to the Southwest to live, his father being interested in various ranches and mines with Colonel Leonidas Haywood.

“Oh! well, I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” observed Frank. “It’s sure to turn up, sooner or later. Perhaps one of the boys happened to pick it up, and is waiting for an owner to claim it.”

“I asked every one on the ranch,” Bob went on, gloomily; “and they all had the same story to tell—never saw the thing. I hate to have anything like that happen. Seems as if I feel every little while that it’s on the tip of my tongue to say what I did with that knife. Then I get all mixed up again, and for the life of me I can’t remember where and when I had it last.”

The two boys, while talking in this manner, were galloping over the level plain at a fair clip. Bob was riding Domino, a big black horse he had brought with him from the blue grass region of Kentucky. Frank rode a yellow pony of great endurance, and wise beyond the average of his class. Buckskin he was called, true to his color; and Frank had taught him many of the tricks known to the favorite mounts of cowboys.

Frank and Bob were seen riding over the country so much, that, far and wide, they had become known as the “Saddle Boys.” Some months before the time when they are introduced to the reader in the present volume they had investigated a mysterious noise that seemed to come from a spur of the great Rocky Mountains within twenty miles of Circle Ranch.

This queer rumbling had awed the Indians for a century or more, and they really believed it to be the voice of Manitou. What the two lads saw, and the adventures that befell them on that occasion, have been related in the first story in this series, entitled: “The Saddle Boys in the Rockies; Or, Lost on Thunder Mountain.”

Later on, a sudden call came for them to go to the wonderful region where the great Colorado River runs for some hundreds of miles through the most astonishing canyon in all the world; and here they not only saw strange sights, but had some lively times. These are narrated in the story called: “The Saddle Boys in the Grand Canyon; Or, The Hermit of Echo Cave.”

Colonel Haywood was laid up with a broken leg when a summons came that required his presence at Cherry Blossom mine, so he was compelled to ask the two boys to go in his stead. This mine was a most valuable property; and the disaster that hung over it like a cloud gave the two lads considerable work before they could feel that they had won out. The remarkable things that happened when on this gallop over plain and desert, and through mountain trails are told of in the third book of this series, entitled: “The Saddle Boys on the Plains; Or, After a Treasure of Gold.”

After passing through these troubles of magnitude, here was Bob bemoaning the loss of a knife, as though such a little thing distressed him beyond measure.

“It was a present, you see, Frank,” he said, for perhaps the tenth time, as they rode along side by side.

“Oh! yes. I know,” replied Frank, as though really getting quite tired of hearing about that wonderful knife; “some girl you knew in Old Kentucky, wanting to give you a present that you could use out in the wild and woolly West, drew all her pin money she had saved, and actually bought you that fine hunting knife. Too bad that if it was so valuable you didn’t keep a closer watch on it, Bob.”

“But you said you didn’t have it, didn’t you, Frank?” went on the other.

“Sure I haven’t; take my word for that, Bob,” said Frank. “Don’t you think I’d give it to you, if I had it around? Though, for that matter, I think you deserve to be punished a little for being so careless about a present that a girl gave you.”

“But perhaps you could give me a hint about what I did with it, if you cared to, Frank?”

“No, I don’t believe I could,” replied the other, slowly, and in what Bob chose to consider a suspicious way. “You’ll remember after a little. Perhaps it’ll pop into your mind as you wake up in the morning. I’ve had things do that more’n a few times. But look at that steer cavorting around over yonder. Whatever in the world do you suppose he’s doing, Bob?”

The Kentucky boy shook his head as though still unsatisfied.

“I reckon now, Frank might know a little about that knife,” he murmured to himself, as he looked at his chum. “But for some reason he wants to play innocent and let me think things out. And it isn’t like Frank, to act this way. Perhaps I’d best keep quiet, and watch him. He might give himself away somehow when he isn’t on his guard.”

Frank, meanwhile, seemed to be really interested in the actions of the animal to which he had called the attention of his chum.

“Say, suppose we turn aside here,” he remarked, presently; “and go a little closer to that old chap. Looks to me he’s acting mighty queer. See him throw up the dirt; and I can hear him bellow from here. Something’s made him ugly.”

“All right; anything you say goes, Frank,” replied the other, suiting his actions to his words, and wheeling to the left.

For the time being he put all thought of the missing present from his mind. Just as Frank had said, the chances were he would find it again, sooner or later. Yet Bob admitted to himself that it had been a long time since anything had arisen to annoy him so much.

They were now bearing down upon the spot where the steer was acting so strangely. He circled around a small patch of timber and brush that was too dense for him to push through, every little while bellowing angrily, shaking his long horns, and giving every evidence of having been worked up to a pitch where he could not contain himself.

“Strikes me he’s keeping close to that motte of timber, Frank?” suggested Bob, as they kept galloping closer to the spot.

“Just what I had in mind,” replied his chum.

“Look at him behaving as if he’d give anything to be able to rush it; but no long-horn could push through that thick scrub. There’s something in the bunch that makes him furious, that’s what, Frank!” went on Bob.

“Reckon you’re right, Bob; anyhow that’s what I was thinking myself.”

“Could it be a rattler?” asked the Kentucky lad.

“Well, now, I hardly think a steer would act that way if it was,” replied the youth who had been brought up on a ranch, and knew a great many things that were as yet mysterious to a recent tenderfoot like Bob. “In the open, some steers might try and jump on a snake that was coiled, just as I’ve seen a deer do more’n once, grinding it to pieces under his hoofs. But if the snake got in among the brush, a steer would let him go.”

“Then what can it be?” queried the boy from Kentucky; “a sneaking coyote?”

“Hardly that, either,” declared his chum, decidedly. “You see these old steers size up a coyote as a harmless thing, not worth wasting time over. Now, if it were a wolf that would be another thing. A steer hates a mountain wolf like poison. Seems like they know how the gray rascal is always hanging around, waiting to pull down a calf when the chance comes.”

“So I’ve been told,” declared Bob; “Ted related an instance where a steer and a wolf had a battle over the body of a heifer the robber had stolen.”

“Yes, I happened to see that fight; and the steer won out, too. The wolf was as mad as they make ’em, and wouldn’t quit. He grabbed the steer several times by the nose, but couldn’t hold on. And finally the steer managed to pin him to the ground by one horn. After that it was all over with Mr. Wolf.”

“But see here, Frank, supposing there is a wolf in that bunch of timber and scrub? He’s been sneaking around, thinking to get a dinner while the cowboys are away on the other side of the ranch, twenty miles from here. But a wolf can outrun even the fastest steer, can’t he?”

“I reckon he can, every time,” admitted Frank.

“Then why wouldn’t this beast make for his home in the mountains; tell me that, please?” persisted Bob.

“Oh! there might be a reason,” his chum rejoined, as he continued to watch the actions of the steer. “In the first place, this might happen to be a particularly bold wolf; and having started out to get a dinner, he hates to give up the idea just because a silly old steer prances around his hiding place, and dares him to come out into the open.”

“But there might be another reason?” pursued Bob, always eager to learn.

“If it is a wolf,” Frank continued; “he might happen to be lame, and not feel like taking chances on the open with a lively old steer. That would explain it, you see.”

“Well, anyway, we’ll soon know, Frank.”

“Yes, because we’re nearly there,” the other remarked, as he reached around to unfasten his repeating rifle from the saddle, where he often carried it, rather than over his back by means of a strap.

“And before we leave here it’s going to be a hard winter for Mr. Wolf, if that’s what’s making the trouble. If he runs, the steer will catch up with him; and if he stays, it’s a bit of lead between his ribs. I’m sorry for him, Frank; but I reckon he’s been responsible for more than a few heifers that have disappeared mysteriously from time to time.”

“Yes, that’s so,” replied Frank. “Stockmen hate wolves more’n anything on four legs. There’s only one thing that hits ’em worse.”

“Rustlers, you mean, Frank?” remarked the Kentucky boy.

“Yes, the Mexicans or halfbreeds, who drop down on a herd of cattle, or the saddle band of the punchers’ horses, and disappear with them. And of all the rustlers in Arizona, there’s none equal to Pedro Mendoza. Look at the steer, Bob!”

“Seems to just know we’re coming to lend a helping hand,” laughed Bob. “There he gallops around to the other side of the timber, as if he wanted to cut off Mr. Wolf before he took a start from that side. He’s a sharp one, that steer.”

“None smarter, and I ought to know, because that’s Old Baldy!” remarked Frank.

“What!” cried Bob, “didn’t you tell me a long time ago that Old Baldy had been nipped, with a bunch of cattle; and your foreman believed the rustlers had him?”

“That’s what we felt sure of, and I believe it yet,” Frank said. “But all the same, I don’t think I’m mistaken when I say that’s our Old Baldy, come back as straight as he disappeared.”

“Perhaps he broke out of some corral in the mountains, where the rustlers were keeping him penned up, and took the home trail on the gallop,” suggested Bob.

“Maybe,” Frank remarked. “Later on we’ll see if his brand has been altered, because that would tell the story. But turn off here, Bob, and let’s cover as much ground as we can. Have your gun handy; and if the wolf vamooses, give him a little start. Then we’ll have a bully gallop, and see who will be the first to nail him. Whoop! there’s something doing right now, Bob!”

CHAPTER IIONE GRAY THIEF LESS

“There he goes; and it is a wolf, sure pop, Frank!” shouted Bob.

“And if you look close,” remarked his chum, “you’ll see that he wobbles just a little with that left hind leg of his. Reckon he got a thorn in his paw, or cut it on a sharp rock. After him, Bob!”

They gave the horses free rein. Both animals were comparatively fresh, and eager for a mad gallop over the open country that cool day in the Fall.

The steer did not seem to have sighted the fleeing wolf, or else must have decided that, with the two mounted boys in swift pursuit, there was little need of his exerting himself to overtake the hated enemy. At any rate he remained in the vicinity of the timber, as though bent on keeping the animal from again seeking refuge there.

“He’s heading for that swale near the rocky point; and if he reaches it we’ll have a hard time getting him!” exclaimed Bob, after a few minutes of racing.

“Don’t worry, he isn’t going to get there,” said Frank; “because we’re overhauling him right now. Look at him run! Lame or not, he can lope along as well as any wolf I ever chased. He knows he’s running for his life, the sly varmint. And he has hopes of giving us the slip.”

“I can see him look back every little while, Frank,” Bob remarked, as he bent low in the saddle, and felt his pulses thrill with the excitement of the chase. “What do you suppose he does that for?”

“Looking for the flash of the smoke of a gun, perhaps,” came the reply. “Some of these old prowlers are as wise as they make ’em. The boys declare they can dodge a bullet, if they happen to be looking back when you fire. Remember that, Bob, and be ready to shoot at the drop of the hat after I’ve let loose. Perhaps we can catch him napping that way.”

Bob was aware that he had much to learn about shooting while on the full gallop. Still, he would like to make a try. If he failed, then rather than see the wolf escape, he meant to be the one to take first shot, and let Frank try to nip the gray robber of the herds before he could recover.

Already had they decreased by one-half and more the lead with which the fleeing animal had started. Things were getting serious with the wolf now. His observations became more frequent. Evidently he expected that at any moment firing might begin; and he wanted to be ready to dodge.

“How about it now, Frank?” asked the Kentucky boy, as he held his rifle in readiness for instant use.

“We might give him a try,” came the reply; and as he spoke Frank threw his gun up to his shoulder, allowing the bridle to fall upon the neck of Buckskin.

The sharp report of the weapon sounded; but apparently there was no result. Quickly, after the first shot, came a second. Bob had pulled trigger, too; but the fleeing wolf did not show the least sign of having been struck.

“I missed him clean, Frank!” cried Bob, in dismay. “Hardly thought I’d be smart enough to hit such a flying target while going at this pace. But Frank, you were right; I plainly saw him dodge when you shot!”

“Well, let’s give him another round then, and see if you can do better, Bob.”

“I’m ready; let him have it,” yelled Bob, eagerly, his sporting instinct now fully aroused.

Again did Frank fire; and, seeing that the gray animal was still bounding along uninjured, Bob in turn discharged his gun.

“Poor shooting; that’s what!” he exclaimed; “I mean mine, of course, Frank; and now, you’ve just got to take your turn.”

“If you say so, all right!” answered the other.

“Something ought to be done, because we’re getting closer to that swale all the time; and I say it’d be a shame if the old wolf got clean away through trickery. Ready, Frank?”

“Let her go!”

Bob took a quick aim at the animal, and fired. Of course he had not the remotest idea of hitting the wolf; but by causing him to dodge it would open the way for his more experienced chum to get in a shot when the beast was off his guard.

The report of Frank’s gun came so close upon that of his own that Bob could hardly believe there had been two shots. Yet he had seen that the wolf kept on after his discharge. It was different when Frank shot his bolt.

“Wow! you got him that time, Frank!” shouted Bob, with great glee. “He’s dropped in his tracks, as sure as anything. Tried that trick just once too often, didn’t he? Look at him kicking his last! He’s paying now for the veal he carried off all these years, the villain!”

Frank laughed, for he felt particularly well pleased because the wolf had been kept from reaching the rocks where he might have eluded them.

They drew rein, and looked down at the now motionless form of the gaunt animal. Even in death the big wolf had a sinister appearance, for the lips were drawn back, exposing his cruel fangs.

“Ugh! I’d hate to meet a critter like that alone, and without more’n a knife to defend myself with, Frank!” Bob exclaimed, as he sat in the saddle, pushing several cartridges into the magazine of his rifle, and looking down at the hated quarry that had rewarded Frank’s last shot.

“Oh! he’s an old one, all right,” remarked Frank. “I can see the scars of many a fight on his hide, and about his muzzle. But wait till I fling him across the horse. Watch Buckskin prance! No horse likes to come in touch with a wild animal like a panther, wolf or bear, dead or alive. The scent of blood makes ’em wild, too. Whoa! Buckskin! don’t be so funny now. You’ve just got to carry this chap back to the ranch, because I want dad to see him.”

“Then we head toward home, now?” remarked Bob.

“Yes, but by way of that timber. I want to take a look at Old Baldy. When the boys hear of his return, there’ll be some tall talking. He used to give heaps of trouble in the past; yet they all liked the old chap. And when he disappeared, in company with a dozen head of stock, there was more range riding to find him than I ever heard of.”

“Old Baldy is waiting for us,” remarked Bob. “Seems like he just knew what we went for, and he wants to see what luck we had.”

“He’s a smart one, all right,” laughed Frank. “And if those rustlers have had him penned up all this while, he’s managed to break out at last, and come home.”

“Say, wouldn’t it be a great stunt now, if some of the boys could follow his trail back to Where he was kept in a corral. That would tell us, Frank, just how Pedro Mendoza manages to disappear, whenever he runs a bunch of cattle off.”

“Well, perhaps it might be done yet, impossible as it seems,” observed Frank.

“What makes you say so?” demanded the other.

“You see, Old Baldy has a marked hoof,” Frank went on.

“Different from those of other steers, you mean?” asked his chum.

“Yes. It’s got a queer twist that makes it look much longer than his other hoofs. The boys all know it, too. Spanish Joe used to say the animal must have got caught in a cleft of the rocks when small, and his hoof grew that way.”

“But, Frank, could any cowboy track Old Baldy all the way across plain and desert to the mountains, if he came from there, perhaps all of forty miles?”

“Under ordinary conditions I’d say no,” Frank answered promptly; “but you remember that we had a rain two days ago, which is quite remarkable for this country. That laid the alkali dust; and eyes trained to that sort of thing might do wonders. But that we’ll have to put up to dad and Bart Heminway, the foreman of Circle Ranch.”

“Here’s Old Baldy, looking to see if you got the wolf,” remarked Bob.

The gaunt-looking old steer did indeed seem to be beset with curiosity. Standing there, with head thrust out, he was sniffing the air, as though possibly the scent of blood came to his nostrils. Frank tossed the body of the wolf down on the ground, and then with his chum rode back a little distance to see what the steer would do.

“Watch!”

“He’s going up to smell of the wolf, Frank!” exclaimed the Kentucky boy.