"They are not worth the powder we'd waste," declared Rhoda. "And
then, they are sort of scavengers. We would not think of shooting a
vulture; so why not let the coyotes live--out here? When they sneak
around the poultry runs, that's another thing."

Two hours past noon the party rode down a broad green slope into a
well-watered valley. A river ran through its length, and several
small tributaries joined it. More than one grove of noble
cottonwood trees graced the river's banks. The grass was lush,
offering pasturage for thousands of cattle, although there was not
a horned creature in sight The herd of horses would be contented
here as soon as their alarm had passed.

There was a camp by the riverside, and a tent was set up beside the
special chuck wagon Mr. Hammond had sent over from Rose Ranch. But
Rhoda's father had not arrived at this rendezvous when the little
cavalcade rode down to the encampment.

Ah Foon's assistant, a smiling Mexican lad, had prepared lunch, and
the girls and Walter certainly were ready for it. It was fully two
hours later before the other chuck wagons lumbered info view. (They
had passed the herd which would be allowed to drift down into the
valley during the evening, guarded by all the hands until daybreak
the next day.)

Mr. Hammond appeared, and Rhoda told him at once about the
cavalcade of horsemen that she and her friends had seen riding over
the saddle of the old Spanish Trail so early in the morning. The
ranchman betrayed considerable interest in the matter.