"Something's happened, I reckon," observed Mr. Hammond, and he rode
down to the river's edge with the others to meet the excited
courier.

The river was broad, but shallow. The lathered pony the cowpuncher
rode splattered through the stream and staggered on to the low bank
on their side. Bill Shaddock, who was a rather grimly speaking man,
advised:

"Better get off an' shoot that little brown horse now, Tom. You've
nigh about run him to death."

"He ain't dead yet--not by a long shot," pronounced the courier.
"Give me a fresh mount, and all you fellows that can ride hike out
behind me. You're wanted."

"What for?" asked Mr. Hammond.

"That last bunch of stock you started for our ranch, Bill," said
the man, in explanation, "has been run off. Mex. thieves. That's
what! Old Man's makin' up a posse now. Says to bring all the riders
you can spare. There's more'n a dozen of the yaller thieves."

Further questioning elicited the information that, a day's march
from the headquarters of the Long Bow outfit, just at evening, a
troop of Mexican horsemen had swooped down upon the band of
half-wild horses and their drivers, shot at the latter, and had
driven off the stock. Two of the men had been seriously wounded.