nd rapidly.

"Where do you suppose we are the most likely to strike the outfit
from the Three Stars, at home or in Tolopah?" asked Mr. Wilder
after a time.

"At home. They were to get the cattle day before yesterday, and
Sandy told me they planned to stay at the ranch to-day to pack grub
so as to save a trip of the wagon."

"Then we ought to find the whole crew at home."

"That's just what Pete and I were banking on," returned Nails.

This point settled, the ranchman refused further conversation, to
the disappointment of his companion, occupying himself with mapping
out his campaign.

After a time the ponies began to slacken their stride, but the
vigorous rowelling they received from the spurs of the men on their
backs told them they were bound on pressing business, and they
responded gamely.

"I hope Ned is at home," Mr. Wilder exclaimed suddenly. "If he
isn't, there won't be any but slow ponies in the corral. And that
means it will take me the whole afternoon to get to the Three
Stars."

"No, it don't," asserted Nails. "I kinder thought you might be off
somewhere, so I cut out three ponies from the bunch and brought
them up with me. When they told me you were hunting with the kids,
I naturally knew you wouldn't go far into the mountains, so I left
the best ones at the Half-Moon."

This foresight of his cowboy pleased the ranchman, and he commended
him heartily.

"You seem to have a pretty level head, Nails. What do you make of
these raids on my herd? This makes the third. It rather seems to
me as though the thieves had marked me for their particular victim."

"That's my idea exactly," declared the cowboy. "And that's what
makes me so sure Gus Megget had a hand in the raid."

"But what grudge has Megget against me?" asked Mr. Wilder in
surprise.

"You are the one who leased the Long Creek bottoms, aren't you?"
returned Nails, answering the question, Yankee fashion, by another.

"To be sure. But what has that to do with it?"

"Everything. Megget's been rustling cattle for years, and the Long
Creek bottoms were where he used to drive the cattle he'd lifted.
If any one jumped him, he could either cross the line into old Mex
or strike out for the mountains. Maybe you don't know it, but
there's a greaser just across the line--they call him Don
Vasquez--who makes a fat living buying stolen cattle. He's got
some old Indian remedy for making hair grow, and he cuts out the
old brands, makes ha