did not know just where to go for his next job. So
for want of something better, he rode down to the little stream which he
now knew was called One Creek, and prepared to spend the night there.
In the morning he would make a fresh start--and because of the streak of
stubbornness he had, he meant to make it in Burroback Valley, under the
very nose of the Muleshoe outfit.

CHAPTER NINE: LITTLE LOST

Little Lost--somehow the name appealed to Bud, whose instinct for
harmony extended to words and phrases and, for that matter, to
everything in the world that was beautiful. From the time when he first
heard Little Lost mentioned, he had felt a vague regret that chance had
not led him there instead of to the Muleshoe. Brands he had heard all
his life as the familiar, colloquial names for ranch headquarters. The
Muleshoe was merely a brand name. Little Lost was something else,
and because Buddy had been taught to "wait and find out" and to ask
questions only as a last resort, Bud was still in ignorance of the
meaning of Little Lost. He knew, from careless remarks made in his
presence, that the mail came to Little Lost, and that there was some
sort of store where certain everyday necessities were kept, for which
the store-keeper charged "two prices." But there was also a ranch, for
he sometimes heard the boys mention the Little Lost cattle, and speak of
some man as a rider for the Little Lost.

So to Little Lost Bud rode blithely next morning, riding Stopper and
leading Smoky, Sunfish and the pack following as a matter of course.
Again his trained instinct served him faithfully. He had a very good
general idea of Burroback Valley, he knew that the Muleshoe occupied a
fair part of the south side, and guessed that he must ride north, toward
the Gold Gap Mountains, to find the place he wanted.

The trail was easy, his horses were as fat as was good for them. In
two hours of riding at his usual trail pace he came upon another stream
which he knew must be Sunk Creek grown a little wider and deeper in its
journey down the valley. He forded that with a great splashing, climbed
the farther bank, followed a stubby, rocky bit of road that wound
through dense willow and cottonwood growth, came out into a humpy meadow
full of ant hills, gopher holes and soggy wet places where the water
grass grew, crossed that and followed the road around a brushy ridge and
found himself squarely confronting Little Lost.

There could be no mistake,