When the ointment was being thoroughly rubbed into the spot where the
barb of the thorn had pierced the flesh of the animal, Domino seemed to
understand what their object was. He gave several little whinnies,
even as he moved uneasily when his master's hand touched the painful
spot.

"Now what's the programme?" asked Bob, after he had replaced the saddle.

"Just what we decided on before," replied his chum; "a little rest
before we make a start. Twenty-four hours will do Domino considerable
good, too. How did you come out about the duffle you were carrying;
any of it get lost?"

"None that I've noticed. I'll make a round-up and see, before we go
any further," Bob remarked, examining the packages secured behind his
saddle.

"How?" queried Frank, in the terse, Indian style, as he saw that the
other had gone carefully over the entire outfit.

"Everything here, right side up with care. And now I'll have to mount
again, a thing that may not appeal very much to Domino. But it's lucky
I long ago learned the jockey way of riding, with most of the weight
upon the withers of the horse. In that manner you see, Frank, I can
relieve the poor beast more than a little."

Together they rode off slowly. Really, for one day it seemed that the
big black must have had all the running his fancy could wish. Besides,
neither of the boys knew of any reason for haste. As Frank had
suggested, it would perhaps be just as well to allow a certain amount
of time to elapse, before pushing their intended investigation of the
mysteries supposed to hover around Thunder Mountain.

The afternoon had almost half passed when Frank's sharp eyes discovered
a single horseman riding on a course that would likely bring him across
their trail soon.

"Seems to me there's something familiar about that fellow's way of
sitting in the saddle," he observed; and then, reaching for the field
glasses which he carried swung in a case over his shoulder, he quickly
adjusted them to his eyes. "Thought so," he muttered, and Bob could
see him smile as he said it.

"Recognize the rider, then? Don't tell me now that it's Peg, or one of
those slippery cowboy friends he has trailing after him," remarked Bob.

"Here, take the glasses, and see what you think," replied the other,
laughingly.

No sooner had the Kentucky lad taken a single good look than he called
out:

"Who but old Hank Coombs, the veteran cow puncher of the Southwest! I
suppose your father