"Let me take your spy-glass," Barrett requested.
Fred produced the instrument, a small brass telescope such as was in common use on the range among cowboys of that day. Barrett fixed it on the fast-riding horseman, and handed it back without a word.
"You was right, he's ridin' alone," said Fred, lowering the glass from his eye. "What do you suppose his game is now, headin' towards the ranch?"
"He's makin' for the railroad, the back door's open for him," Barrett replied.
"Yes, I guess we're the only ones on this part of the range, the others're all up north. He's headin' for the ranch after a fresh horse."
"That's about it."
They paused there on top of a little high ground, looking after Findlay as he drew off rapidly, a handful of dust rising behind him.
"Maybe we can git there before he leaves," said Fred.
Barrett did not speak. He leaned forward in his saddle as he gave rein to his horse, urging it onward as he had ridden that night at the summons of Manuel, pressed by what he felt now to be even a greater and graver need.
