on, Larrabie was down again for another
examination. What he seemed to find gave him pleasure.

"They've separated," he told Phyllis. "We'll give our attention to the
gentleman with the calf, and let his friend go, to-day."

They swung sharply to the north, taking a precipitous trail of shale
that Phyllis judged to be a short cut. It was rough going, but their
mountain ponies were good for anything less than a perpendicular wall.
They clambered up and down like cats, as sure-footed as wild goats.

At the summit of the ridge, Keller pointed out something in the valley
below--a rider on horseback, driving a calf.

"There goes Mr. Waddy, as big as coffee."

"He's going to swing round the point. You mean to drop down the hill and
cut him off?"

[Illustration: "DROP THAT GUN!" _Page 205_]

"That's the plan. Better do no more talking after we pass that live
oak. See that little wash? We'll drop into it, and hide among the
cottonwoods."

The rustler was pushing along hurriedly, driving the calf at a trot,
half the time twisted in the saddle, with anxious eyes to the rear.
Revolvers and a rifle garnished him, but quite plainly they gave him no
sense of safety.

When the summons came to him to "Drop that gun!" it was only a
confirmation of his fears. Yet he jumped as a boy jumps under the
unexpected cut of a cane.

The rifle went clattering to the stony trail. Without being ordered to
do so, the hands of the waddy were thrust skyward.

"Why, it's Tom Dixon! We've made a mistake," Phyllis discovered; and
moved forward from her hiding place.

"We've made no mistake. I told you I'd show you the rustler, and I've
shown him to you," Keller answered, as he too stepped forward. And to
Tom, whose hands dropped at sight of Phyllis: "Better keep them reaching
till I get those guns. That's right. Now, you may 'light."

"What's got into you?" demanded Dixon, his teeth still chattering.
"Holding up a man for nothing. Take away that gun you got bent on me!"

"You're under arrest for rustling, seh," the cattle detective told him
sternly.

"Prove it. Prove it!" Dixon swung from the saddle, and faced the other
doggedly.

"That calf you're driving now is rustled. You branded it less than two
hours ago in Spring Valley, right by the three cottonwoods below the
trail to Yeager's Spur."

"How do you know?" cried the startled youth. And on the heels of that:
"It's a lie!" He was getting a better grip on his courage. He spat
def