e in such an all-fired hurry I can't understand. Unless he was
chasing someone."

"Or being chased," Dick added.

"Perhaps he met a smuggler, Dick."

"Smuggler--'way up here? Not a chance! Say, Nort, you've got
smugglers on the brain. You seem to think they ride around with big
signs pinned on them--'I am a smuggler--shoot me.' Suppose the Kid did
meet a smuggler--how'd he know him from any other man?"

"That's right--guess he wouldn't," admitted Nort, a trifle
shamefacedly. "But you know what he told us about that marshal being
shot."

"Oh, yes, but marshals get shot nearly every day, somewhere--and maybe
it wasn't a Chink smuggler that shot him after all--maybe it was just
an ordinary gang of rustlers."

"Well, you can say what you like, Dick, but I'll lay odds we see some
excitement when we reach Roaring River."

"We'll see some excitement sooner than that, if we don't find the Kid.
See here--if he made this trail, he was going fast--and in this
direction. Let's get on our way."

"Better go back, do you think?" Nort asked as he looked up toward the
sun. "We've been gone at least an hour, and Billee said to return
within that time."

"Yes," Dick responded, a little sadly, for he and Yellin' Kid were
close friends. "I sure hope the Kid's all right. Perhaps some of the
others picked him up."

"Perhaps. Let's hope so. At any rate, we haven't had much
success--and I doubt even that the torn brush we saw was done by the
Kid."

"Can't tell, he may have ridden through there and then taken a sudden
turn to the right or left. Or back again, for that matter. Well,
let's get started."

As the two arrived at the agreed meeting place there was no need to ask
the others if they had had any luck. The Kid was nowhere in sight.

"We saw a trail through some bushes that might have been made by the
Kid, Billee," said Nort to the old rancher.

"Yes, and it might have been made by any number of other things, too,"
Billee declared, in a despondent tone. "Not that I am sure it _wasn't_
the Kid's trail. It _might_ have been--but that doesn't help us much.
No, I guess the only thing for us to do is to go right on lookin'--and
hopin' he's O.K."

It was almost dusk when the four gathered together again. The Kid was
still missing, and anxiety was written on the faces of all as they
prepared to camp for the night. Each man carried a blanket with him,
and also a small snack of food and a canteen of water. A