"I should say it was high time you got away from the wild and woolly West!" cried Jack Diamond. "I've heard that loneliness on the ocean or the plains makes a man gloomy, and, by Jove! I believe it's true."

"Cowboys and cattlemen are not gloomy," returned Carson. "As a rule, they're a jovial, good-natured set, who thoroughly enjoy a joke or a bit of humor. It's not loneliness on the plains that affects me, if there's anything the matter with me."

"Anything the matter with you?" rumbled Browning. "Why, in the old days you were always light-hearted. This is the first time I've ever seen a depressed mug on you."

"Let me alone, and I presume I'll come out of it," said the young Westerner. "I'm sorry if I'm casting a shadow on an otherwise happy gathering. I didn't mean to."

"Oh, you're all right, Carson. I should say your liver might be out of kilter. You need something to stir it up."

"If there's anything that will stir up a man's liver more than a hundred-mile jaunt on horseback, I'd like to know what it is. I've been taking plenty such jaunts this spring. Although I haven't been at the ranch for a month, I was there when the snow came off, and rode the range with the rest of the boys to find out how our cows had come through the winter."

"Don't suppose you've been troubled any more by cattle thieves since the demise of that fake Laramie Dave?" questioned Merriwell.

"No, we put an end to the business in our parts. We had you to thank for it. You were the one who discovered how our brand of the B. S. was being turned into the Flying Dollars brand. You stopped cattle stealing in the Big Sandy region."

"Things were hot around there for a while, weren't they, Berlin?"

laughed Frank.

"I haven't heard about this," said Diamond. "What's the story?"

Carson looked disturbed.

"I don't like to tell it," he confessed. "Still, I don't suppose Frank would give himself proper credit if he should tell you. Did you ever hear of Laramie Dave, the rustler?"

"My dear fellow, I've been living on the other side of the pond so long that I haven't heard of anything taking place out in your part of this country. Who was this Laramie Dave?"

"The worst rustler known in recent years. He carried on most of his operations on the big ranches to the north of us. He operated extensively in Wyoming and in Montana. At last the cattlemen became exasperated and made things hot for him up there. Next we knew Laramie Dave was said to be getting in his work in Colorado. We lost cattle right along on the Big Sandy, and the Bar S people had the same trouble.

The Flying Dollars people also made a similar complaint. The Flying Dollars Ranch was owned by Colonel King.

"There was an old feud between my foreman and the foreman of the Flying Dollars. I was with Merry in Denver when I received word that the rustlers were hitting us hard, and I struck out for the Big Sandy, Frank accompanying me. We found our fences were being cut everywhere, which permitted our cattle to stray or to be driven off. We rode over our ranch, took a look at the Bar S cattle, and visited the Flying Dollars.

"The night following our visit to the Flying Dollars Merry sat up scrawling on a piece of paper in an aimless way, while I went to bed. He woke me from a sound sleep by uttering an exclamation of triumph. I think I growled at him, but he made me get up, and there on the paper he had drawn the different brands of the three ranches, the Bar S, the Big Sandy, and the Flying Dollars. He had combined all three brands into one. He showed how either the Bar S or the B. S. could be turned into the Flying Dollars by having the latter brand burned over them. But every one in those parts respected Colonel King. No one had ever dreamed that he was concerned in the rustling. Nevertheless, Merry's detective work put us on the right track, and in the end we learned beyond question that King was stealing and rebranding our cattle. His a.s.sertions that he was losing cows were lies.

"The climax came when a posse of officers and detectives cornered Laramie Dave, and some lead was pumped into him. Colonel King was a gray-haired, respectable-looking man, while Laramie Dave wore long black hair and a drooping mustache. But Laramie Dave's mustache was false, and his long black hair was a wig which covered the white hair of Colonel King. King was the real cattle thief. He was not, however, the real Laramie Dave, who was still up in Wyoming somewhere. He had simply made himself up to look like Laramie Dave, in order that the genuine rustler might get credit for the cattle stealing.

"That's the whole story."

"Sounds like a romance or a bit of fiction," observed Diamond. "Don't suppose such business could be carried on in the West at the present time."

"We put an end to it as far as Colorado is concerned," nodded Carson.

"Merry deserves the credit for rounding up the last of our big cow thieves."

"Let me see," murmured Merriwell, "Colonel King had a daughter, didn't he? What became of her, Berlin?"

Carson shook his head.

"No one knows," he replied. "She disappeared after her father's death."

After lunch they again sat on the veranda and chatted a while. Finally Frank, Bruce, and Jack went over to Farnham Hall, to attend to their duties there.

"Show Berlin over the grounds, Hodge," said Merry, as he was leaving.

"I'll take him through the buildings myself later on."

Hodge and Carson strolled about that afternoon, first visiting the picnic grove and from thence turning toward the lake and the boathouse.

At the boathouse they rested a while, for the spot was cool and inviting.

"I'd like a camera," said Carson. "Jingoes, Bart, a fellow could get some great views here! The scenery is soothing. That's the word for it, soothing. It gives me a feeling of rest."

"Then take your time and rest as much as you like," said Bart. "Since coming here I've had my first opportunity in months to rest. I never fancied there was a lazy streak in me, but I'm getting lazier and lazier every day. I'm afraid it would spoil me to hang around here long.

I wouldn't have any relish for Arizona alkali or Mexican dust and sunshine."

They sat in one of the boats that drifted beside the boathouse float, Carson dabbling his fingers in the water.

"It is a lazy spot," he murmured. "I should think Merriwell's boys would get the tired feeling."

"Oh, some of them do," smiled Hodge; "but Frank won't let them loll around long enough for it to become chronic. He keeps them up and doing."

After they had been there nearly an hour, Bart felt for his watch and found he had left it at the boathouse.

"What time is it, Carson?" he asked.

The young Westerner drew forth a hunting-case watch and opened it.

"Nearly three," he said. Then he sat staring at the watch.

But Bart observed it was not the face of the watch at which his companion was gazing with a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes. Leaning forward a bit, Hodge discovered that on the reverse side of the open front case there was a pictured face--that of a girl.

Finally, with a faint sigh, Carson closed the watch and slipped it into his pocket.

"You and Frank are very fortunate, very happy, Bart," he said. And again began dabbling in the water with his fingers.

"I know your secret now," thought Bart. "There's a girl behind it. By Jove! Berlin, old man, you're hard hit."

CHAPTER VII.

A BLACK SAMSON.

The sound of boyish voices at a distance finally aroused them.

"It must be the baseball squad over on the field," said Bart. "Don't you wish to go over, Carson?"

"Eh? Did you speak to me?" asked Berlin, glancing up from the pellucid water.

"Hear those chaps over on the field?"