"How do you mean?"

"Only one thing I can think of:--the thieves must be driving off the cattle, two or three at a time, and killing them in some lonely spot out over the ranges; skinning them and burying or burning the hides.

They could then sell the fresh meat to butchers in some of the border towns who might buy it from them innocently enough through the breeds, or who might be in the ring and getting their meat dirt cheap.

"However,--let's forget it. It is none of our funeral. And I promised Mrs. Clunie for both of us that we'd take a run back to her place at nine o'clock. She is having a birthday party for all her old friends, and wants us help her celebrate."

"I guess we had better go then, Jim, or we'll never hear the end of it."

Half an hour later, they set out. Five hours later still, after a merry time--as merry times went at Mrs. Clunie's--they returned, and it was a much speedier return than their going had been, for there was a great glare of red in the sky, near to the lake, that was suspiciously close to their own ranch.

Neither spoke a word, but, as the feeling of idle curiosity gave way to one of interest, interest to suspicion and suspicion to anxiety, their horses--as if sensing their masters' feelings--started off themselves from a walk to a canter, from a canter to a gallop and from a gallop to a h.e.l.l-bent-for-leather race which never slackened until the two riders threw themselves breathlessly from their backs, among a crowd of neighbouring ranchers who had been doing their best to combat the flames in the absence of the owners.

But it was all over. The heavy horses had been saved, the barns were practically uninjured, but the dwelling house itself was but a charred heap of smoking debris.

Phil looked dumbly at Jim. Jim threw out his hands, palms up and showed his big teeth.

"Well, Philly, old c.o.c.k!--there, there, by the grace of G.o.d, goes up in smoke my ambitions to be the greatest fruit rancher and stock breeder the world has ever known."

"Aren't we going to start and build up on the ruins?" asked Phil.

"We? Start all over? Good Lord, man,--not me, anyway! Not on your tin-tacks! This is the best excuse I ever had for a thing in my life.

It's a h.e.l.ler of a game, this ranching stuff, to one who doesn't know a darned thing about it. Great Scot, man!--we were never made for it, anyway."

"I can't say that we have done very much so far," replied Phil.

"Do you want to have another go?"

Phil shook his head.

"No,--can't say I'm aching for it. If we could only sell the blessed place as it stands."

A voice at Phil's elbow broke into the conversation.

The speaker was old Ralph Mawson, the man who owned the adjoining ranch on the right.

Phil and Jim woke up as it were to find themselves surrounded by their neighbours.

"You boys want to sell out? I'll make you a bid for her as she stands--spot cash."

"Yes!" said Jim.

"Five thousand bucks," said Mawson.

"Haud yer horrrses!" said another voice, which simply romped with delight every time it struck the letter "r."

Alick McAdam, the rancher on the left, was also on the job.

"I'll gi'e ye fifty-five hunnerrr."

"Six thousand!" topped Mawson in ministerial tones.

Things began to get interesting, and the crowd saw possibilities of an auction.

Jim immediately turned from Mawson to McAdam.

"Sixty-five hunnerrr," dourly droned the Scot.

"Seven thousand!" said Mawson.

There was a stop.

"Seven thousand I'm offered!" cried Jim suddenly. "Seven thousand:--any advance on seven thousand? Seven thousand:--going once,--seven thousand,--going twice;--for the third and last time----"

"Seven thoosand and five hunnerrr, and no' a currrrdy mairrr," put in McAdam, pulling at his long whiskers.

Mawson stuck his hands in his pockets and started off.

"I'm through!" he remarked.

"Sold for seven thousand five hundred dollars, cash," concluded Jim, with a friendly nod to McAdam, who rubbed his hands together and grinned.

"The fule!--he doesna ken a barrrgain when he sees it. This rrranch is worrrth ten if rrrightly managed, and no' by a wheen schule-bairrrns that would plant tatties upside doon. Come awa' owerrr tae my place and we'll put this on paperrr."

Jim drew up the agreement in McAdam's kitchen at three o'clock that morning, got McAdam's cheque for seven thousand five hundred dollars and, despite the old fellow's cordial invitation to spend the remainder of the night with him, Jim and Phil set out again for Mrs.

Clunie's.

"We're making money," said Phil.

"We would have made more if we had had that old fire-trap of a place insured," answered Jim, Scotslike.

"That's what that Redmans gang have been up to;--not cattle this time."

"Looks like it."

"Well,--the artful Mr. Brenchfield, if he couldn't get me one way, got me another," remarked Phil.

"What do you mean?" asked Jim, as they cantered along.

"He didn't succeed in buying back his confession, but he took mighty good care n.o.body else would get it. It is burned up now all right."

"Is it?" replied Jim; "not if Jimmy Langford knows it!"

"What! Do you mean to say you have it? that you have been carrying that thing with you all this time?"

"Sure! I never change without changing it, too. It is in my belt here.

So we still have one on Mayor Brenchfield if he cuts up nasty. My, but he will be chuckling this morning over his fine stroke of business. I would dearly love to show it to him, but I daresay I better hadn't."

"You're right!" said Phil, "you just better hadn't,--meantime.