Instantly he rode into a thick clump of cedars, and,
dismounting, tied his horse. Then he went on, carefully and silently, on
foot. Soon he heard voices. Again the calf bawled in fright and pain,
and the familiar odor of burning hair was carried to him on the breeze.
Someone was branding a calf.
It might be all right--it might not. Patches was unarmed, but, with
characteristic disregard of consequences, he crept softly forward,
toward a dense growth of trees and brush, from beyond which the noise
and the smoke seemed to come.
He had barely gained the cover when he heard someone on the other side
ride rapidly away down the ridge. Hastily parting the bushes, he looked
through to catch a glimpse of the horseman, but he was a moment too
late; the rider had disappeared from sight in the timber. But, in a
little open space among the cedars, the cowboy saw Yavapai Joe, standing
beside a calf, fresh-branded with the Four-Bar-M iron, and earmarked
with the Tailholt marks.
Patches knew instantly, as well as though he had witnessed the actual
branding, what, had happened. That part of the range was seldom visited
except by the Dean's cowboys, and the Tailholt Mountain men, knowing
that the Cross-Triangle riders were all at Granite Basin, were making
good use of their opportunities.
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