past three days he and Baldy had been scouring the country, but had not seen a sign of either the mare or the killer.
Hank was so engrossed with his day dream of watching the sunset that his usually alert senses were for the moment off guard, so it was Old Baldy who first discovered that all was not well in the landscape about them, for without a moment's warning he threw up his head and snorted and then pulled restively at the bit.
"Whoa, whoa, old scout," said Hank soothingly. "What is it, old chap?"
Again Baldy snorted and pulled at the bit. He had either heard or scented something that his master had missed. What in the dickens could it be? But Hank was immediately informed, for a terrified, agonized squeal from a horse in distress cut the stillness like a knife. It was some distance away, but there was no mistaking the sound.
Hank turned partly around in his saddle and looked up the canyon behind them. Baldy had been standing where a branch creek emptied into Crooked Creek. In midsummer this small creek would be entirely dry, but now there was a little water in the river bed. What Hank saw filled him with astonishment and anxiety, for the objects of his double quest were in full sight,
