"What do you make of it?" asked Paul, impatiently, as he bent over to examine the object as it lay in his younger brother's palm.
"Nothing. It's a silver cross with letters on it; that's all. I never saw one like it before."
"Is there no name on the back?"
Quickly the cross was turned over. There, dug into the metal, as if with a jackknife, were the letters S. M.
"S. M.," said Chet, slowly. "Who can they stand for?"
"Sam somebody, I suppose," replied Paul. "I reckon there are a good many folks in Idaho with the initials S. M."
"That is true, too, but it's not likely many of them are mean enough to turn horse thieves."
Chet surveyed the cross for a few seconds longer Then he rammed it into his pocket and went on with the search, and Paul followed suit.
But their further efforts remained unrewarded. Not another thing of value was brought to light.
They were on the point of giving up when a clatter of hoofs was heard outside on the rocks leading from the trail back to the willows and cottonwoods.
