"You'll never get him, Tom. He's a smart Indian."
"Maybe not, but I'll die trying."
The time came, however, when he had to start back. His provisions were gone, his horse exhausted. He started down for fresh animals and more food, and on his way down he came across his first and only clue to his herd.
The mountain pastures were already drying up, and the cattle which had summered on the range had begun to work down again. They filled the trails, or stood on steep hillsides eying him as he passed them. He worked through them, scrutinizing their brands and ear-marks, hoping against hope, and at last among the foothills, he saw an old bull which he recognized at sight. His heart leaped. He spurred his horse and rode slowly behind and to one side of the animal. There was no doubt about it, nor of the comparatively recent reworking of the brand. It had been skillful work. The L had been extended to the D, a line drawn across, and another D reversed added to the other end. A brand changed like that would pass inspection anywhere.
For the first time, however, he felt a faint hope; the instinct to kill died away. He rode to the ranch, got out the car, flew into Ursula. But the lead, although it established certain things, led nowhere in the end. The brand had been registered some months before as the crossed link brand. It was owned by a doubtful outfit across the range, and the Sheriff went over there. But there was nothing to be done.
"They're the fellows, all right," the Sheriff told him, "but what are you going to do? The brand's theirs, the cattle have been shipped and sold. The fact that you claim the bull is yours won't help much. You can claim him all you like, but he won't come when you call him! You can go to Chicago and try to locate the hides, but even if you can, how are you going to prove it isn't some of the old L. D. stock these fellows got somewhere?"
He was three days in town, savage, sullen, heart-sick. Limping badly, too. One day he met Doctor Dunham in the street, and the old doctor stopped him.
