One day in
October, Uncle Jake, our head vaquero, reported the colts to be
missing out of our back pasture. Careful examination revealed the
cutting of the fence. Obviously the colts had been stolen.
Ajax suggested that we should employ old man Dumble to help us to
recover the stolen property. He was shrewd and persevering, and he
knew every man, woman, and child within a radius of fifty miles.
"Why, boys," said he, when we asked him to undertake the job, "I'd do
more than this to help friends and neighbours. It's a dooty to hunt
down these scallywags, a dooty, yas--and a pleasure."
We took the trail that night. The thief, so far as we could
conjecture, had about twenty hours start, but then he would be obliged
to travel by night and by devious mountain-paths. According to old
Dumble, his objective would be Bakersfield, and to reach Bakersfield
some dry plains must be traversed. At the watering-places upon these
plains we might expect to hear from sheep-herders and vaqueros some
information respecting animals so handsome and so peculiarly marked as
our colts.
And so it proved. At a dismal saloon, where water was nearly as
expensive and quite as bad as the whisky, we learned that a bright bay
colt with a white star and stocking, and another with a white nose,
had been seen early that morning.
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