“I think Bob is taking a good deal upon himself when he presumes to say who shall be employed on this ranch, and who shall not,” said Arthur to himself. “He has no right to open his head. My father is boss here now, and Bob and Mr. Jacobs will find it out before they are many days older. I wonder if that’s Sam?”

While these thoughts were passing through Arthur’s mind, he was walking slowly along the porch. As he turned the corner of the building, he saw a broad-shouldered, smooth-faced young fellow, leaning against a door-casing, and talking with somebody in the kitchen.

He did not look like one who would risk his life by raiding a town of a thousand inhabitants, “just for the fun of the thing;” but still, there was something about him which told Arthur that he was the man he wanted to see.

The earnest manner in which Bob had cautioned him and George Edwards to beware of the current in the river, and the superintendent’s words of warning, had suggested an idea to Arthur, and it had suddenly occurred to him that Sam would be just the man to assist him in carrying it into execution.

“Bob and George are going over to the other side of the lake to-morrow, to spend two or three days in camp,” he had said to himself. “And if, while they are going up the river, their oars should break and their boat should float down into the current, why, then—”

He did not follow out this train of thought, for it frightened him; but it was easy enough to tell what he looked forward to.

As Arthur approached, the smooth-faced young fellow bowed to him very civilly; and that was more respect than any other person about the ranch had yet shown him.

All those to whom he and his father had been introduced seemed to look upon them as interlopers, and would not even shake hands with them; but this man was polite, if he was a desperado.

“Are you Sam?” asked Arthur.

“That’s what they call me, when they tell me that dinner is ready,” was the simple reply.

“You are one of the men who raided Dixon Springs a while ago, I believe?” continued Arthur, who saw that Sam was waiting to hear what he had to say next.

The man replied that he was, and he did not appear to be at all ashamed of it either. On the contrary, one would have thought, from the way he answered the question, that he was rather proud of his exploit.

“What did you do it for?” Arthur wanted to know.

“Oh, just to see what we could make out of it. A fellow needs some sort of excitement to stir up his blood once in a while, you know.”

Arthur walked toward the farther end of the porch, and Sam who showed himself to be quite willing to continue the conversation, turned away from the door and went with him.

“I am Arthur Howard,” said the youth, as soon as they were out of earshot of the man in the kitchen.

“So I supposed. You and your father have come here to take charge of the ranch, haven’t you? Well, I will tell you, for your satisfaction, that you are not wanted here.”

“I know it! It has been made very plain to me since my arrival, about three hours ago. But I don’t see how these men are going to help themselves. The estate is willed to my father, to be held in trust until my cousin Bob is twenty-one years of age, and we are going to stay and run things to suit ourselves—that’s all there is about that! You are not wanted here, either, if you only knew it. Bob says you shan’t have employment on the ranch.”

“He does, does he?” said Sam, his eyes flashing with anger. “He wants to be careful. If he knows when he is well off, he will have little to say about me. I’ll pitch him into the river and let the current take him down to the Lost Canyon, the first thing he knows.”

“He told Mr. Jacobs, in my hearing, that he wouldn’t have any such man as you on the place,” declared Arthur. “He said that the fact that his father wasn’t here to drive you away, wouldn’t make any difference. He doesn’t want you around.”

Sam looked mad, but said nothing.

“But neither Bob nor Mr. Jacobs has a word to say in regard to the way this ranch shall be conducted,” added Arthur. “My father is the head man, now, and they will find that he knows how to assert his authority, too. You look like a good fellow, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t stay here if you want to.”

“I am good enough to those who treat me well,” answered Sam. “I stand by those who use me right, and serve them in any way I can, but anybody who riles me wants to give me plenty of elbow-room. Your father would step into quite a nice little property if Bob was only out of the way, wouldn’t he?” added Sam, abruptly.

This was the beginning of a long conversation between these two worthies; but we need not stop to repeat it, for the results of it will speedily be developed. It will be enough to say that when the conference was ended, Sam walked off with the assurance that he should have employment on the ranch as long as he cared to stay there, while Arthur went into the house and made his way to his room, taking with him a face that was pale with excitement and alarm.

“I didn’t suggest it,” thought he, laying his hand on his heart, which thumped loudly against his ribs. “Sam proposed it himself. He takes all the risk. But if it should ever be found out—great Scott! I wish I hadn’t given my consent to it.”

Arthur paced up and down the floor, wringing his hands, and giving other indications of a very agitated state of mind; but he made no effort whatever to undo the wrong to which he was a silent but willing accessory. He was so terribly frightened, and trembled so violently in every limb, that he dared not go to supper, pleading a headache as an excuse for his non-appearance. He went to bed at dark, but not to sleep. He lay there, tossing restlessly about, until he was called up to witness a scene the memory of which went with him to his dying day.

Meanwhile, Bob and George were busy with their hunting and fishing outfits—wiping out rifles and shotguns, critically examining flies and leaders, and making all the other preparations necessary for their sojourn in camp.

The only weapon that Bob intended to take with him was a three-barreled Baker gun (two shot barrels, with a rifle barrel underneath), that had once belonged to his father; while George was to use the little fowling-piece he had brought up from the bottom of the lake, and a heavy, muzzle-loading rifle that had bowled over more than one lordly elk on his native heath.

Bob had spent an hour or more in loading shells, and, when he got through, the Creedmoor cartridge-case he placed upon the table was about as heavy a weight as he cared to lift.

“Why, Bob, what makes you take so much ammunition?” asked George, casting aside a frayed leader that had parted while he was testing its strength. “We can’t use it all up in two days. One would think that we were going off on a regular campaign.”

“So we are. We shall have need of every cartridge in this case before we come back,” replied Bob, little dreaming how true were the words he uttered. “I wish we could take a couple of the wolf hounds with us. We shall be almost certain to catch a wolf in the valley, and I should like to have you see how easily the dogs could overtake and pull him down. But by the time we get the tent and all our provisions and a brace of setters crowded into the boat, it will be pretty well loaded, I tell you. Now, if Dick Langdon were only here to go with us, we would have a time of it, wouldn’t we? By-the-way, George, we must write to him as soon as we come back.”

Poor Bob was destined to “have a time of it,” as it was, and on more than one occasion he told himself that he and George would never live to write a letter to Dick Langdon.

As the boys intended to make an early start, they made all the preparations they could that night, so that they would not be delayed in the morning.

Bob gave his orders to the cook, who promised that they should not suffer for the want of something to eat while they were in camp; and after supper the skiff was hauled from its moorings at the boat-house, and made fast to a tree on the bank, in front of the ranch.

The little tent, which had sheltered Bob and his companions during the journey from Dixon Springs, was put into it, together with a goodly supply of canned goods—enough to last them a month, George said—and then the two setters that Bob intended to take with him were separated from the rest of the pack and shut up in the kennel, so that they could be found when wanted.

After that the two boys went to bed and slept the sleep of the innocent and healthy, while Arthur, tormented by his fears, rolled uneasily about on his couch, utterly unable to close his eyes in slumber.

Bob was up at the first peep of day, and in a very few minutes he and George were ready for the start. As soon as they were dressed, they made their way to the kitchen, and there they found the cook and a cup of hot coffee waiting for them. One of the tables was loaded with the bread, pies and cookies that had been baked for them the evening before.

“There isn’t room enough in the skiff for all that provender,” said George, who was fairly astonished.

“It’s got to go in,” replied Bob. “My schoolboy appetite clings to me yet, and I never go into camp without plenty to eat. If the fish don’t bite, we’ve got a side of bacon and a whole ham to fall back on.”

Having eaten breakfast and packed the bread, pies and cookies away in baskets which the cook brought out of the storeroom, they bade the latter good-by and left the ranch.

“Look out for the current, boys,” said the man, as he stood in the door watching them. “There must have been a heavy fall of rain somewhere in the mountains yesterday, for the river is just a-booming this morning.”

“All right, Ike,” replied Bob, cheerfully, “I know too much about this stream to take any risks.”

Notwithstanding George’s prediction, there proved to be room enough in the skiff for all the baskets, as well as for the two setters and everything else they had to take with them.

After the guns and fishing-rods had been put in, and Bob had satisfied himself that nothing had been forgotten, he cast off the painter, hauled the boat broadside to the bank, and motioned to George to jump in. The latter looked dubiously at the water and hesitated.

“Hadn’t we better pull the skiff up the river a little before we get in?” said he. “This current runs like lightning, and I am afraid we can’t stem it.”

“Don’t be uneasy,” assured Bob. “There’s not the least danger. I have many a time pulled this boat from this landing alone against a worse current than this. We are perfectly safe as long as we don’t allow ourselves to be carried below that big cottonwood you see over there. If we do that, we are doomed.”

George’s fears were by no means set at rest; but, nevertheless, he got into the boat. When he had shipped his oar, Bob threw in the painter and jumped in after him, pushing the skiff away from the bank as he did so. A second later the current caught the bow of the little craft, which, in spite of all George could do to prevent it, swung around as if she had been hung on a pivot, and started with railroad speed toward the black mouth of the canyon, which seemed to yawn close in front of them.

“Steady! There is no danger,” said Bob, encouragingly, as his companion suddenly faced about on his seat, revealing a face that was as pale as death itself. “You back water strong, while I give way.”

The struggle was destined to end most disastrously.