Slim looked at the scene in amazement. Blankets, cooking utensils and even Chuck had disappeared. The ashes of their fire had been scattered and made to look as though days had elapsed since the camp had been there.

The cowboy from the Flying Arrow looked around cautiously, afraid that he had stepped into a trap laid by the rustlers from the valley of the Creeping Shadows.

While he raked his mind for some solution to the disappearance of the camp, a low whistle sounded from across the stream. Slim whirled quickly, his right hand poised for a fast grab at his gun if necessary.

Above a fringe of underbrush on the further bank, Chuck was peering at him.

“What happened to the camp?” demanded Slim.

“Didn’t you meet any riders along the trail?”

“Two.”

“How do you think they got up that far if they didn’t come by here? I heard them coming and believe me, I dusted around and made our camp do a vanishing act. You want to remember we’re not far off the trail and this looks like a handy watering place on a hot day. I wasn’t taking any chances.”

“Well, you can come out of hiding now. Those fellows are at the summit by this time and from what I gathered as they went by me, they’ll be there quite a while.”

Chuck emerged from the undergrowth, carrying his rifle in one hand. He jumped from one rock to another, and finally arrived on Slim’s side of the stream.

“Now we’ll have to lug all of the duffel and grub over here,” said the Flying Arrow cowboy.

“Not on your life. There’s a fine bite of grass on the other side and a little hollow to hide our fire. No more camps near the trail for me.”

“You’re getting worse than an old hen,” protested Slim.

“I am, huh! Well listen to me. The boys that rode up the trail swung down to the stream here to water their horses. It was a darned good thing I was on the job and had sense enough to get our stuff out of sight. Why, I sat over there with my rifle trained on them just itching for a chance to bang away. But I’d done my job too well. I hadn’t left a thing for them to steal.”

“Hear much they said?” asked Slim.

“Everything, but they only talked about the heat and the long ride up to the summit.”

“I heard enough when they went by me to warn us that we’d better get over to the Box B as soon as possible. That gang is drawing a tight net around every entrance or exit from this country. Something big is going to happen and unless there’s some outside help on the job, Adam Marks may be wiped out.”

“Got any idea who’s running the rustlers?”

“They mentioned ‘the chief’ once or twice, but never repeated his name. I’ve a hunch he’ll be a hard one to run down. A man operating a gang as efficient as this one seems to be won’t leave many loose strings around.”

Slim gave Lightning her head and the sorrel picked her way across the bubbling stream. He unfastened Chuck’s saddle and let it drop to the ground. Then he went back across the creek and Chuck managed to mount behind Slim, riding back across the stream in this manner.

Chuck had found an ideal camp spot. The grass was rich, there was plenty of wood, and the swale was deep enough to hide their fire.

Slim turned Lightning out to graze and then both turned a hand to the task of getting their simple camp in shape for the night. That done, they went down to the creek bank, and loafed in the rays of the afternoon sun. Chuck watched the swift-moving waters.

“There’s a pool below with plenty of trout. I watched them this morning, but didn’t have a thing to catch them with. Gosh, a mess of mountain trout would taste good.”

“You’re sure there’re trout in the pool?”

“Saw them with my own eyes.”

Slim hastened back to their camp and dug deep into his saddlebags. He pulled out a small oilskin packet and from that produced a length of sturdy line and two artificial flies, a little the worse for wear, but still usable. Slim fastened the best one to the line and returned to the stream.

“Try your luck with this,” he said, dropping the fly and line at Chuck’s feet.

“You can start the fire now,” grinned Chuck as he picked up the line and started for the pool. “I’ll have a couple of one pounders in five minutes.”

“Say, who’s going to clean the fish?” asked Slim.

“If I catch them, you ought to be willing to do the cleaning,” said Chuck.

“But it’s my tackle you’re using,” Slim reminded him.

“You would have to suggest that,” retorted Chuck. “That being the case, we’ll split the work. I’ll catch the fish, you build the fire, and we’ll both clean them.”

“If any,” chuckled Slim.

Chuck strode off downstream and Slim gathered up an armful of wood for the fire. Then he walked down to the pool. Chuck had used his knife to cut a sapling for use as a pole and he was casting energetically with the fly.

“How many?” asked Slim.

“Not a one so far, but just wait a minute.”

Five more casts failed to produce a strike and Chuck’s confidence started to crumble.

“Let me have a try.” Slim took the homemade pole and moved downstream to a point where the rays of the sun streamed warmly on the water. The fly flicked the surface of the water, again and then again. On the fourth cast there was a flash of silver and a trout was hooked hard.

“You’ve got him, you’ve got him!” shouted Chuck, dancing along the bank oblivious of his tender feet. “Don’t lose him.”

“I won’t unless your shouting scares him away.”

The trout was a beauty, at least a pound and a half if Slim was any judge, and he played the fish carefully, finally drawing it close enough to the bank so Chuck could reach down and get it in his hands.

“What a beauty,” said the Circle Four cowboy as he held the trout in his hands. “Some people have all the luck.”

“You mean some people have all the skill,” grinned Slim, casting the fly back into the now quiet waters of the pool. He was patient and a fair judge of trout water, the result being that a few minutes later he got another strike, but this one finally eluded him. Slim got a third strike and this time landed his fish, which was larger than the first.

Returning to camp, they set about the task of cleaning the fish. Old Bill had left them plenty of food, and at sundown they stretched out beside the fire to enjoy their evening meal. The trout was delicious and there was plenty for both.

Supper over, they lolled on their blankets, watching the last light of day fade and the evening star brighten.

The night was uneventful and in the morning Slim again fished the trout pool. His luck held with him and he managed to land five trout in a little more than an hour.

“We’ll have enough for supper, even with Old Bill here,” said Chuck as he surveyed the catch of silver beauties.

During the day they kept a close watch on the trail but it was not until late afternoon that Old Bill appeared riding up out of the valley. He was leading a horse and his own saddlebags were bulging with articles he had purchased on the other side of the Cajons.

Chuck looked at the horse with a critical eye.

“That’s a skinny nag you brought me,” he said, after greetings had been exchanged.

“Maybe it will take a little of the extra weight off you; kinda saw you down in the middle,” chuckled Old Bill as he swung out of his saddle.

They gave the cattleman a hand in unloading the saddlebags and unfastening the boots which he had tied to his saddle.

Chuck hobbled the cayuse Old Bill had brought for him and then joined the others in camp.

“Have to move across the creek?” asked Bill.

“A little company rode up the trail yesterday and I figured it was best not to be seen,” said Chuck. “Slim saw them higher up the trail, but he gave them the slip, too. They were going up to the crest of the Cajons to make sure that no one else wanders into this country by that route.”

Old Bill nodded thoughtfully.

“They’re plugging up every trail into the Creeping Shadows country. Lucky thing I know an old one that’s been forgotten by everyone except myself and Adam Marks.”

“Maybe the rustlers are using that one to get the cattle out,” suggested Chuck.

“I’d know if they were sending cattle out that way,” replied Old Bill.

Chuck unwrapped a package the cattleman tossed toward him. It contained a change of trousers and a shirt of plain blue material.

“Why this isn’t even new,” protested Chuck.

“Of course not. Think I want you going into the valley with a brand new outfit when you’re supposed to be a cowboy who’s nearly broke and willing to work for just about any kind of a wage? I got the shirt and pants from an old clothes dealer. They’re clean. Put them on.”

Chuck mournfully took off his brightly checked shirt and in its place pulled the blue one over his head. The trousers were too large even for Chuck, but they would do.

“How about the boots?” asked Slim.

“I got in an awful jam,” confessed Old Bill. “I knew your size but I forgot to ask Chuck what size he wore so I just got the biggest in the store.”

Slim found that the boots Old Bill had brought fitted comfortably. Like the shirt and trousers for Chuck, the boots were from a second hand store, and as a result were well broken in.

Old Bill’s guess had been good, and Chuck failed to grumble when he eased his feet into the boots.

“Now we’ll get at the important business,” said the cattleman, producing a pair of hair clippers.

“Is that necessary?” asked Chuck hopefully.

“We’re going to do this thing right. When I get through with you, neither one of the hombres who jumped you up near the summit will ever recognize you.”

Chuck sat down on the grass and Old Bill started snipping away. He wasn’t expert as a barber, but he managed a fair job which Slim, grinning at Chuck’s protests, watched.

The new haircut certainly made a difference in Chuck, and Slim felt that in Old Bill they had a wise counsellor.

After the hair-cutting operation was completed, Old Bill turned to Slim.

“Bring Lightning up and we’ll get at the dyeing of her white spots.” He opened up a can of dye and mixed it in one of the tin cups, working until he had the mixture just the shade of Lightning’s sleek hair. Then, with a soft cloth, he rubbed on the dye while the big sorrel stood patiently, wondering just what it was all about.

First the star on the forehead was changed from white to sorrel, then the white on the legs was dyed. When the task was finished, Slim stepped a few paces from his mount. The dye had blended beautifully with the natural shade and it would have taken an expert to have detected that dye had been used.

Slim put the new saddle Old Bill had brought on Lightning, drew up the cinches, and mounted. He rocked back and forth in the stirrups, then dismounted and adjusted them. Once more he mounted, this time satisfied, and a smile broke over his lips.

“I’m all set for whatever we run into in the Creeping Shadows country,” he said.

“You’ll run into plenty of trouble,” promised Old Bill. “Let’s eat. I’m half starved.”

Slim fried the trout and half an hour later, with the sun dropping down behind the Three Soldiers and the twilight coming up out of the Creeping Shadows, they sat down around the campfire. There was little conversation during the meal, for to riders of the range food is too important to mix with idle talk.

The supper over, Slim and Chuck washed up the dishes while Old Bill stretched out on his blanket and puffed contentedly at his pipe.

“Looks like we’re all set to start in the morning,” said Chuck, returning to the campfire.

“The earlier the better,” replied Old Bill. “It’s a good day’s jog down to Dirty Water. That’s the one town in the Creeping Shadows and you’ll want to hit there first and make a few inquiries about jobs. Course the only ranch I want you to work on is the Box B, so if some misguided soul offers you another job, you’ll have to do some quick thinking and get out of it.”

“What will we say if someone in Dirty Water gets curious and wants to know how we rode in?” asked Slim.

“Tell ’em the truth. Say you came down the Sky High trail, but don’t say anything more. No one will recognize you, what with Chuck having a new haircut and a shirt that doesn’t talk out loud.”

“What about the fellows guarding the trail?” Chuck wanted to know.

“Whoever asks will probably know about the guards and if you tell him you came down Sky High, it will cause a little trouble for the guards, which should be all right with you.”

“And we’re not to tell Adam Marks we’re working for you?” asked Slim.

“Not unless it is absolutely necessary. Don’t talk any more than you have to. The less you say, the better off you’ll be. Just keep your ears and eyes open.”

Old Bill sat up and drew a leather folder from an inner pocket. From this he extracted two slips of heavy paper and two small silver emblems.

“When I figured I’d call on you boys to help me solve the mystery of the Creeping Shadows, I went down to see the governor at Laramie. He’s made you boys special agents directly under him with authority to act in any part of the state. These slips of paper are your commissions from the governor and the little silver shields are your badges. See that no one gets hold of them or your life won’t be worth the paper those commissions are written on.”

Slim took the paper and badge Old Bill handed him, and read the commission which made him a special agent of the state. Then he folded it carefully and placed it in the bottom of his right boot. Chuck did likewise and both cowboys fastened the badges on the inside of their Stetsons where the sweat band would hide them from any observer.

“Those badges mean that the entire law enforcement machinery of this state is behind you in your quest for the rustlers,” pointed out Old Bill. “When you learn the truth of what’s going on in the valley, send for me. If there isn’t time for that, use the power of the law which those badges give you.”

Slim’s fingers slid inside his hat and he fingered the tiny silver shield. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to call on the power which the badge represented.

Shortly after that they rolled into their blankets, for a long ride was ahead of the young cow punchers with the dawn of the next day.