The Clue

      An old pick-up truck turned into the bumpy road leading to Hanging Rock Ranch. On the seat of the cab an American Indian boy swayed from side to side. He was tall for his eleven years—thin and wiry, with brown eyes that lit up his face.

      Sitting next to him behind the steering wheel was his grandfather. His face was wrinkled, and his hands were bony. Grandpa Hawk had just turned seventy, but he expected to reach the hundred mark, and his grandson Jim Hawk felt that he would.

      Jim lived with his grandfather on the Yakima Indian Reservation in Washington. His parents had died when he was young, but he could remember what a good horseman his father had been. To Jim there would never be a cowboy on the reservation who could handle a horse the way his father had. And plenty of cowboys were there, since a good part of the land was rented to cattlemen for grazing their stock.

      Every month the Yakima Indian Tribal Council paid Grandpa Hawk his share from the rental property. This money helped to feed and clothe the old man and his grandson, but they also did odd jobs for Mr. Miller, who had a ranch on the reservation. Some of the work was caring for the horses and repairing the corrals and fences.

      Jim liked being an extra cowhand on the ranch. His high-heeled boots did not have spurs on them, and he did not own a wide-brimmed hat. Yet Jim felt he was a full-fledged cowboy, and he was happy about earning money. He wanted to help his tribe when he was a grown man. His grandfather had told him it was necessary to see that the reservation was always kept for the Yakima Indian Nation so that they could preserve the old race. Jim had made up his mind to do this. Whenever Mr. Miller paid him, he put the money in the bank for his college education, even though he longed to save it to buy a horse.

      Jim’s greatest wish was to have a horse all his own. He had seen wild horses on the reservation. There were not many, because so much of the land was leased for cattle raising. But perhaps he could make friends with one of those wild horses. And then maybe, just maybe, he could ride it bareback.

      Jim was thinking this as he jolted along in the old pick-up. Soon he leaned out the window and looked at the sagebrush in bloom.

      “Spring has come early this year,” he said to his grandfather in their native Indian tongue. Whenever they were alone, they spoke in the language of their tribe.

      Grandpa Hawk nodded and put the truck in second gear. It coughed and sputtered but managed to crawl along the narrow, deep-rutted road. Straight ahead in the canyon lay a long white house, other buildings, and corrals. The truck bounced along over a cattle guard and passed a large hanging rock that was the result of years of erosion. It resembled the head of a prehistoric animal, and on one side of it HANGING ROCK RANCH was scrawled in big white letters.

      The writing was the work of Harold Miller, who lived at the ranch with his parents. He and Jim were the same age, and they went to the same public school. The boys were good friends.

      Harold’s nickname was Hap because he was usually good-natured and happy. He liked to sing and whistle, too. Right now he was sitting on a corral fence humming a cowboy song. He was dressed like a cowboy—wide-brimmed hat, bright shirt, jeans, and high-heeled boots with silver spurs. Hap was glad it was the beginning of spring vacation because he and Jim Hawk planned to work on the ranch. There would be plenty of excitement—Hap felt sure of that, and he was anxious to tell his friend the reason why. When the pick-up stopped near the corral, he jumped down from the fence like a rabbit on the run.

      “Boy, something strange is going on around here,” he said to Jim. “One of our calves is missing.”

      Jim raised an eyebrow in concern and climbed out of the cab. “That’s bad. A calf doesn’t wander off. It follows its mother.”

      “That’s what I think,” replied Hap. “I’ll bet cattle thieves are operating on this reservation.”

      “I’m all for tracking them down.” Jim rubbed his hands together in anticipation of catching the rustlers. “When do we start?”

      “Right now,” answered Hap. “Dad said we should ride the range this morning and hunt for critters bogged in the mud and pull them out. I thought we’d look for rustlers at the same time.”

      “You mean we’re going to ride bog, just you and me?” asked Jim.

      “Yeah” answered Hap, pulling up his jeans, which were too large for him.

      “Great guns!” exclaimed Jim. He jumped up in the air and clicked his heels together. “I can’t believe it. Why, we’ll be doing important cowboy work.”

      “I know it.” Hap was just as thrilled. In other years he had wanted to rescue old cows that had been knocked down by stronger ones at a water hole. Those animals would not be able to get up unless a cowboy came to their aid. Now he and Jim Hawk were to be given their first opportunity to go and help them. Hap joined in with his friend’s excitement. Whistling, he turned a somersault in the dirt. Then he stood on his hands, and after righting himself said, “We’ve got to get Tom’s permission first. So let’s ask him.”

      “Okay,” said Jim.

      He raced Hap over to another corral where Tom was halterbreaking a colt. He was the foreman of the ranch, an experienced cowboy, and the boys thought the world of him. They had often seen Tom break in a horse, but always the event was an interesting one. So they perched on the corral fence to watch the procedure.

      The colt was a two-year-old filly and had already learned the lesson of the rope. She stood still while Tom stepped up and quickly thrust the halter over her head. He snapped the buckle just as swiftly.

      The filly yanked back. The halter was something new to her, and she did not like it. She squatted in the dirt like a stubborn donkey.

      The boys laughed and then became serious when they saw Tom wind the rope around the snubbing post.

      The filly got up and pulled on the rope for all she was worth.

      Tom just stood there, holding the rope end.

      The filly snorted and kept on tugging. The rope fastened tighter around her neck. Still she would not give in. She kept on pulling until she was exhausted.

      Then Tom put his hand on the halter and said to her in a soothing voice, “After a while you’ll get used to this.” He gently rubbed her nose.

      The filly blinked and whinnied.

      With a satisfied grin Tom pulled off the halter. “You’ve had your lesson today. Tomorrow I’ll halter-break you some more. I’ll keep on doing it, too, until you stop putting up such a fight. After that I’ll teach you a lot of other things so that when you’re big enough, you’ll let me put on a saddle. How about it?”

      The filly stamped one of her front feet as if to say she would have no part of the saddle.

      Tom chuckled and turned to the boys. Before he could ask them what was on their minds, Hap began explaining about his father’s orders. “But Dad said it’s up to you, Tom,” he finished. “We must get your okay.”

      “So you want to ride bog, eh? Now what do you know about pulling old critters out of the mud?” Tom pushed