Copyright ©, 1962, by

      THE MOODY BIBLE INSTITUTE

      OF CHICAGO

      1

       One Saddle Missing

      A GENTLE BREEZE murmured through the quebracho and ceiba trees that ringed the ranch buildings. Gauchos in their baggy trousers roped half-wild horses and saddled them with the reckless abandon of Wyoming cowhands.

      A small gray oven bird (hornero) winged busily past on its way to its little house of mud and straw, an unidentified bug in its beak.

      In the barn the morning sun slanted through the open window to fill the spacious box stall with light. It danced on the black stallion’s shimmering coat and soft mane. He stood there, his feet spraddled slightly and his head erect, a magnificent specimen of horse flesh. He was powerfully built, and his sturdy, heavily muscled legs revealed him as a man’s horse, the sort of animal which could tirelessly carry a heavy rider for hours over open prairie or mountain trails.

      For the moment, however, Biff Norris and Chip Edwards were not thinking of the big stallion that was among the polo team mounts they were helping take care of on the barnstorming trip to South America. This particular horse had actually been the reason for their trip.

      Biff Norris relaxed his grip on Ebony’s halter and looked uneasily into the team manager’s eyes.

      “I thought I left you fellows in charge of the tack room last night,” Mr. Griffin said coldly. “You were going to take care of our gear for us.”

      “We did just as you told us,” Chip retorted. “Nobody went in or out of the door of that tack room last night.”

      They felt the fire in Griffin’s steady gaze and winced uncomfortably under it.

      “Your aunt assured me you fellows were trustworthy,” he continued. “I would have left Ebony at home rather than bring you two along to help look after him and the rest of the horses if I’d known that you weren’t dependable.”

      “What Chip says is true, Mr. Griffen,” Biff Norris told him. “When we had the van unloaded, we put the gear in the tack room and locked it. In fact, we had to rub Ebony down and grain him after we exercised him last night; we must have been out in the barn an hour or so. No one was near the place.”

      “Then how do you account for the fact that the tack room door was locked when you left and was unlocked this morning when we came out to go to work?”

      The boys looked at one another quizzically. “I can’t answer that, Mr. Griffen,” Chip said, “I don’t know how the padlock on the tack room door happened to be unlocked and one of the saddles missing.”

      “A new saddle,” Mr. Griffen retorted tersely. “And a very expensive saddle. It would have been bad enough to lose equipment, but letting that saddle be stolen was inexcusable.”

      “You won’t have to worry about it happening again,” Biff went on. “There’s an empty stall between Ebony and the tack room. We’re going to move our bedrolls out and sleep here from now on.”

      The slight hawk-faced polo team manager softened a little. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” he answered. “All you have to do is to be sure and keep that door locked.”

      When he was gone Biff Norris unsnapped Ebony’s halter rope, slipped out of the stall, and closed the gate behind him. The big stallion thrust his nose up to the heavy planking affectionately. “Well, what do you think?” he asked in guarded tones.

      Chip dug a piece of lump sugar from his pocket and fed it to Ebony. “I sure don’t know how that tack room came to be unlocked this morning and the saddle gone. But it was locked when we left last night,” he said firmly. “I’d swear to it–even though Mr. Griffen doesn’t believe us.”

      Biff went over to the tack room and unlocked the heavy door. The room was a scant ten feet square, sturdily paneled and lined with saddle trees and large wooden pegs to hang bridles and halters from. There were racks for saddle blankets, polo mallets, and drawers for the array of medicines and liniment and tape every team carried with it. The only outside opening was a small window near the roof.

      “No one could have broken in here last night, Chip. It just isn’t possible.”

      Chip Edwards stiffened. “Now wait a minute. That saddle is gone and the door was unlocked. Those things just didn’t happen by themselves.”

      Biff went over and leaned against the wall. “When we got here yesterday Mr. Griffen didn’t even think it would be necessary for us to put our stuff under lock and key,” he went on. “Remember how Señor Huerta insisted on moving his equipment out of the tack room so we could use it?”

      Chip nodded. “And he told us about the lock, too–that it was handmade. He said that nobody would be able to open it without the key.”

      “There’s another thing I can’t understand,” Biff added. “Señor Huerta has a lot of equipment just in an empty stall that is worth more than that saddle. If the thief was going to steal anything, why didn’t he take that?”

      “Maybe he didn’t think there would be anything valuable in an empty box stall,” Chip countered. “Normally a thief would think only of going to the tack room to steal riding gear.”

      Biff frowned deeply. “But why wasn’t something more than the one saddle taken?” he demanded. “That’s what I can’t figure out. The rest of that gear isn’t new, but it’s still worth a lot of money. For that matter the guy could have grabbed up an armload of bridles and had a lot more in value than he got in that one saddle–if that’s what he was actually after.”

      Chip eyed him curiously. “Now what do you mean by that?”

      Biff Norris shrugged his shoulders. “Skip it. I’m just talking. I don’t even know what I mean.”

      They left the tack room presently, made sure the door was securely locked, and sauntered out into the warm January morning.

      Chip grinned. “Who would believe it if we told them we picked roses from the garden and went swimming down here on New Year’s Day? Those are things we don’t do back in Michigan.”

      “No,” Biff laughed. “And we don’t throw snowballs on the fourth of July, either.”

      They looked about momentarily.

      “The pampas remind me of Wyoming or Colorado,” Chip said. “They’re high and semiarid and lie next to the mountains.”

      “And the Huerta Estancia reminds me a lot of some of the big western cattle spreads back home.”

      They had laughed at the Gauchos in their baggy, floppy bombachas secretly; but that was only until they saw the skill with which the South American cowboys rode their half-wild broncos, the unerring accuracy of their lariats as they snaked them expertly about their quarry. Those dark-skinned riders looked strange, but they could hold their own with any American.

      The very thought of going to South America fascinated both Chip Edwards and Biff Norris ever since they received a phone call from Chip’s Aunt Caroline. She was wealthy, prim, and completely dedicated to the fact that Ebony, her purebred quarter horse stallion would be secure only in the hands of an Edwards.

      “Mr. Griffen would like to take him along with the polo team when they go to South America this winter,” she said. “I turned him down flat at first, but he has made me see that it would be good publicity for the estancia, and might give us an opportunity to sell some polo ponies down