and another followed, taking a slightly different trail so as to avoid the close-cropped grass left by the first. At irregular intervals during the day other herds swept by, until six had passed and denuded the plain of cattle.
Buck, perspiring and dusty, accompanied by Hopalong and Red, rode up to where the guards smoked and joked. Frenchy came out of the cabin and smiled at his friends. Swinging in his left hand was a newly filled Colt's .45, which was recognized by his friends as the one found in the cabin and it bore a rough "T" gouged in the butt.
Buck looked around and cleared his throat: "We've got th' cows on th' home trail, Frenchy," he suggested.
"Yas?" inquired Frenchy. "Are there many?"
"Yas," replied Buck, waving his hand at the guards, ordering them to follow their friends. "It's a good deal for us: we've done right smart this hand. An' it's a good thing we've got so many punchers: we got a lot of cattle to drive."
"About five times th' size, of th' herd that blamed near made angels out'en me an' yu," responded Frenchy with a smile.
"I hope almighty hard that we don't have no stampedes on this here drive. If th' last herds go wild they'll pick up th' others, an' then there'll be th' devil to pay."
Frenchy smiled again and shot a glance at where Mr. Trendley was bound to the cabin wall.
Buck looked steadily southward for some time and then flecked a foam-sud from the flank of his horse. "We are goin' south along th' Creek until we gets to Big Spring, where we'll turn right smart to th' west. We won't be able to average more'n twelve miles a day, 'though I'm goin' to drive them hard. How's yore grub?"
"Grub to burn."
"Got yore rope?" asked the foreman of the Bar—20, speaking as if the question had no especial meaning.
