Hoppy nodded his head. "_I_ never see th’ horse could do it right now; an’ that bird flew over there last night. He was right on it afore he knew an’ he did n’t stop to remember how deep it was; he just dug in a spur an’ lifted him at sight of th’ breakin’ bubbles: they ’d show purty nigh white last night—an’ th’ horse, he does n’t know how much he has to jump, so he jumps a good one—a d—n good one, though Ned, here, don’t think it so much. Mebby you know a horse as could do it right easy, eh, Ned?" With Hopalong’s sharp eyes on his face, Ned shook his head in denial, gazing stolidly at the sign. "Too good for any in these parts; would n’t be no disgrace for a thoroughbred." Buck glanced quickly at Ned and then, pulling his hat low over his eyes, struck up the brim with two snappy blows of the back of his hand. "Well, Buck, I reckon I ’ll leave you an’ Ned to foller this. I got a feelin’ I ’m wanted at th’ ranch. So long." Hopalong rode off in obedience to one of the signals that had helped to simplify affairs among the Bar-20 punchers. Buck had signified his desire for Hoppy’s absence. He pushed Allday to the creek and set off at a lope. "Easy as follerin’ a wagon, Ned," he remarked. "Yep," agreed Ned. "Stopped here," observed Buck. "Listenin’, I reckon. Goin’ slower, now." "Some," replied Ned. "Right smart jump acrost that creek," said Buck, questioningly. "Uh-huh!" consented Ned, with non-committal brevity. They rode a couple of miles before Buck hazarded another remark. "Seems like I oughta know that hoof," he complained. "Keeps a-lookin’ more ’n more like I knowed it. Durn thing purty nigh talks." Ned threw him a startled glance and then gazed steadily ahead. "Be at th’ Jill in a minute," he announced. "Yeah. Thought he was driftin’ that-away. Lay you ten to two he don’t _jump_ th’ Jill, Ned." "Here ’s Charley," was the irrelevant response. The Indian was a welcome diversion. Buck slowed to a walk, raised his eyes and waved Charley an amiable salute. The Cheyenne promptly left the trail and rode to join them. "Hey, Charley, whose horse is that?" asked Buck, pointing to the hoof prints. The Indian barely glanced at them. "French Rose," he declared. "Cross trail, swim river before sun. Heap good horse." "Where goin’, Charley—ranch?" asked Buck, evenly. He did not question the Cheyenne’s conclusions. _He knew_. Buck was satisfied of that. Charley grinned sheepishly and shifted uneasily under Buck’s stare. "That’s all right," assured Buck, "tell Jake to give you—no, wait for me. I ’ll be there as soon as you are." He turned away and Charley accepted his dismissal in high good humor, riding off with cheering visions of a cupful of the "old man’s" whiskey, which was very different from that dispensed over the bar in Twin River. "Well, Ned," said Buck. "Well, Buck," returned Ned. "You knew it was Rose’s horse." "I was a-feared." "You knew it, you durn ol’ grizzly."