"Good, an’ fresh as paint. I on’y breathed him, comin’ from Twin." "Swap. This bay has come along right smart for twenty miles. I ain’t goin’ to lose you much, either. Th’ boys is after us but they won’t catch you." Hopalong was well past the Sweet-Echo before the pinto was recognized. Slick let out a yell of surprise. The Cyclone puncher sauntered to the window, where Slick was pointing, glanced up the trail and laughed. "That’s a friend o’ Buck’s," he explained, "an’ he ’s certainly aimin’ to get there, wherever it is, as quick as he can." "Ain’t that yore pinto?" queried Slick. "Less ’n I ’m blind," agreed the cow-punch. "Seems to me there’s a lot o’ swappin’ goin’ on som’ers along th’ Big Moose," hazarded Slick. "Which they can’t _all_ be backin’ winners," he added, thoughtfully. They were still seeking light in useless discussion when the long-striding Allday went past. Slick shouted to Murray for news but Cock waved his hand without speaking. Twin River was beginning to show a languid interest. Day-and-night _habitués_ of the I-Call lounged out into the open and gazed after Cock inquiringly, irritated Pop Snow into a frantic change of base by their apparently earnest belief in his knowledge of these events and their demands for information, and lounged back again; Dutch Fred soothed the peevish old man by talking "like he had some sense"; having sense proved an asset once more as Dirty, no one being near, suddenly discovered a thirst. Ike, wise old wolf, though unable to solve the riddle, smelled a killing. "Stay around," he advised several of his own trustworthy satellites. Little Nell alone, who looked on and read as the others ran, came near to supplying the missing print: "The French Rose has shook Dave," she decided. "Dave has pulled his freight and the Double Y is on the prod after him. Smiler ought to show for place but the minute he looks like a winner the Texan ’ll pump him full of lead. The Double Y will win out. Maybe Ned—" Little Nell’s wild heart had regretted bluff, kindly Ned, these many days. The passing of the Double Y punchers, strung out half a mile, confirmed Nell’s guess. The Cyclone puncher, hurriedly throwing the leather on the Goat, loped along beside Slow Jack, the last in the string, obtaining from him such meagre information as only whetted his curiosity. He returned to the Sweet-Echo and Slick, disdaining to reply to the I-Call loungers. Ike was too wise to risk a rebuff; he already knew enough from what he had seen. "Pickin’s, boys," was his laconic comment; and soon a company of five Autolycus-minded gentlemen took the Big Moose trail, openly. The break-up of this chance foray was largely due to the simple matter of direction.