Hopalong, knowing nothing of the wagging tongues at Twin River, drove the pinto for every ounce there was in him. A vague uneasiness, risen with the delivery of Buck’s message by Cock Murray, rode with Hopalong; he could not shake it off. Ten minutes beyond Two Fork he saw the buckboard and the curse in his throat had its origin in a conviction as accurate as Whitby’s had been. He turned and rode beside them. "Well, they got you, Buck," was his quiet comment. "Shore did," admitted Buck. "Ambushed at four hundred—first shot—bad medicine. I lit a-runnin’ an’ caves in just as th’ next ball drops th’ bronc. I lays most mighty still. He thinks I kicked th’ bucket but he ’s afraid to find out. I was hopin’ he ’d come to see. He gets away quiet an’ I lay an’ bleed a-waitin’ for him. Rose an’ Whit here wakes me out of a sweet dream." He smiled up at Rose whose anxiety was evident. "Too much talk," she warned him. "Dave?" asked Hopalong, looking at Whitby, who nodded. "How far?" "Two miles; possibly less," answered Whitby. "I ’ll get him," said Hopalong, with quiet certitude. "So long, Buck." "So long, Hoppy. Go with him, Whit. Can’t afford another ambush." "Very well, Buck. You will find a medicine-chest in my kit, Miss McAllister." Whitby turned and rode hard after Hopalong who, nevertheless, arrived at the dead pony considerably in advance, and after a searching look around, rode straight to the ambush. The signs of its recent occupancy were plain to be seen. Hopalong got down and squatted under cover as Dave must have done, from which position his shrewd mind deduced the cause of the poor shot: a swinging limb, which had deflected the bullet at the critical moment. The signs showed Dave had led his horse from the spot, finally mounting and riding off in a direction well to the east of Wayback. Minute after minute Hopalong tracked at a slow canter; suddenly his pony sprang forward with a rush: even to the Englishman’s inexperienced eyes there was evidence of Dave having gone faster; very much faster, Whitby thought, as he rode his best to hold the pace, wondering meanwhile, how it was possible to track at such speed. It was n’t possible: Dave had set a straight line for Wayback and gone off like a jack rabbit. Hopalong was simply backing his guess.