"Len Molick!" he exclaimed, as he wheeled his horse to ride out of the press of cattle and once more to get ahead of them. "If that wasn't Len Molick I'll eat my hat!" he soliloquized. "But what is he doing here, and why is he riding away instead of helping me out? I'd help him out if he was in this pickle!" It was queer to see Len riding away at top speed, providing that it was Len, and Dave felt pretty sure it was. Scarcely a cowpuncher but would render even his enemy help in an emergency of this kind. He might be on just as unfriendly terms as before, after the work was done, but he would give help. "But that isn't Len's way, evidently," mused Dave, bitterly. However he had his own work marked out for him, and no time for idle speculation. Somehow or other he must get ahead of the freed cattle and drive them back. Whooping, yelling, waving his hat and shooting, Dave took after the escaping steers. "Oh for one man to help," he cried aloud, and it seemed as if his cry was answered. For, riding toward him, and toward the bunch of stampeded cattle, he descried a figure that made his heart leap with joy. "Pocus Pete!" he cried. "Now we'll get you beasts back!" And indeed it was the efficient foreman of Bar U ranch who rode up at top speed, his hat off, his revolver spitting fire, and his horse lending itself to the game with all its energies. "Off to the left, Dave! Bear off to the left!" yelled Pete, indicating that his friend was to head in that direction. Pete himself took the right, and a moment later the two were riding along the front of the steers who were not running so fast now, being somewhat exhausted. The object of Pete, seconded by Dave, was to turn the stream of cattle--to swing around the front ranks, and so bring those in the rear to a halt. Often in a cattle stampede the front rank becomes exhausted, and the animals in it would willingly give up and cease running, but there is an irresistible pressure from those in the rear. And if those in front stop they know they will be trampled under foot. So they must keep on or be killed. This bunch, however, was comparatively small, and easy to handle. Soon, with the help of Pete, Dave had brought the animals down to a walk, and then it was an easy matter to turn them and drive them back toward the corral. "Whew!" cried Dave, when he had a chance to get his breath. "That was some job, Pete!" "Yes, all alone, I reckon it was." "How'd you happen to know about it?" "I didn't. I just come over here on an errand. Your dad--" He stopped in some confusion. "That's all right, Pete," Dave said. "I'm going to call Mr. Carson dad until I find my real one--if I ever do. No matter what happens, even if I do find my real folks, I can't forget that he has been as good as a father to me."