"What'd you find?" eagerly demanded Hopalong.
"Three thousan' head on th' West Bend trail five days ahead of us," replied Skinny. "Ol' Sam is drivin' hard." He paused a moment. "Acts like he knows we 're after him. Anyhow, I saw that feller that visited us on th' third day of th' round-up. So I reckon Sam knows."
Lanky grinned. "He won't drive so hard later. I 'd like to see him when he sees th' Comanchee! Bet it's a lake south of Dunton's 'cordin' to what we found. But it ain't goin' to bother us a whole lot."
Hopalong nodded, dismounted and drew a crude map in the sand of the trail. Skinny watched it, grave and thoughtful until, all at once, he understood. His sudden burst of laughter startled his companions and they exchanged foolish grins. It appeared that from Dunton's Ford north, in a distance of forty miles, the Comanchee was practically born. So many feeders, none of them formidable, poured into it that in that distance it attained the dignity of a
