The cowpuncher returned to camp for breakfast and got permission of the
foreman to look for the missing horses.

Beyond the flats was a country creased with draws and dry arroyos. From
one to another of these Dave went without finding a trace of the animals.
All day he pushed through cactus and mesquite heavy with gray dust. In
the late afternoon he gave up for the time and struck back to the flats.
It was possible that the lost broncos had rejoined the remuda of their
own accord or had been found by some of the riders gathering up strays.

Dave struck the herd trail and followed it toward the new camp. A
horseman came out of the golden west of the sunset to meet him. For a
long time he saw the figure rising and falling in the saddle, the pony
moving in the even fox-trot of the cattle country.

The man was Bob Hart.

"Found 'em?" shouted Dave when he was close enough to be heard.

"No, and we won't--not this side of Malapi. Those scalawags didn't make
camp last night. They kep' travelin'. If you ask me, they're movin' yet,
and they've got our broncs with 'em."

This had already occurred to Dave as a possibility. "Any proof?" he asked
quietly.

"A-plenty. I been ridin' on the point all day. Three-four times we cut
trail of five horses. Two of the five are bein' ridden. My Four-Bits hoss
has got a broken front hoof. So has one of the five."