"Shore, after round-up. Seen any punchers trailin' around loose?"

"Ya-as," drawled Frenchy, delving into the possibilities suddenly
opened to him and determining to utilize to the fullest extent the
opportunity that had come to him unsought. "There's nine over to Muddy
Wells that yu might git if yu wants them bad enough. They've got a
sombrero of mine," he added deprecatingly.

"Nine! Twisted Jerusalem, Buck! Nine whole cow-punchers a-pinin' for
work," he shouted, but then added thoughtfully, "Mebby they's
engaged," it being one of the courtesies of the land not to take
another man's help.

"Nope. They've stampeded for th' Hills an' left their boss all
alone," replied Frenchy, well knowing that such desertion would not,
in the minds of the Bar-20 men, add any merits to the case of the
distant outfit.

"Th' sons-of-guns," said Hopalong, "let's go an' get `em," he
suggested, turning to Buck, who nodded a smiling assent.

"Oh, what's the hurry?" Asked Frenchy, seeing his projected game
slipping away into the uncertain future and happy in the thought that
he would be avenged on the O-Bar-O outfit.

"They'll be there till to-morrow noon-they's waitin' for their
cookie, who's goin' with them."

"A cook! A cook! Oh, joy, a cook!" exulted Johnny, not for one