Once more his gaze swept over the backs of the cattle. Yes, there was a
figure on horseback, but it was riding away, straight toward the foot-
hills.

"Here!" cried Dave. "Come back! Give me a hand here, whoever you are! Come
back!"

But the figure did not turn, and then Dave, with anger and disgust showing
in his face, thought he recognized in the peculiar style of the rider
something familiar.

"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.