Cowboy Dave | Page 3

trouble; and Tubby and the others
thought we'd better come on, and go back for the strays to-morrow."
"Trouble, Dave?" asked Mr. Carson, looking up suddenly.
"Well, not much, though it might have been. We saw some men we
took to be rustlers heading for our bunch of cattle, but they rode off
when we started for them. Some of the boys wanted to follow but it
looked as though it might storm, and Tubby said we'd better move the
bunch while we could, and look after the rustlers and strays later."
"Yes, I guess that was best," the ranch owner agreed. "But where were
these rustlers from, Dave?"
"Hard to say, Dad. Looked to be Mexicans."
"I reckon that'd be about right," came from Pocus Pete. "We'll have to
be on th' watch, Mr. Carson."
"I expect so, Pete. Things aren't going so well that I can afford to lose
any cattle. But about these strays, Dave. Do you think we'd better get
right after them?"
"I should say so, Dad."
"Think there are many of them?"

"Not more than two of us could drive in. I'll go to-morrow with one of
the men. I know just about where to look for them."
"All right, Dave. If you're not too much done out I'd like to have you
take a hand."
"Done out, Dad! Don't you think I'm making a pretty good
cowpuncher?"
"That's what he is, Mr. Carson, for a fact!" broke in Pete, with
admiration. "I'd stake Cowboy Dave ag'in' any man you've got ridin'
range to-day. That's what I would!"
"Thanks, Pete," said the youth, with a warm smile.
"Well, that's the truth, Dave. You took to this business like a duck takes
to water, though the land knows there ain't any too much water in these
parts for ducks."
"Yes, we could use more, especially at this season," Mr. Carson
admitted. "Rolling River must be getting pretty dry; isn't it, Dave?"
"I've seen it wetter, Dad. And there's hardly any water in Forked
Branch. I don't see how the stray cattle get enough to drink."
"It is queer they'd be off up that way," observed Pete. "But that might
account for it," he went on, as though communing with himself.
"Account for what?" asked Dave, as he sat down in a chair on the
porch.
"Th' rustlers. If they were up Forked Branch way they'd stand between
th' strays and th' cattle comin' down where they could get plenty of
water in Rolling River. That's worth lookin' into. I'll ride up that way
with you to-morrow, Dave, an' help drive in them cattle."
"Will you, Pete? That will be fine!" the young cowboy exclaimed.
Evidently there was a strong feeling of affection between the two. Dave
looked to Mr. Carson for confirmation.

"Very well," the ranch owner said, "you and Pete may go, Dave. But
don't take any chances with the rustlers if you encounter them."
"We're not likely to," said Pocus Pete, significantly.
From the distant cook house came the appetizing odor of food and
Dave sniffed the air eagerly.
"Hungry?" asked Mr. Carson.
"That's what I am, Dad!"
"Well, eat heartily, get a good rest, and tomorrow you can try your
hand at driving strays."
Evening settled down over the Bar U ranch; a calm, quiet evening, in
spite of the earlier signs of a storm. In the far west a faint intermittent
light showed where the elements were raging, but it was so far off that
not even the faintest rumble of thunder came over Rolling River, a
stream about a mile distant, on the banks of which were now quartered
the cattle which the cowboys had recently rounded up for shipment.
The only sounds that came with distinctness were the occasional
barking and baying of a dog, as he saw the rising moon, and the dull
shuffle of the shifting cattle, which were being guarded by several
cowboys who were night-riding.
Very early the next morning Dave Carson and Pocus Pete, astride their
favorite horses, and carrying with them a substantial lunch, set off after
the strays which had been dimly observed the day before up Forked
Branch way.
This was one of the tributaries of Rolling River, the valley of which
was at one time one of the most fertile sections of the largest of our
Western cattle states. The tributary divided into two parts, or branches,
shortly above its junction with Rolling River. Hence its name. Forked
Branch came down from amid a series of low foot-hills, forming the
northern boundary of Mr. Randolph Carson's ranch.

"We sure have one fine day for ridin'," observed Pocus Pete, as he
urged his pony up alongside Dave's.
"That's right," agreed the youth.
For several miles they rode on, speaking but seldom, for a cowboy