Chapter VIII: Dry Again

"What the mischief's that?" exclaimed Bud, as he unhooked the lantern from the tent pole and swung it toward the ground where he had set his foot. "Has Nort or Dick lost their bottle of paregoric?" and he chuckled as he recalled what use his cousins had made of that baby-pacifier when they had been captured at the camp of the professors, as related in the book prior to this.

"It _is_ a bottle, and I stepped on it and smashed it," went on Bud, as he saw the shining particles of thin glass. "That new cowboy, Pocut Pete, must have dropped it. Hope it wasn't any medicine he needed. Smells mighty queer, though!" and Bud sniffed the air. "I hope he isn't one of those 'dope fiends,'" and again a feeling of apprehension passed over him.

Bud picked up one of the largest pieces of the crushed glass bottle. The little phial appeared to have been filled with a sticky, yellowish substance, and the odor was not pleasant.

"Whew!" exclaimed Bud as he caught a strong whiff of it. "I wouldn't want to have to take any of _that_ for medicine. Guess I'll ask Snake what he knows of Pocut Pete before I make any inquiries on my own hook. And I'll tell him he'd better bury this glass if he doesn't want to cut his own feet, or that of the others."

"Bunks all right?" asked Old Billee Dobb, as Bud emerged from the tent.

"All ready to turn in," was the answer.

"Which I'm going to do dark an' early," declared the old cowboy. "I have the late watch t'-night."

For it had been decided, with the coming of the additional steers from Square M, that it would be necessary to ride herd, as so many cattle in a bunch might engender a stampede. And at Old Billee's suggestion the night-riding was to start then, to break them in, so to speak.

Bud saw Pocut Pete standing by himself at the cook tent, Buck Tooth having been induced to open some cans of peaches, a form of fruit much in favor on western ranches where the fresh variety is unobtainable.

"You'd better clean up that glass you left in the bunk tent," Bud remarked in a low voice.

"What glass?" sharply demanded the other, and there was in his voice a note of defiance, the boy thought.

"The glass bottle you dropped, and I stepped on," Bud resumed, for he did not hesitate to give orders in his own camp.

"I didn't drop any bottle!" declared Pocut Pete.

"Well, some one did, and I smashed it," asserted Bud. "If you don't want to cut your feet you'd better bury it," and he hurried off to wash from his hands some of the unpleasant-smelling mixture that had clung to them.

"I sleep with my boots on," said Pocut Pete. "But I'll tell the rest of 'em to be careful."

"It would be better," Bud flung back over his shoulder.

It was late next day when cowboys from Square M arrived, slowly driving before them the cattle that were to be doubled up with those which Bud, Nort and Dick considered specially their own.

"What's the situation over there now?" Bud asked one of the punchers, who looked tired and weary, for the trail had been long and dry, as evidenced by the eager manner in which the steers rushed for water.

"Pretty bad," was the answer. "This disease, whatever it is, seems to kill off mighty quick. I don't know how many your dad has lost, but I guess now, what with those we've brought here and them sent to Diamond X and Triangle B, that we'll get the best of the trouble. Gosh! You got a nice place here!" he added admiringly.

"Yes, it's pretty good," Bud agreed. "Bringing the water over from Pocut River made all the difference in the world."

"You got out a lungful that time!" asserted another of the cowboys who had helped "haze" over the steers that were transferred to save them from infection.

The visiting cowboys departed next day, leaving their animals mingled with those in which Bud, Nort and Dick had an interest. The doubled-up herd was not too large but what there was plenty of feed and water in Flume Valley.

During the days that followed, matters at Diamond X Second, as Bud sometimes called his ranch camp, adjusted themselves smoothly. There was no further sign, or evidence, of mysterious warnings. The cattle throve, and those from Square M, which were not in as good physical condition as the animals that had been longer in the green valley, began to "pick up" and fatten.

"I tell you what, fellows!" boasted Bud to his cousins, "dad'll be wishing he'd kept this ranch for himself! We'll beat him at his own game!"

"It would be a big stunt if we could, not taking advantage of his bad luck at Square M, though," spoke Nort.

"Well, you have to count on bad luck in this business," remarked Bud. "Not that black rabbits have anything to do with it," he laughed, as he looked at Old Billee.

Bud and his cousins were returning, one hot afternoon, from having ridden to a distant part of the valley, where Snake Purdee had reported he had found a calf killed. There was a suspicion that rustlers had been at work, but Bud decided the animal had been separated from its mother and the main herd, and had been pulled down by coyotes.

"What's that?" asked Nort, when they were within sight of the camp with its reservoir in the background.

"What's what?" asked Bud, who pulled his pony aside quickly, to escape a prairie dog's burrow.

"Looks like Old Billee waving his hat for us to hit up the pace," spoke Dick.

"It is!" asserted Bud, after gazing beneath his hands held in front of his eyes as a sun-shield. "I hope nothing's wrong!"

But when they had ridden up, the old cowboy riding out to meet them, it was made plain, in a moment, that something had occurred out of the ordinary.

Old Billee Dobb was much excited. His eyes blazed and snapped and he shook the reins in addition to mildly spurring on his pony.

"More mysterious warnings?" asked Bud.

"Worse'n that," was the answer. "She's dry ag'in!"

"The pipe line?" asked Dick.

"You hit it!" cried the other. "Water's stopped runnin' ag'in, Bud!"

"Whew!" whistled the boy rancher. "And with a double lot of stock on hand, too! This _is_ bad!"