you two?" and he
looked at Snake and Pocut, who said his name had been given him as he
had "punched" cows so long in the vicinity of the Pocut River.

"Oh, we'll make out," asserted Snake, who was easily suited.

But Bud, being the nominal head of the camp, would leave nothing to
chance. While some of the others were still about the flickering camp
fire, talking of the trouble at Square M, the strange disappearance of
the water and kindred topics, the boy rancher went to inspect the tent
where the older cowboys were to pass the night.

It was fitted with cots enough, and one to spare, but Bud wanted to
make sure of the blankets. For it gets cold at night on the western
plains on even very hot days.

As Bud entered the tent he saw, in the dim light of a turned-down
lantern, a figure sitting on one of the cots.

"That you, Snake?" Bud asked.

"No, it's me," answered the voice of the new cowboy, Pocut Pete.

"Oh," remarked the lad, and as the other arose Bud caught the tinkle of
glass. For a moment an ugly suspicion entered Bud's mind, but when his
nostrils did not catch the smell of liquor, which was strictly
forbidden on all Mr. Merkel's ranches, Bud felt a sense of relief.

Pocut Pete passed out, after Bud had assured himself that there were
blankets enough, and as the boy rancher was leaving the tent, he trod
on something that broke, with a grating sound, under his foot.

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