The Boy Ranchers in Camp Part 21

"I wouldn't," said Bud. "Not but what I'm glad to have you take an interest in the cattle," he went on, "but cutting one with a knife might bring on blood poisoning."

"Yes, an' jabbin' a knife into one might set it wild, an' it would rush off an' start a stampede," said Billee.

"I realized that," admitted Pocut Pete, "so that's why I didn't do it until I got this steer off by himself."

He spoke this truly enough, for the lone animal he had been "operating"

on was some distance from the main herd.

"I never saw a wart on a steer," spoke Bud, as he urged his pony nearer to where the strange cowboy stood on the ground close to the beef animal. "It's queer----"

There was a sudden movement. Pocut Pete leaped back and the steer, as though taking fright at Bud's advance, lowered its head, and, with a loud bellow, sprang away.

"I told you so!" called out Old Billee. "You might 'a' got horned, Pete!"

"Oh, I was watching," came the answer. "Yes, warts do, sometimes, come on cattle," he went on. "I've cut off lots of 'em. Some beef men won't pa.s.s 'em if they have any. I thought I was doing you a favor."

He spoke in an injured tone of voice.

"Well, maybe you were," admitted Bud. "First I thought you were someone else."

"One of the Double Z bunch?" asked Pocut Pete with a laugh. "Did you find out anything over there?" he inquired as he caught his pony, which had been standing near-by, and leaped into the saddle.

"Nary a thing," voiced Old Billee.

And then, as the group, Pocut Pete included, headed back for camp, the old cowboy broke into song, roaring out:

"Send me a letter, kid, Write it yo'self!

Put in some news of th' city.

For it's lonesome out here, 'Neath th' blue, starry sky, An' cowboys don't get any pity!"

"What's struck you?" laughed Bud.

"Oh, I feel sorter so-so," affirmed Old Billee. "We're in for a storm, I reckon."

"And that's your weather indication!" chuckled Nort.

"Yeppy," agreed the veteran, and he broke into another verse of the interminable song--one of the series that cowboys love to warble.

"What do you think of Pocut Pete?" asked d.i.c.k of Bud in the seclusion of their own tent that night.

"Oh, I don't know what to think," was the answer. "I did have him down for a drinker, or a doper, but he doesn't seem to be either, and he does his work well. Only I don't know what to make of his actions to-night. Warts! On a steer! That sounded fishy to me!"

"Same here!" agreed d.i.c.k.

But as several days pa.s.sed, and nothing more suspicious occurred, the action of Pocut Pete was rather forgotten. Nor was there any further trouble with the rustlers, or the lack of water. In spite of the warnings and veiled threats that had been received, the black pipe still spouted into the reservoir.

And then, like lightning out of a clear sky, came a bolt that gave the boy ranchers a shock.

Old Billee riding in from off the distant range one day, called to Bud who was opening some of the reservoir gates to let water run to a distant trough for the cattle.

"Bad business, Bud!" exclaimed the veteran.

"What's that?" asked the lad, with an instinctive glance at the black pipe, whence the water spouted. His first thought was of that.

"There's five of your steers dead, over near the last water trough!"

was the answer.

"Steers dead!" gasped Bud. "Rustlers?" he asked, quickly.

"Don't 'pear to be," Billee answered. "There isn't a mark on 'em.

Maybe it's glanders. Better get Doc. Tunison right over."

Which Bud did, by telephone.

The veterinarian, who looked after the health of cattle in that vicinity, appeared in due season. Bud, with his cousins and Old Billee went out to where the dead cattle lay, now stiff and stark. Some buzzards flopped heavily off as the party approached.

"Hum!" mused Dr. Tunison as he began his examination. It did not take him long to complete it. "I thought so," he remarked, as he looked at Bud.

"What is it?"

"Germs!" was the answer. "The epidemic's struck you, Bud!"

CHAPTER XVIII

ROPED!

Like a blow struck came that announcement to Bud Merkel. And to his chums and partners in their first small venture as boy ranchers on their own responsibility, the announcement of the veterinarian was staggering.

"Germs!" exclaimed Nort.

"Epidemic!" voiced d.i.c.k.

"Has it really struck here--the same disease that was among dad's cattle?" asked Bud, as though hoping there might be some mistake.

"It's here all right," went on Dr. Tunison, rising from his stooping position beside a dead steer. He looked about for a puddle of water in which to wash his hands, and, having completed the operation, using a disinfectant from a bottle he produced, he added: "Better fence off this puddle, Bud. If any of your other cattle happen to drink here they'll get the disease, too, and b.u.mp off."

That was his way of saying that the steers would die.

"I'll do that!" declared Bud. "We can cut the water off from this part of the range. But what causes the epidemic, Doc? Dad was careful not to send me any of his infected cattle from Square M, and he said you'd examined all that came, and they didn't have any of the trouble."

"They didn't," declared the veterinarian. "I examined them all, and nothing was wrong with them. But this epidemic is a germ disease, Bud, and we don't exactly know how the germs are carried. It may be something the cattle eat; the bunch gra.s.s or other fodder, in the water; or it may come out of the air. All we know is that certain germs, in some, as yet unknown, way, enter into the system of the steer. They get into the blood through the mouth or nostril, or perhaps from a scratch or cut. And once the germs are there, so rapid is the action that the animals die over night--as yours have done, and as your father's did."

"Has dad lost any more?" asked Bud.

"Not that I've heard of. In fact I thought by his action, in sending the healthy animals of his Square M herd here, and to his other ranches, that he'd gotten the best of it. But now the epidemic breaks out here. I can't understand it!"