The long, grassy slopes of Montana furnished the best of feed, and the country was plentifully watered with clear, flashing mountain streams, and, all in all, it was an ideal cow country.
The herd was now well up toward the northeast corner of Montana, and not far away was the Missouri, near the banks of which Ted intended to hold the cattle until they were in fine condition, and then drive them by easy stages to the railroad.
One day Bud rode up to Ted with a very serious face, so unusual a thing that Ted looked at him with a grin.
"What's the grouch about now, Bud?" he asked.
"I ain't got no grouch," answered Bud.
"No? You look as if some one had handed you a lemon."
"No lemons in mine, but I jest got a hunch that this yere outfit is being follered, an' that thar's some dirty work doin'."
"What makes you think that?"
"I found a couple o' dead steers back a bit with our brand on them."
"Great Scott! What seemed the matter with them?"