"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 Dick 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 Dick.
But as several days passed, 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.