"Yes, and when we start out, intending to see what's the trouble, we get this warning," and Bud extended the dirty piece of paper that had been fastened to the tree with the thorn.
"Whew-ee-ee!" whistled Babe, as he read the scrawl of misspelled words. He opened his mouth again, to intone another of the hundred or more verses of his favorite cowboy song, but Bud motioned to him to refrain.
"Don't you like my singin'?" asked Babe, a bit hurt.
"Yes, but I want to ask you some questions," went on Bud. "You say you've been out looking for strays?"
"Yep; prospectin' up and down Snake Mountain all yist'day an' part of th' night. My grub giv' out with supper last night, an' I was hopin' I might even run into a bunch of Greasers, when I saw you folks spreadin' th' banquet table here."
"Glad you joined us," remarked Nort.
"So'm I," mumbled Babe, his mouth full of bacon and flapjacks. "But what's your questions, Bud? Shoot!"
"Did you see anybody who might have written this?" and the boy rancher again read the sinister warning:
"'Don't take no more watter frum Pocut River if you want to stay healthy.'"
"Why, no, I didn't see nobody," spoke Babe, with more force than grammar. "'Tain't a joke; is it?"