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.