The hand of Dick went toward the .45 he wore in a holster at his belt, and, it might be added, the hands of the others did also.
"Keep your shirts on," came the somewhat drawling voice of Pocut Pete, who, it seemed, had returned after shuffling off in the darkness. "I just winged a coyote."
"Oh," murmured Bud. "You were shooting at them, were you?" he asked.
"Not exactly," answered Pocut Pete, as he sauntered up out of the gloom. "I saw something movin' down among th' cattle, an' I knew it couldn't be any of you fellows, so I let go at him."
"Him!" cried Nort. "Was it a man?"
"Looked like one," drawled Pete. "I heard you'd had trouble with rustlers before I came, so I wasn't takin' any chances. I didn't aim t' hit him, though, only t' scare him, an' I must have winged one of them night-owls!" He chuckled at this characterization of the coyotes.
"Let's take a look down there," suggested Bud to his cousins, their worried interest in the stoppage of the water momentarily eclipsed by the new excitement.
"Oh, you won't find anyone down there now!" Pocut Pete made haste to say. "If it was a rustler he's far enough off by this time, an' I'm not positive I really saw one—it was so dark."
"It won't do any harm to take a look," declared Bud, and his cousins were of the same opinion.
"Suit yourself," spoke Pete, easily. "If I did hit him let me know."