"I don't take much stock in that poison weed theory," said Dick.
"No? What do you think caused the deaths?"
"Hanged if I know! I'm more concerned, right now, with finding out what's keeping Bud away."
"Well, that's why I was sort of looking for this weed—if there is such a thing."
"You thought maybe he'd been overcome by it?"
"Somewhat—like Sam Tarbell was overcome, you know."
"There's a possibility of that," admitted Dick, with an anxious air.
"But we ought to meet him soon."
However they rode on for several miles, and though they strained their eyes for a sight of their returning cousin, they did not glimpse him. It was getting dusk when they came within view of the original herd which had been purchased with the ranch. The cattle were quietly feeding, chewing cuds or roaming about as suited each individual taste. But there was no sight of Bud.
"Something must have happened to him!" said Nort, voicing not only his own fear but that of his brother. "He doesn't seem to be around here. Something sure has happened!"
"I'm beginning to fear so," admitted Dick. "He might have had a tumble, or his pony might, and gotten a broken leg from it—I mean Bud might."