But life on a western ranch is not all fun and jollity, though as much of this as possible is indulged in to make up for the strenuous times that are ever present. So, after the roping exhibition was over, and the newcomer had been assigned certain duties, Bud, Nort and Dick rode down the valley, intending to look over the place where the steers had been stolen, and the carcass of one left as a grim reminder of the raid.
Otherwise all in Happy Valley was peaceful. The water was running into the reservoir, through the pipes that connected with the mysterious underground course, once utilized, it was thought, by the ancient Aztecs.
Here and there, feeding on the rich bunch and Johnson grass, were the cattle in which the boy ranchers were so vitally interested. The most distant herd had been driven in by Snake and Yellin' Kid—the herd on which the raid had been made. Like black specks on the green floor of the valley were the cattle, dotted here and there.
"If we have luck this season we ought to round up a good bunch this fall," observed Bud, as he rode with his cousins.
"Yes," agreed Nort. "The water can't be shut off now, and we have nothing to worry about."
"Except rustlers," put in Dick.
"And the fellow who broke the bottle for us," added Bud. "I'd like to know who he was."
"It was a bit queer," Nort admitted. "But I believe it was some passing cow puncher playing a joke on us. This cattle stealing is no joke, though, and it's got to stop!"
"You let loose an earful that time," spoke Bud, in picturesque, western slang. "We'll have to let the bottle-breaker wait for a spell, until we size up this rustler question. We may have to get up a sheriff's posse and clean out the rascals."
"If we can find 'em," grimly added Dick.