"GERMS!"
Pocut Pete did not become aware of the approach of the boy ranchers and
Old Billee until they were almost upon him. He was either so intent on
what he was doing, or else the fact that the ponies were on a grassy
footing made their advance practically noiseless, that, seemingly, he
heard nothing.
However it was, the cowboy, about whom Bud entertained suspicious, kept
on with what he was doing--something strange to one of the
milder-tempered steers. Something "mighty queer," as Bud had said in a
whisper to his chums. Which whisper accounted for the fact that Pocut
Pete had not heard the voice.
So it was not until their shadows, mingling with those of the
descending night, fell athwart him that the cowboy looked up with a
start.
"Oh!" exclaimed Pocut Pete, and then Bud and the others saw that he had
a knife in his hand, and something else. Something that glistened when
Old Billee struck a match to light his pipe. For the old cowboy had,
long ago, passed up the inevitable paper cigaret, and used the more
sedate form of the weed.
"What's the idea?" asked Bud, and his question seemed to give Pocut
Pete a chance to pull himself together, to answer with more coolness
than he had exhibited by his first exclamation.
"This steer had some sort of a growth on his shoulder--like a wart,"
explained the cowboy. "I was just seeing if I could cut it off."
"You'd better be careful!" warned Old Billee.
"Why?" asked Pocut Pete so quickly that the other's remark might have
well carried a threat, which, in the tone Billee used it, did not.
"You may get horned," went on the veteran cow puncher. For many of the
cattle on the range of Bud and his cousins "wore their horns long," so
to speak. Gradually the dehorning system was spreading through the
west, but such an innovation, found to be most practical from all
standpoints, took time to grow.
"Oh, this chap isn't dangerous," went on Pocut Pete with a laugh,
closing his rather large pocket knife with a snap. "All the same, if
you don't want me to snip off that wart I won't."
"I wouldn't," said Bud. "Not but what I'm glad to have you take an
interest in the cattle," he went on, "but cutting one with a knife
might bring on blood poisoning."
"Yes, an' jabbin' a knife into one might set it wild, an' it would rush
off an' start a stampede," said Billee.
"I realized that," admitted Pocut Pete, "so that's why I didn't do it
until I got this steer off by himself."
He spoke this truly enough, for the lone animal he had been "operating"
on was some distance from the main herd.
"I never saw a wart on a steer," spoke Bud, as he urged his pony nearer
to where the strange cowboy stood on the ground close to the beef
animal. "It's queer----"
There was a sudden movement. Pocut Pete leaped back and the steer, as
though taking fright at Bud's advance, lowered its head, and, with a
loud bellow, sprang away.
"I told you so!" called out Old Billee. "You might 'a' got horned,
Pete!"
"Oh, I was watching," came the answer. "Yes, warts do, sometimes, come
on cattle," he went on. "I've cut off lots of 'em. Some beef men
won't pass 'em if they have any. I thought I was doing you a favor."
He spoke in an injured tone of voice.
"Well, maybe you were," admitted Bud. "First I thought you were
someone else."
"One of the Double Z bunch?" asked Pocut Pete with a laugh. "Did you
find out anything over there?" he inquired as he caught his pony, which
had been standing near-by, and leaped into the saddle.
"Nary a thing," voiced Old Billee.
And then, as the group, Pocut Pete included, headed back for camp, the
old cowboy broke into song, roaring out:
"Send me a letter, kid,
Write it yo'self!
Put in some news of th' city.
For it's lonesome out here,
'Neath th' blue, starry sky,
An' cowboys don't get any pity!"
"What's struck you?" laughed Bud.
"Oh, I feel sorter so-so," affirmed Old Billee. "We're in for a storm,
I reckon."
"And that's your weather indication!" chuckled Nort.
"Yeppy," agreed the veteran, and he broke into another verse of the
interminable song--one of the series that cowboys love to warble.
"What do you think of Pocut Pete?" asked Dick of Bud in the seclusion
of their own tent that night.
"Oh, I don't know what to think," was the answer. "I did have him down
for a drinker, or a doper, but he doesn't seem to be either, and he
does his work well. Only I don't know what to make of his actions
to-night. Warts! On a steer! That sounded fishy to me!"
"Same here!" agreed Dick.
But as several days passed, and nothing more suspicious occurred, the
action of Pocut Pete was rather forgotten. Nor was there any further
trouble with the rustlers, or the lack of water. In spite of the
warnings and veiled threats that had been received, the black pipe
still spouted into the reservoir.
And then, like lightning out of a clear sky, came a bolt that gave the
boy ranchers a shock.
Old Billee riding in from off the distant range one day, called to Bud
who was opening some of the reservoir gates to let water run to a
distant trough for the cattle.
"Bad business, Bud!" exclaimed the veteran.
"What's that?" asked the lad, with an instinctive glance at the black
pipe, whence the water spouted. His first thought was of that.
"There's five of your steers dead, over near the last water trough!"
was the answer.
"Steers dead!" gasped Bud. "Rustlers?" he asked, quickly.
"Don't 'pear to be," Billee answered. "There isn't a mark on 'em.
Maybe it's glanders. Better get Doc. Tunison right over."
Which Bud did, by telephone.
The veterinarian, who looked after the health of cattle in that
vicinity, appeared in due season. Bud, with his cousins and Old Billee
went out to where the dead cattle lay, now stiff and stark. Some
buzzards flopped heavily off as the party approached.
"Hum!" mused Dr. Tunison as he began his examination. It did not take
him long to complete it. "I thought so," he remarked, as he looked at
Bud.
"What is it?"
"Germs!" was the answer. "The epidemic's struck you, Bud!"