ROPED!
Like a blow struck came that announcement to Bud Merkel. And to his
chums and partners in their first small venture as boy ranchers on
their own responsibility, the announcement of the veterinarian was
staggering.
"Germs!" exclaimed Nort.
"Epidemic!" voiced Dick.
"Has it really struck here--the same disease that was among dad's
cattle?" asked Bud, as though hoping there might be some mistake.
"It's here all right," went on Dr. Tunison, rising from his stooping
position beside a dead steer. He looked about for a puddle of water in
which to wash his hands, and, having completed the operation, using a
disinfectant from a bottle he produced, he added: "Better fence off
this puddle, Bud. If any of your other cattle happen to drink here
they'll get the disease, too, and bump off."
That was his way of saying that the steers would die.
"I'll do that!" declared Bud. "We can cut the water off from this part
of the range. But what causes the epidemic, Doc? Dad was careful not
to send me any of his infected cattle from Square M, and he said you'd
examined all that came, and they didn't have any of the trouble."
"They didn't," declared the veterinarian. "I examined them all, and
nothing was wrong with them. But this epidemic is a germ disease, Bud,
and we don't exactly know how the germs are carried. It may be
something the cattle eat; the bunch grass or other fodder, in the
water; or it may come out of the air. All we know is that certain
germs, in some, as yet unknown, way, enter into the system of the
steer. They get into the blood through the mouth or nostril, or
perhaps from a scratch or cut. And once the germs are there, so rapid
is the action that the animals die over night--as yours have done, and
as your father's did."
"Has dad lost any more?" asked Bud.
"Not that I've heard of. In fact I thought by his action, in sending
the healthy animals of his Square M herd here, and to his other
ranches, that he'd gotten the best of it. But now the epidemic breaks
out here. I can't understand it!"
The veterinarian stood looking down at the dead animal, while the
buzzards patiently waited nearby for the feast they knew belonged to
them. Evidently they were not fearful of germs.
"What's that funny smell?" suddenly asked Nort.
"That? Oh, it's the smell characteristic of the disease," replied Dr.
Tunison. "Not very pleasant. I got some of the pus on my
hands--that's why I washed and disinfected them. Well, Bud, I'm afraid
you're in for it!"
"You mean the epidemic may run through all my stock?" asked the boy
rancher, anxiously.
"It may, and that's the reason I'm putting you on your guard. But
let's hope for the best. We'll act promptly. Fence this place off, or
don't let any more water here, where other cattle can drink from the
pool, that must, of necessity, be contaminated, now that I washed my
hands in it, if for no other reason. Also separate the other cattle
into as many herds as you can handle. In this way, if the epidemic
gets among one bunch, you don't stand to lose so many. This is about
all you can do."
"No preventative measures?" asked Bud.
"No. If the cattle remain healthy they may resist the germs. Nature
sometimes provides her own remedies. She'll have to, in a case like
this, where so little is known about this malady that no cure is yet
available to science."
"That sure is a funny smell--I don't like it!" said Nort again.
"No, it isn't very pleasant," agreed the veterinarian.
And then Bud, who had been in a serious, brown study seemed, for the
first time, to become aware of the evil odor.
"That smell! That smell!" he cried. "I've smelled it before!"
"Not unless you came in contact with the germs," spoke Dr. Tunison.
"Where did you smell it, Bud?"
But, as suddenly as he had spoken, Bud Merkel became silent. He seemed
to be thinking deeply, and as he turned aside he said:
"Oh, maybe it was when Old Billee rode in to tell me he had seen these
dead steers."
"Possibly," admitted the veterinarian. "The smell is very
characteristic, as I said. But you'd better arrange to bury these
animals, Bud."
"There isn't any danger--I mean to humans; is there?" Bud asked. "If
there is we'll let 'em stay here. The buzzards will make short work of
'em."
"No, there's no danger to man, even in directly handling the germs.
That has been proved," said Dr. Tunison. "But if you let the cattle
lie here, and the buzzards eat 'em, in some manner the disease may be
carried to your other cattle. Best bury 'em, and fence off this
water-hole."
Which was done. So the evil-looking buzzards were deprived of a feast,
and flapped mournfully away.
There were anxious days that followed the appearance of the epidemic
among the cattle of the boy ranchers. I speak of the cattle as their
own, and they were, in a sense. For though, of course, Mr. Merkel
really owned Flume Valley, and put up the cash to start the boys in
business, he had determined that they should run the place as though it
was their own. They must stand or fall by what happened. It was the
only real way to start them in the way of becoming cattlemen, he
decided.
So, though the boys were young, possibly the youngest ranchers in that
part of the west, they were in earnest and accepted all the
responsibilities that went with the venture.
Bud was very thoughtful those anxious days. There was hard work for
all, since dividing the doubled herds into small units meant that each
cowboy, including Bud, Nort and Dick, had to look after a certain
number day and night. But no one shirked, even Buck Tooth working
unusually hard in addition to doing the cooking. Though Indian braves
are constitutionally opposed to labor, Buck Tooth made an ideal
herdsman.
Not as much time was spent in camp as had formerly been the case, as
the boy ranchers and their older helpers were more often out riding
herd. But occasionally many of them gathered at the tents to compare
notes and "feed up," as Snake put it. His wound, received in the fight
with the rustlers, had healed.
"Some day we'll have regular ranch houses here instead of just a camp,"
Bud said, as he was riding back one day to look after the herd he had
assigned to himself.
"Oh, this isn't so bad," spoke Nort.
"Real jolly, I call it!" added Dick.
"If only the water supply keeps up, and no more epidemic comes, we'll
be all right," Bud announced. "At the same time I can't be sure of
either."
This was true. Though the water flowed merrily on since the time the
lads had penetrated the length of the tunnel, there was always an
uneasy feeling, on the part of the boy ranchers and their friends, that
it might stop at any time.
"And when it dries up again," Bud declared, "I'm not going to be
satisfied until I find out what makes it quit flowing!"
"That's the idea!" added Nort. "We'll solve the mystery!"
As the days passed, and no more cattle were found ill or dead from the
epidemic, the hopes of the boy ranchers began to rise. Had they caught
the malady in time? Could it be stamped out by the burial of the five
steers? Time alone--and a longer time than had so far elapsed--could
tell.
Bud, Nort and Dick each had charge of a herd, the three bunches of
cattle being pastured on adjoining areas of rich grass.
But the distances separating them were not so great but that Bud and
his cousins could exchange visits. And it was on one of these
occasions that there occurred something which cleared up, in part at
least, the mystery hanging over Flume Valley.
The boy ranchers were about to part for the evening, having spent the
afternoon together over "grub," cooking at an open fire; and Nort and
Dick were preparing to ride back to their herds, Bud being on the
ground, so to speak, where he would "bunk" for the night.
As they rode down into a little swale amid the gathering shadows of the
night, a bunch of cattle moved uneasily along ahead of them, and as the
steers parted there was disclosed in their midst the forms of a man and
a horse.
"Who's that?" suddenly asked Dick.
"It isn't one of our boys," declared Nort.
Bud suddenly sat upright in his saddle. He breathed deeply, and then
quickly spurred forward. His cousins saw him swinging his lariat
around his head.
In an instant it went swishing through the air, and, a moment later, as
the coils settled about the figure of a man who started to leap for his
pony, Bud let out a yell, shouting:
"Roped! Roped, by Zip Foster!"