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COWBOY DAVE

OR

THE ROUND-UP AT ROLLING RIVER

BY FRANK V. WEBSTER

AUTHOR OF "ONLY A FARM BOY," "BOB THE CASTAWAY," "COMRADES OF THE SADDLE,"
"AIRSHIP ANDY," "TOM TAYLOR AT WEST POINT," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

  BOOKS FOR BOYS
  By FRANK V. WEBSTER

  ONLY A FARM BOY
  TOM, THE TELEPHONE BOY
  THE BOY FROM THE RANCH
  THE YOUNG TREASURER HUNTER
  BOB, THE CASTAWAY
  THE YOUNG FIREMEN OF LAKEVILLE
  THE NEWSBOY PARTNERS
  THE BOY PILOT OF THE LAKES
  THE TWO BOY GOLD MINERS
  JACK, THE RUNAWAY
  COMRADES OF THE SADDLE
  THE BOYS OF BELLWOOD SCHOOL
  THE HIGH SCHOOL RIVALS
  BOB CHESTER'S GRIT
  AIRSHIP ANDY
  DARRY, THE LIFE SAVER
  DICK, THE BANK BOY
  BEN HARDY'S FLYING MACHINE
  THE BOYS OF THE WIRELESS
  HARRY WATSON'S HIGH SCHOOL DAYS
  THE BOY SCOUTS OF LENOX
  TOM TAYLOR AT WEST POINT
  COWBOY DAVE
  THE BOYS OF THE BATTLESHIP
  JACK OF THE PONY EXPRESS

COWBOY DAVE

CONTENTS

     I.     AFTER STRAY CATTLE
     II.    THE TAUNT
     III.   A CONFESSION
     IV.    A SMALL STAMPEDE
     V.     TREACHERY
     VI.    A CRY FOR HELP
     VII.   THE RESCUE
     VIII.   MR. BELLMORE
     IX.    DAVE MEETS LEN
     X.     DAVE WONDERS
     XI.    HAZARDOUS WORK
     XII.   THE FIGHT
     XIII.  SOME NEWS
     XIV.   A WARNING
     XV.    RETALIATION
     XVI.   UNAVAILING EFFORTS
     XVII.  THE ROUND-UP
     XVIII. A MIDNIGHT BLAZE
     XIX.   FIGHTING FIRE
     XX.    THE CHASE
     XXI.   THE ESCAPE
     XXII.  TANGLES
     XXIII. THE CLUE
     XXIV.  BROTHERS
     XXV.   THE NEW RANCH

[Illustration: HE WHEELED AND RODE STRAIGHT AT THE ONCOMING STEERS]

CHAPTER I

AFTER STRAY CATTLE

"Hi! Yi! Yip!"

"Woo-o-o-o! Wah! Zut!"

"Here we come!"

What was coming seemed to be a thunderous cloud of dust, from the midst of
which came strange, shrill sounds, punctuated with sharp cries, that did
not appear to be altogether human.

The dust-cloud grew thicker, the thunder sounded louder, and the yells
were shriller.

From one of a group of dull, red buildings a sun-bronzed man stepped
forth.

He shaded his eyes with a brown, powerful hand, gazed for an instant
toward the approaching cloud of animated and vociferous dust and, turning
to a smiling Chinese who stood near, with a pot in his hand, remarked in a
slow, musical drawl:

"Well Hop Loy, here they are, rip-roarin' an' snortin' from th' round-up!"

"Alle samee hungly, too," observed the Celestial with unctious blandness.

"You can sure make a point of that Hop Loy," went on the other. "Hungry is
their middle name just now, and you'd better begin t' rustle th' grub, or
I wouldn't give an empty forty-five for your pig-tail."

"Oi la!" fairly screamed the Chinese, as, with a quick gesture toward his
long queue, he scuttled toward the cook house, which stood in the midst of
the other low ranch buildings. "Glub leady alle samee light now!" Hop Loy
cried over his shoulder.

"It better be!" ominously observed Pocus Pete, foreman of the Bar U ranch,
one of the best-outfitted in the Rolling River section. "It better be!
Those boys mean business, or I miss my guess," the foreman went on. "Hard
work a-plenty, I reckon. Wonder how they made out?" he went on musingly as
he started back toward the bunk house, whence he had come with a saddle
strap to which he was attaching a new buckle. "If things don't take a turn
for th' better soon, there won't any of us make out," and, with a gloomy
shake of his head, Pocus Pete, to give him the name he commonly went by,
tossed the strap inside the bunk house, and went on toward the main
building, where, by virtue of his position as head of the cowboys, he had
his own cot.

Meanwhile the crowd of yelling, hard-riding sand dust-stirring punchers,
came on faster than ever.

"Hi! Yi! Yip!"

"Here we come!"

"Keep th' pot a-bilin'! We've got our appetites With us!"

"That's what!"

Some one fired his big revolver in the air, and in another moment there
was an echo of many shots, the sharp crack of the forty-fives mingling
with the thunder of hoofs, the yells, and the clatter of stirrup leathers.

"The boys coming back, Pete?" asked an elderly man, who came to the door
of the main living room of the principal ranch house.

"Yes, Mr. Carson, they're comin' back, an' it don't need a movin' picture
operator an' telegraphic despatch t' tell it, either."

"No, Pete. They seem to be in good spirits, too."

"Yes, they generally are when they get back from round-up. I want to hear
how they made out, though, an' what th' prospects are."

"So do I, Pete," and there was an anxious note in the voice of Mr.
Randolph Carson, owner of the Bar U ranch. Matters had not been going well
with him, of late.

With final yells, and an increase in the quantity of dust tossed up as the
cowboys pulled their horses back on their haunches, the range-riding
outfit of the ranch came to rest, not far away from the stable. The
horses, with heaving sides and distended nostrils that showed a deep red,
hung their heads from weariness. They had been ridden hard, but not
unmercifully, and they would soon recover. The cowboys themselves tipped
back their big hats from their foreheads, which showed curiously white in
contrast to their bronzed faces, and beat the dust from their trousers. A
few of them wore sheepskin chaps.

One after another the punchers slung their legs across the saddle horns,
tossed the reins over the heads of their steeds, as an intimation that the
horses were not to stray, and then slid to the ground, walking with that
peculiarly awkward gait that always marks one who has spent much of his
life in the saddle.

"Grub ready, Hop Loy?" demanded one lanky specimen, as he used his blue
neck kerchief to remove some of the dust and sweat from his brown face.

"It better be!" added another, significantly; while still another said,
quietly:

"My gal has been askin' me for a long, long time to get her a Chinaman's
pig-tail, an' I'm shore goin' t'get one now if I don't have my grub right
plenty, an' soon!"

"Now you're talkin'!" cried a fourth, with emphasis.

There was no need of saying anything further. The Celestial had stuck his
head out of the cook house to hear these ominous words of warning, and
now, with a howl of anguish, he drew it inside again, wrapping his queue
around his neck. Then followed a frantic rattling of pots and pans.

"You shore did get him goin', Tubby!" exclaimed a tall, lanky cowboy, to a
short and squatty member of the tribe.

"Well, I aimed to Skinny," was the calm reply. "I am some hungry."

The last of the cowboys to alight was a manly youth, who might have been
in the neighborhood of eighteen or nineteen years of age. He was tall and
slight, with a frank and pleasing countenance, and his blue eyes looked at
you fearlessly from under dark brows, setting off in contrast his
sunburned face. Had any one observed him as he rode up with the other
cowboys, it would have been noticed that, though he was the youngest, he
was one of the best riders.

He advanced from among the others, pausing to pet his horse which stuck
out a wet muzzle for what was evidently an expected caress. Then the young
man walked forward, with more of an air of grace than characterized his
companions. Evidently, though used to a horse, he was not so saddle-bound
as were his mates.

As he walked up to the ranch house he was met by Mr. Carson and Pocus
Pete, both of whom looked at him rather eagerly and anxiously.

"Well, son," began the ranch owner, "how did you make out?"

"Pretty fair, Dad," was the answer. "There were more cattle than you led
us to expect, and there were more strays than we calculated on. In fact we
didn't get near all of them."

"Is that so, Dave?" asked Pocus Pete, quickly. "Whereabouts do you reckon
them strays is hidin'?"

"The indications are they're up Forked Branch way. That's where we got
some, and we saw more away up the valley, but we didn't have time to go
for them, as we had a little trouble; and Tubby and the others thought
we'd better come on, and go back for the strays to-morrow."

"Trouble, Dave?" asked Mr. Carson, looking up suddenly.

"Well, not much, though it might have been. We saw some men we took to be
rustlers heading for our bunch of cattle, but they rode off when we
started for them. Some of the boys wanted to follow but it looked as
though it might storm, and Tubby said we'd better move the bunch while we
could, and look after the rustlers and strays later."

"Yes, I guess that was best," the ranch owner agreed. "But where were
these rustlers from, Dave?"

"Hard to say, Dad. Looked to be Mexicans."

"I reckon that'd be about right," came from Pocus Pete. "We'll have to be
on th' watch, Mr. Carson."

"I expect so, Pete. Things aren't going so well that I can afford to lose
any cattle. But about these strays, Dave. Do you think we'd better get
right after them?"

"I should say so, Dad."

"Think there are many of them?"

"Not more than two of us could drive in. I'll go to-morrow with one of the
men. I know just about where to look for them."

"All right, Dave. If you're not too much done out I'd like to have you
take a hand."

"Done out, Dad! Don't you think I'm making a pretty good cowpuncher?"

"That's what he is, Mr. Carson, for a fact!" broke in Pete, with
admiration. "I'd stake Cowboy Dave ag'in' any man you've got ridin' range
to-day. That's what I would!"

"Thanks, Pete," said the youth, with a warm smile.

"Well, that's the truth, Dave. You took to this business like a duck takes
to water, though the land knows there ain't any too much water in these
parts for ducks."

"Yes, we could use more, especially at this season," Mr. Carson admitted.
"Rolling River must be getting pretty dry; isn't it, Dave?"

"I've seen it wetter, Dad. And there's hardly any water in Forked Branch.
I don't see how the stray cattle get enough to drink."

"It is queer they'd be off up that way," observed Pete. "But that might
account for it," he went on, as though communing with himself.

"Account for what?" asked Dave, as he sat down in a chair on the porch.

"Th' rustlers. If they were up Forked Branch way they'd stand between th'
strays and th' cattle comin' down where they could get plenty of water in
Rolling River. That's worth lookin' into. I'll ride up that way with you
to-morrow, Dave, an' help drive in them cattle."

"Will you, Pete? That will be fine!" the young cowboy exclaimed. Evidently
there was a strong feeling of affection between the two. Dave looked to
Mr. Carson for confirmation.

"Very well," the ranch owner said, "you and Pete may go, Dave. But don't
take any chances with the rustlers if you encounter them."

"We're not likely to," said Pocus Pete, significantly.

From the distant cook house came the appetizing odor of food and Dave
sniffed the air eagerly.

"Hungry?" asked Mr. Carson.

"That's what I am, Dad!"

"Well, eat heartily, get a good rest, and tomorrow you can try your hand
at driving strays."

Evening settled down over the Bar U ranch; a calm, quiet evening, in spite
of the earlier signs of a storm. In the far west a faint intermittent
light showed where the elements were raging, but it was so far off that
not even the faintest rumble of thunder came over Rolling River, a stream
about a mile distant, on the banks of which were now quartered the cattle
which the cowboys had recently rounded up for shipment.

The only sounds that came with distinctness were the occasional barking
and baying of a dog, as he saw the rising moon, and the dull shuffle of
the shifting cattle, which were being guarded by several cowboys who were
night-riding.

Very early the next morning Dave Carson and Pocus Pete, astride their
favorite horses, and carrying with them a substantial lunch, set off after
the strays which had been dimly observed the day before up Forked Branch
way.

This was one of the tributaries of Rolling River, the valley of which was
at one time one of the most fertile sections of the largest of our Western
cattle states. The tributary divided into two parts, or branches, shortly
above its junction with Rolling River. Hence its name. Forked Branch came
down from amid a series of low foot-hills, forming the northern boundary
of Mr. Randolph Carson's ranch.

"We sure have one fine day for ridin'," observed Pocus Pete, as he urged
his pony up alongside Dave's.

"That's right," agreed the youth.

For several miles they rode on, speaking but seldom, for a cowboy soon
learns the trick of silence--it is so often forced on him.

As they turned aside to take a trail that led to Forked Branch, Dave, who
was riding a little ahead, drew rein. Instinctively Pocus Pete did the
same, and then Dave, pointing to the front, asked:

"Is that a man or a cow?"

CHAPTER II

THE TAUNT

Pocus Pete shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed long and earnestly in
the direction indicated by Dave Carson. The two cow-ponies, evidently glad
of the little rest, nosed about the sun-baked earth for some choice morsel
of grass.

"It might be either--or both," Pete finally said.

"Either or both?" repeated Dave. "How can that be?"

"Don't you see two specks there, Dave? Look ag'in."

Dave looked. His eyes were younger and perhaps, therefore, sharper than
were those of the foreman of Bar U ranch, but Dave lacked the training
that long years on the range had given the other.

"Yes, I do see two," the youth finally said, "But I can't tell which is
which."

"I'm not altogether sure myself," Pete said, quietly and modestly. "We'll
ride a little nearer," he suggested, "an' then we can tell for sure. I
guess we're on th' track of some strays all right."

"Some strays, Pete? You mean our strays; don't you?" questioned Dave.

"Well, some of 'em 'll be, probably," was the quiet answer. "But you've
got t' remember, Dave, that there's a point of land belongin' t' Centre O
ranch that comes up there along the Forked Branch trail. It may be some of
Molick's strays."

"That's so. I didn't think of that, Pete. There's more to this business
than appears at first sight."

"Yes, Dave; but you're comin' on first-rate. I was a leetle opposed to th'
Old Man sendin' you East to study, for fear it would knock out your
natural instincts. But when you picked up that man as soon as you did,"
and he waved his hand toward the distant specks, "when you did that, I
know you've not been spoiled, an' that there's hope for you."

"That's good, Pete!" and Dave laughed.

"Yes, I didn't agree with th' Old Man at first," the foreman went on, "but
I see he didn't make any mistake."

Mr. Carson was the "Old Man" referred to, but it was not at all a term of
disrespect as applied to the ranch owner. It was perfectly natural to Pete
to use that term, and Dave did not resent it.

"Yes, I'm glad dad did send me East," the young man went on, as they
continued on their way up the trail. "I was mighty lonesome at first, and
I felt--well, cramped, Pete. That's the only way to express it."

"I know how you felt, Dave. There wasn't room to breathe in th' city."

"That's the way I felt. Out here it--it's different."

He straightened up in the saddle, and drew in deep breaths of the pure air
of the plains; an air so pure and thin, so free from mists, that the very
distances were deceiving, and one would have been positive that the
distant foot-hills were but half an hour's ride away, whereas the better
part of a day must be spent in reaching them.

"Yes, this is livin'--that's what it is," agreed Pocus Pete. "You can make
them out a little better now, Dave," and he nodded his head in the
direction of the two distant specks. They were much larger now.

"It's a chap on a horse, and he's going in the same direction we are,"
Dave said, after a moment's observation.

"That's right. And it ain't every cowpuncher on Bar U who could have told
that."

"I can see two--three--why, there are half a dozen cattle up there Pete."

"Yes, an' probably more. I reckon some of th' Centre O outfit has strayed,
same as ours. That's probably one of Molick's men after his brand," Pete
went on.

The Bar U ranch (so called because the cattle from it were branded with a
large U with a straight mark across the middle) adjoined, on the north,
the ranch of Jason Molick, whose cattle were marked with a large O in the
centre of which was a single dot, and his brand consequently, was known as
Centre O.

"Maybe that's Len," suggested Dave, naming the son of the adjoining ranch
owner.

"It may be. I'd just as soon it wouldn't be, though. Len doesn't always
know how to keep a civil tongue in his head."

"That's right, Pete. I haven't much use for Len myself."

"You an' he had some little fracas; didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, more than once."

"An' you tanned him good and proper, too; didn't you Dave?" asked the
foreman with a low chuckle.

"Yes, I did." Dave did not seem at all proud of his achievement. "But that
was some time ago," he added. "I haven't seen Len lately."

"Well, you haven't missed an awful lot," said Pete, dryly.

The two rode on in silence again, gradually coming nearer and nearer to
the specks which had so enlarged themselves, by reason of the closing up
of the intervening distance, until they could be easily distinguished as a
number of cattle and one lone rider. The latter seemed to be making his
way toward the animals.

"Is he driving them ahead of him?" asked Dave, after a long and silent
observation.

"That's the way it looks," said Pocus Pete. "It's Len Molick all right,"
he added, after another shading of his eyes with his hand.

"Are you sure?" Dave asked.

"Positive. No one around here rides a horse in that sloppy way but him."

"Then he must have found some of his father's strays, and is taking them
to the ranch."

"I'm not so sure of that," Pete said.

"Not so sure of what?"

"That the cattle are all his strays. I wouldn't be a bit surprised but
what some of ours had got mixed up with 'em. Things like that have been
known to happen you know."

"Do you' think---" began Dave.

"I'm not goin' to take any chances thinkin'," Pete said significantly.
"I'm going to make sure."

"Look here, Dave," he went on, spurring his pony up alongside of the young
cowboy's. "My horse is good an fresh an' Len's doesn't seem to be in such
good condition. Probably he's been abusin' it as he's done before. Now I
can take this side trail, slip around through the bottom lands, an' get
ahead of him."

"But it's a hard climb up around the mesa, Pete."

"I know it. But I can manage it. Then you come on up behind Len, casual
like. If he has any of our cattle--by mistake," said Pete, significantly,
"we'll be in a position to correct his error. Nothin' like correctin'
errors right off the reel, Dave. Well have him between two fires, so to
speak."

"All right, Pete. I'll ride up behind him, as I'm doing now, and you'll
head him off; is that it?"

"That's it. You guessed it first crack out of th' box. If nothin's wrong,
why we're all right; we're up this way to look after our strays. And if
somethin' is wrong, why we'll be in a position to correct it--that's all."

"I see." There was a smile on Dave's face as his cowboy partner, with a
wave of his hand, turned his horse into a different trail, speeding the
hardy little pony up so as to get ahead of Len Molick.

Dave rode slowly on, busy with many thoughts, some of which had to do with
the youth before him. Len Molick was about Dave's own age, that is
apparently, for, strange as it may seem, Dave was not certain of the exact
number of years that had passed over his head.

It was evident that he was about eighteen or nineteen. He had recently
felt a growing need of a razor, and the hair on his face was becoming
wiry. But once, when he asked Randolph Carson, about a birthday, the ranch
owner had returned an evasive answer.

"I don't know exactly when your birthday does come, Dave," he had said.
"Your mother, before she--before she died, kept track of that. In fact I
sometimes forget when my own is. I think yours is in May or June, but for
the life of me I can't say just which month. It doesn't make a lot of
difference, anyhow."

"No, Dad, not especially. But just how old am I?"

"Well, Dave, there you've got me again. I think it's around eighteen. But
your mother kept track of that, too. I never had the time. Put it down at
eighteen, going on nineteen, and let it go at that. Now say, about that
last bunch of cattle we shipped--"

Thus the ranchman would turn the subject. Not that Dave gave the matter
much thought, only now, somehow or other, the question seemed to recur
with increased force.

"Funny I don't know just when my birthday is," he mused. "But then lots of
the cowboys forget theirs."

The trail was smooth at this point, and Dave soon found himself close to
Len, who was driving ahead of him a number of cattle. With a start of
surprise Dave saw two which bore the Bar U brand.

"Hello, Len," he called.

Len Molick turned with a start. Either he had not heard Dave approach, or
he had pretended ignorance.

"Well, what do yon want?" demanded the surly bully.

"Oh, out after strays, as you are," said Dave, coolly. "Guess your cattle
and ours have struck up an acquaintance," he added, with assumed
cheerfulness.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they're traveling along together just as if they belonged to the
same outfit."

"Huh! I can't help it, can I, if your cows tag along with our strays?"
demanded Len with a sneer.

"That's what I'm here for--to help prevent it," Dave went on, and his
voice was a trifle sharp. "The Bar U ranch can't afford to lose any strays
these days," he resumed. "The Carson outfit needs all it can get, and, as
representative of the Carson interests I'll just cut out those strays of
ours, Len, and head them the other way."

"Huh! What right have you got to do it?"

"What right? Why my father sent me to gather up our strays. I saw some of
them up here yesterday."

"Your father?" The sneer in Len's voice was unmistakable.

"Yes, of course," said Dave, wondering what was the matter with Len. "My
father, Randolph Carson."

"He isn't your father!" burst out Len in angry tones. "And you aren't his
son! You're a nameless picked-up nobody, that's what you are! A nobody!
You haven't even a name!"

And with this taunt on his lips Len spurred his horse away from Dave's.

CHAPTER III

A CONFESSION

Something seemed to strike Dave Carson a blow in the face. It was as
though he had suddenly plunged into cold water, and, for the moment, he
could not get his breath. The sneering words of Len Molick rang in his
ears:

"You're a nameless, picked-up nobody!"

Having uttered those cruel words, Len was riding on, driving before him
some of his father's stray cattle, as well as some belonging to the Bar U
ranch. The last act angered Dave, and anger, at that moment, was just what
was needed to arouse him from the lethargy in which he found himself. It
also served, in a measure, to clear away some of the unpleasant feeling
caused by the taunt.

"Hold on there a minute, Len Molick!" called Dave, sharply.

Len never turned his head, and gave no sign of hearing.

A dull red spot glowed in each of Dave's tanned cheeks. With a quick
intaking of his breath he lightly touched the spurs to his horse--lightly,
for that was all the intelligent beast needed. Dave passed his taunting
enemy on the rush, and planting himself directly in front of him on the
trail, drew rein so sharply that his steed reared. The cows, scattered by
the sudden rush, ambled awkwardly on a little distance, and then stopped
to graze.

"What do you mean by getting in my way?" growled Len.

"I mean to have you stop and answer a few questions," was the calm retort.

"If it's about these cattle I tell you I'm not trying to drive off any of
yours," said Len, in whining tones. He knew the severe penalty attached to
this in a cow country, and Dave was sufficiently formidable, as he sat
easily on his horse facing the bully, to make Len a little more
respectful.

"I'm not going to ask you about these cattle--at least not right away,"
Dave went on. "This is about another matter. You said something just now
that needs explaining."

"I say a good many things," Len admitted, and again there sounded in his
voice a sneer. "I don't have to explain to you everything I say; do I?"

"You do when it concerns me," and Dave put his horse directly across the
trail, which, at this point narrowed and ran between two low ranges of
hills. "You said something about me just now--you called me a nameless,
picked-up nobody!"

Dave could not help wincing as he repeated the slur.

"Well, what if I did?" demanded the bully.

"I want to know what you mean. You insinuated that Mr. Carson was not my
father."

"He isn't!"

"Why do you say that, and how do you know?" Dave asked. In spite of his
dislike of Len, and the knowledge that the bully was not noted for
truth-telling, Dave could not repress a cold chill of fear that seemed
to clutch his heart.

"I say that because it's so, and how I know it is none of your affair,"
retorted Len.

"Oh yes, it is my affair, too!" Dave exclaimed. He was fast regaining
control of himself. "It is very much my affair. I demand an explanation.
How do you know Mr. Carson isn't my father?"

"Well, I know all right. He picked you up somewhere. He doesn't know what
your name is himself. He just let you use his, and he called you Dave.
You're a nobody I tell you!"

Dave spurred his horse until it was close beside that of Len's. Then
leaning over in the saddle, until his face was very near to that of the
bully's, and with blazing eyes looking directly into the shrinking ones of
the other rancher's son, Dave said slowly, but with great emphasis:

"Who--told--you?"

There was menace in his tone and attitude, and Len shrank back.

"Oh, don't be afraid!" Dave laughed mirthlessly. "I'm not going to strike
you--not now."

"You--you'd better not," Len muttered.

"I want you first to answer my questions," Dave went on. "After that I'll
see what happens. It's according to how much truth there is in what you
have said."

"Oh, it's true all right," sneered the bully.

"Then I demand to know who told you!"

Dave's hand shot out and grasped the bridle of the other's horse, and
Len's plan of flight was frustrated.

"Let me go!" he whiningly demanded.

"Not until you tell me who said I am a nobody--that Mr. Carson is not my
father," Dave said, firmly.

"I--I----" began the shrinking Len, when the sound of another horseman
approaching caused both lads to turn slightly in their saddles. Dave half
expected to see Pocus Pete, but he beheld the not very edifying
countenance of Whitey Wasson, a tow-headed cowpuncher belonging to the
Centre O outfit. Whitey and Len were reported to be cronies, and
companions in more than one not altogether pleasant incident.

"Oh, here you are; eh; Len?" began Whitey. "And I see you've got the
strays."

"Yes, I've got 'em," said Len, shortly.

"Any trouble?" went on Whitey, with a quick glance at Dave. The position
of the two lads--Dave with his hand grasping Len's bridle--was too
significant to be overlooked.

"Trouble?" began Len. "Well, he--he--"

"He made a certain statement concerning me," Dave said, quietly, looking
from Len to Whitey, "and I asked him the source of his information. That
is all."

"What did he say?"

"He said I was a nameless, picked-up nobody, and that Mr. Carson was not
my father. I asked him how he knew, and he said some one told him that."

"So he did!" exclaimed Len.

"Then I demand to know who it was!" cried Dave.

For a moment there was silence, and then Whitey Wasson, with a chuckle
said:

"I told Len myself!"

"You did?" cried Dave.

"Yes, he did! Now maybe you won't be so smart!" sneered Len. "Let go my
horse!" he cried, roughly, as he swung the animal to one side. But no
force was needed; as Dave's nerveless hand fell away from the bridle. He
seemed shocked--stunned again.

"You--you--how do you know?" he demanded fiercely, raising his sinking
head, and looking straight at Whitey.

"Oh, I know well enough. Lots of the cowboys do. It isn't so much of a
secret as you think. If you don't believe me ask your father--no, he ain't
your father--but ask the Old Man himself. Just ask him what your name is,
and where you came from, and see what he says."

Whitey was sneering now, and he chuckled as he looked at Len. Dave's face
paled beneath his tan, and he did not answer.

A nameless, picked-up nobody! How the words stung! And he had considered
himself, proudly considered himself, the son of one of the best-liked,
best-known and most upright cattle raisers of the Rolling River country.
Now who was he?

"Come on, Len," said Whitey. "If you've got the strays we'll drive them
back. Been out long enough as 'tis."

He wheeled his horse, Len doing the same, and they started after the
straying cattle.

"Hold on there, if you please," came in a drawling voice. "Jest cut out
them Bar U steers before you mosey off any farther, Whitey," and riding
around a little hillock came Pocus Pete.

"Um!" grunted Whitey.

"Guess you'll be needin' a pair of specks, won't you, Whitey?" went on the
Bar U foreman, without a glance at Len or Dave. "A Centre O brand an' a
Bar U looks mighty alike to a feller with poor eyes I reckon," and he
smiled meaningly.

"Oh, we can't help it, if some of the Randolph cattle get mixed up with
our strays," said Len.

"Who's talkin' to you?" demanded Pocus Pete, with such fierceness that the
bully shrank back.

"Now you cut out what strays belong to you, an' let ours alone, Mr.
Wasson," went on Pocus Pete with exaggerated politeness. "Dave an' I can
take care of our own I reckon. An' move quick, too!" he added menacingly.

Whitey did not answer, but he and Len busied themselves in getting
together their own strays. Pocus Pete and Dave, with a little effort,
managed to collect their own bunch, and soon the two parties were moving
off in opposite directions. Dave sat silent on his horse. Pete glanced at
him from time to time, but said nothing. Finally, however, as they
dismounted to eat their lunch, Pete could not help asking:

"Have any trouble with them, Dave?"

"Trouble? Oh no."

Dave relapsed into silence, and Pete shook his head in puzzled fashion.
Something had happened, but what, he could not guess.

In unwonted silence Dave and Pete rode back to the Bar U ranch, reaching
it at dusk with the bunch of strays. They were turned in with the other
cattle and then Dave, turning his horse into the corral, walked heavily to
the ranch house. All the life seemed to have gone from him.

"Well, son, did you get the bunch?" asked Mr. Carson as he greeted the
youth.

"Yes--I did," was the low answer. Mr. Carson glanced keenly at the lad,
and something he saw in his face caused the ranch owner to start.

"Was there any trouble?" he asked. It was the same question Pocus Pete had
propounded.

"Well, Len Molick and Whitey Wasson had some of our cattle in with
theirs."

"They did?"

"Yes, but Pete and I easily cut 'em out. But--Oh, Dad!" The words burst
from Dave's lips before he thought. "Am I your son?" he blurted out. "Len
and Whitey said I was a picked-up nobody! Am I? Am I not your son?"

He held out his hands appealingly.

A great and sudden change came over Mr. Carson. He seemed to grow older
and more sorrowful. A sigh came from him.

Gently he placed one arm over the youth's drooping shoulders.

"Dave," he said gently. "I hoped this secret would never come out--that
you would never know. But, since it has, I must tell you the truth. I love
you as if you were my own son, but you are not a relative of mine."

The words seemed to cut Dave like a knife.

"Then if I am not your son, who am I?" Dave asked in a husky voice.

The ticking of the clock on the mantle could be plainly, yes, loudly
heard, as Mr. Carson slowly answered in a low voice:

"Dave, I don't know!"

CHAPTER IV

A SMALL STAMPEDE

Dave Carson--to use the name by which we must continue to call him, at
least for a time--may have hoped for a different answer from the ranchman.
Doubtless he did so hope, but now he was doomed to disappointment, for the
words of Mr. Carson seemed final.

"Dave, I don't know," he repeated. "I don't know who you are, who your
parents are, or even what your name is. I wish I did!"

Dave sank down in a chair. He seemed crushed. Mr. Carson, too, was
somewhat overcome.

"There--there must be some explanation," said the lad at length, slowly.

"There is," was the reply. "I'll tell you all I know. I suppose I should
have done it before, but I have been putting it off, I hoped there would
be no need.

"I don't know just how Len and Whitey found it out," went on Mr. Carson.
"If they had only kept still a little longer you might never have known,
for I intended to go away from here soon."

"Go away from here, Dad?"

The endearing name slipped out before Dave was aware of it. A surge of red
sprang up into his cheeks, under their tan.

"Don't stop calling me that, Dave," begged Mr. Carson in a low voice. "I
have been a father to you--at least I've tried to be."

"And you've succeeded," Dave said, affectionately.

"And I want to keep on in the same way," said the man, softly. "So don't
stop calling me dad, Dave. I--I couldn't bear that, even though I have no
right to it. But you asked me a question just now. I'll answer that before
I go on with the story.

"I did plan to leave here. I'm not making this ranch go, Dave, as I'd like
to see it. I have been thinking of giving it up. But that was before I
knew that my secret about you was known."

"Then you're not going now,--Dad?"

Dave hesitated just a moment over the name.

"No. It would look like desertion--cowardice--as if I went because this
matter became known. It will get out soon enough now, since the Molick
outfit knows it. But that's just the reason I'm going to stick. I won't
fly in the face of the enemy. I won't desert!

"The real reason why I intended to go, though, Dave, is because the ranch
isn't making money enough. It is holding its own, but that is not enough.
As you know, I was, up to a year or so ago, pretty well off. But those
unfortunate cattle speculations pulled me down, so now I am really, what
would be called poor, as ranchmen go.

"But I'll make good!" declared the cattle owner. "I'm going to stick now,
until something happens. It may be for the best, or it may be for the
worst. But I'll stick until I'm fairly beaten!

"The ranch needs more water, that's the main trouble. I haven't control of
the water rights I need. I can't go into the cattle business on a large
enough scale because of the lack of water. Rolling River and Forked
Branch, while well enough in their way, aren't big enough to stand the dry
years.

"That was the reason I was going to sell out, Dave, but I'm not now. I'm
going to stick. And now I'll tell you the secret concerning you--that is
as much of it as I know. It isn't much, for I know so little myself, so
you will not be much wiser than you are now."

"Won't I know who I am?" Dave asked in a low voice.

"No, Dave, for I can't tell you myself. I wish I could. I wish I could
either really find your parents, or know that I had a good legal claim on
you. But that is impossible.

"Some years ago, Dave, I was in business in Missouri. I was doing fairly
well, but I always had a hankering to get out West and raise cattle. I had
lived on a ranch when I was a small lad--in fact all my people were
ranchers--and I longed for the life of which I had had only a little
taste.

"So I planned to sell out, raise all the money I could, and buy a ranch. I
had my plans all made when one spring there came a big flood that
practically wiped out the town where I was then living, as well as a
number of others along that part of the Missouri River. There was rescue
work to be done, and I did my share, I guess.

"Among the others whom I saved from the wreckage of houses, barns and
other debris that rushed down the river was a little baby boy."

Dave caught his breath sharply.

"You were that little chap, Dave," went on the ranchman, after a pause.
"As cute a little chap as I ever saw. I fell in love with you right away,
and so did a number of women folks who were helping in the rescue work.
They all wanted you, but I said if no one who had a legal claim on you
came for you, that I would keep you.

"And that's what happened. I could not find out where you came from, nor
who your folks were, though I made many inquiries. I had been about to
start for the West when the flood came, but I delayed a bit, wanting to
give your parents, if they were alive, a fair show. But no one claimed
you, so I brought you out West with me, and here we've been ever since,
living just like father and son."

"And do you think my parents are--are dead?" Dave faltered.

"I am afraid so," was the low answer. "There were many grown folk and
children who perished in the flood. At any rate, Dave, I have kept you
ever since.

"How this Whitey Wasson learned the secret I can not say. I did hope it
would never be brought to your knowledge, though I made no effort, at the
time I rescued you, to conceal the fact that I had, in a measure, adopted
you. I suppose Whitey must have heard the story from some one who was in
the flooded Missouri district at the time and who has since come West.

"But that is how the matter stands. You are not really my son, though you
are as dear to me as though you were. I hope this will make no difference
to you--knowing this secret. I want you to continue living here just as
you always have. In fact it would break my heart if you were to leave me
after all these years. You will stay; won't you?" and he held out his
hands appealingly.

"Why--yes," said Dave, after a moment. "I have no other place to go. And I
certainly owe you a deep debt of gratitude for your care of a nameless
orphan for so many years."

"Don't say that, Dave! Don't call yourself nameless. You can have my name,
and welcome! You know that. I want you to have it. I will legally adopt
you if necessary. And as for owing me--don't name it! You were welcome to
all I could do, and more. Why, you have been like a son to me. I wouldn't
know how to get along without you at the ranch here. You must stay!"

"Oh, yes, I'll stay," said Dave. And then he added, with, perhaps, the
least tinge of bitterness in his voice: "I have no where else to go."

"Then stay!" was the eager invitation. "I need you, Dave! And if those
skunks bother you any more--"

"Oh, I'm not worrying about them," Dave said, quickly. "I don't mind their
taunts. After all, it is no disgrace not to know who I am under the
circumstances. Perhaps, some day, I may find out."

"Perhaps," said Mr. Carson, softly, but he did not really believe that
such an event would happen.

"Is that all you can tell about me--Dad?" asked Dave.

"That's right! Don't forget to call me dad!" exclaimed the ranchman, and
his tone showed more delight than at any time since the talk. "For I am
just the same as your father. But, Dave, I'm afraid I can't give you any
clews. You were only a baby at the time, and I don't even remember just
now, much as to how you were dressed. You came down the flood in part of a
wrecked house. You were in a cradle in the exposed upper story when I got
you out. I was going around in a boat doing what rescue work I could. I
turned you over to some women, temporarily, and claimed you later. That's
about all there is to it. I came out West with you and--here we are now.
And now, since the secret is out, I'm going to make it known to all who
care to listen. There is no use trying to keep it under cover any more."

"What do you mean, Dad?"

"I mean I'll tell every one connected with Bar U ranch. We'll take the
wind out of the sails of Molick, Wasson and their like. We won't have them
sneering at us. I'll tell the men here."

"I fancy Pocus Pete knows something about it," Dave said. "He must have
heard what Whitey and Len said to me."

"Well, we'll tell him the whole story. It's no disgrace."

And this was done. Soon all the cowboys on Bar U ranch knew the story, and
talk buzzed around concerning it. But no one thought the less of Dave. In
fact his friends and those of Mr. Carson were warmer than before. Then the
matter was tacitly dropped, and was never mentioned among the cowboys of
Bar U ranch.

For a time the knowledge hurt Dave cruelly. Then he grew more accustomed
to it. But though he called Mr. Carson "Dad" there was more or less of
reserve. And Dave found himself many times, wondering who his real parents
could be.

"Some day I may find out," he said.

There was much to do at the ranch, from rounding up cattle, looking after
strays and branding, to making shipments. Dave found his time fully
occupied, and he saw little of Len and his crony. But one day Len and Dave
had a "run-in." Dave, who was riding range, came upon Len in the act of
beating his horse. It seems the animal had stepped into a hole and thrown
the bully, who, in retaliation, mistreated the animal shamefully.

"Here! You quit that!" ordered Dave, riding up.

"What for?" sneered Len.

"Because I say so!"

"He isn't your horse."

"That may be, but I'm not going to see you abuse him that way. You quit,
or I'll give you the worst licking you ever had."

"You will; eh? Mr. Nobody!" sneered Len. "You will?"

"Yes, I will!" and Dave strode forward with such a fierce look on his face
that Len hastily left off beating his poor steed and fled.

"Oh! I'll fix you yet!" Len cried, when, at a safe distance, he paused to
turn and shake his fist at Dave.

"The mean hound!" muttered Dave.

It was about a week after this that Dave rode over to a small corral where
some choice cattle were quartered. These had been cut out and herded by
themselves, to get ready for a special shipment. Dave wanted to see if the
fence and gate were sufficiently strong.

He rode around the corral, and was soon satisfied that all was right. He
was riding away over the plain, glad to be able to report to Mr. Carson
that the cattle were in fine shape for shipment, when a sudden noise
caused him to turn around.

To Dave's surprise he saw the cattle, in a small stampede, rushing from
the corral, straight toward him in an overwhelming mass.

Dave hesitated but a moment, and then clapping spurs to his horse he
wheeled and rode straight at the oncoming steers, shouting and waving his
hat in one hand, while with the other he fired shot after shot from his
big revolver.

CHAPTER V

TREACHERY

"Don't fall now, Crow! Don't you dare to stumble!" breathed Dave, leaning
over to speak into the very ear of his coal-black steed. "Don't step in
any holes and throw me. For if you do, it's all up with both of us!"

Yet, knowing that danger as he did, Dave never for an instant faltered. He
was going to stop that stampede and drive back the valuable cattle before
they could stray and get far out on the range or among the wild hills
where they would lose much of their prime condition that would insure a
good price. Dave was going to stop that stampede though he took his life
in his hands to do it.

And for what? he might have reflected. To save the property of a man who
was no relation to him.

Yet never for an instant did Dave ask this question of himself. It never
entered his mind. For the time being he had forgotten that Mr. Carson was
not his father.

"I'm going to save those cattle!" Dave murmured over and over again, as he
neared the frightened, tumultuous mass of steers. "But don't you stumble
with me, Crow!"

For to stumble meant, very likely, the death of horse and rider. Cattle on
the range are used to seeing mounted men--in fact they seldom see them
otherwise, and for a mounted cowpuncher it is perfectly safe to ride in
front of even a wildly running mass of steers.

But once let a man be on foot, while the cattle do not actually attack
him, they seem to lose all fear of him, and may trample ruthlessly over
him. Then is when a cowpuncher's life depends on his steed. The cattle
seem to regard horse and man as one and as a superior being to whom they
must give place. That is why Dave did not want his horse to stumble and
throw him. For his life, and that of his fine steed, Crow, would not have
lasted a minute under the pounding rush of those sharp hoofs.

While thus riding wildly at the rushing steers Dave had many thoughts in
his mind.

"How did they get out?" he mused. "The gate and fastenings were all right
five minutes ago. And I wonder if I can turn them and drive them back
alone? I've got to, that's all, for I don't see any help coming."

Dave rose in his stirrups and gave a quick frightened, tumultuous mass of
steers. "But don't glance ahead of him and over the backs of the steers.
He saw no one in sight, and settling in the saddle again, prepared for the
work ahead of him.

"Got to have some more shots, anyhow," Dave reasoned. His revolver was
empty.

Fortunately Dave had trained Crow so that he could ride him without the
use of the reins--merely by the pressure of the knees on either side of
his neck. Dropping the leather, Dave broke his gun, scattered the empty
shells out on the ground, and filled the chamber with fresh cartridges.

He depended upon the thundering reports of his forty-five, as much as on
his voice and his fearless riding straight at the oncoming steers, to
drive them back. Now again he was ready for his task, and it was high
time, for he was almost at the front line of advancing cattle.

Shouting, waving his big hat with one hand, and with the other working the
trigger of his gun, Dave sought to drive back the maddened animals. He put
into his action all the energy of which he was capable, rising in his
stirrups as though he would hurl himself over the head of his horse at the
beasts.

"Steady now, Crow!" he called into the ear of his faithful pony, leaning
over far on its neck. The front line of cattle began to divide to let Dave
through, or, rather, to pass around him. But he did not want that. He
wanted to turn the animals back.

"Oh, if I only had some one to help me!" he cried aloud.

Once more his gaze swept over the backs of the cattle. Yes, there was a
figure on horseback, but it was riding away, straight toward the
foot-hills.

"Here!" cried Dave. "Come back! Give me a hand here, whoever you are! Come
back!"

But the figure did not turn, and then Dave, with anger and disgust showing
in his face, thought he recognized in the peculiar style of the rider
something familiar.

"Len Molick!" he exclaimed, as he wheeled his horse to ride out of the
press of cattle and once more to get ahead of them.

"If that wasn't Len Molick I'll eat my hat!" he soliloquized. "But what is
he doing here, and why is he riding away instead of helping me out? I'd
help him out if he was in this pickle!"

It was queer to see Len riding away at top speed, providing that it was
Len, and Dave felt pretty sure it was. Scarcely a cowpuncher but would
render even his enemy help in an emergency of this kind. He might be on
just as unfriendly terms as before, after the work was done, but he would
give help.

"But that isn't Len's way, evidently," mused Dave, bitterly.

However he had his own work marked out for him, and no time for idle
speculation. Somehow or other he must get ahead of the freed cattle and
drive them back.

Whooping, yelling, waving his hat and shooting, Dave took after the
escaping steers.

"Oh for one man to help," he cried aloud, and it seemed as if his cry was
answered. For, riding toward him, and toward the bunch of stampeded
cattle, he descried a figure that made his heart leap with joy.

"Pocus Pete!" he cried. "Now we'll get you beasts back!"

And indeed it was the efficient foreman of Bar U ranch who rode up at top
speed, his hat off, his revolver spitting fire, and his horse lending
itself to the game with all its energies.

"Off to the left, Dave! Bear off to the left!" yelled Pete, indicating
that his friend was to head in that direction. Pete himself took the
right, and a moment later the two were riding along the front of the
steers who were not running so fast now, being somewhat exhausted.

The object of Pete, seconded by Dave, was to turn the stream of cattle--to
swing around the front ranks, and so bring those in the rear to a halt.

Often in a cattle stampede the front rank becomes exhausted, and the
animals in it would willingly give up and cease running, but there is an
irresistible pressure from those in the rear. And if those in front stop
they know they will be trampled under foot. So they must keep on or be
killed.

This bunch, however, was comparatively small, and easy to handle. Soon,
with the help of Pete, Dave had brought the animals down to a walk, and
then it was an easy matter to turn them and drive them back toward the
corral.

"Whew!" cried Dave, when he had a chance to get his breath. "That was some
job, Pete!"

"Yes, all alone, I reckon it was."

"How'd you happen to know about it?"

"I didn't. I just come over here on an errand. Your dad--"

He stopped in some confusion.

"That's all right, Pete," Dave said. "I'm going to call Mr. Carson dad
until I find my real one--if I ever do. No matter what happens, even if I
do find my real folks, I can't forget that he has been as good as a father
to me."

"That's what he has, Dave," said the foreman, solemnly. "An' I hope you
don't ever forget that. There's not many folks--not even a fellow's real
ones--who can beat th' Old Man. He's th' real stuff an' twenty-four carats
fine every time."

Together they urged the now quieted cattle toward the corral.

"As I was sayin'," resumed Focus Pete, "I come over here on a little
errand for th' Old Man, an' I thought I'd take a run out here an' see
about the prize bunch. It's good I did."

"I should say so!" Dave exclaimed, fervently.

"Wasn't there any one to help you?" asked Pocus Pete.

"Not a soul. I did see Len Molick riding off--sneaking away. I called to
him, but he didn't answer."

"How did they break out?" Pete asked next.

"That's what's puzzling me," replied the younger cowboy.

"Say! Look there!" suddenly called Pete, pointing. "That's how they got
out. A section of th' corral fence is down."

"The gate didn't come open at all," said Dave. "The steers pushed down the
fence."

"Drive 'em through the opening," directed Pete, and this was done. As the
last of the cattle passed in, Pete and Dave stood on guard astride their
ponies to prevent the animals stampeding out again, and Dave looked at the
broken fence. What he saw caused him to cry out:

"Look here, Pete! Some of those posts have been sawed almost through!"

"By the great side saddle!" exclaimed the foreman. "You're right, Dave!
There's been treachery here!"

CHAPTER VI

A CRY FOR HELP

Together, Dave and Pocus Pete examined the posts of the corral fence.
There was no doubt but that some of them had been partly sawed through, in
order to weaken them so that only a moderate pressure was required to
break them off short, close to the ground.

"So that was his game; eh?" exclaimed Dave in a justifiably angry voice.

"Whose game?" asked Pocus Pete.

"Len's! That's why he wouldn't stop to help me. He had been here sawing
through the posts so our best bunch of cattle would get out and be
spoiled. The hound! Wait until I get hold of him!"

"Better go a bit slow," advised Pocus Pete, in his drawling tones.

"Slow! What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean it isn't a good thing t' go around makin' accusations like
that, without somethin' t' back 'em up. In this country you've got t' back
up what you say, Dave."

"I know that, but--"

"An' what evidence have you got that Len did this mean trick? For mean
trick it is, as shore as guns is guns. What evidence have you?"

"Why, didn't I see him riding away as fast as his horse could gallop just
a little while ago?"

"Well, s'posin' you did. That's no evidence in a court of law. You didn't
see him saw the posts; did you?"

"No, of course not. But look! Here's some fresh sawdust on the ground! The
posts have been sawed within a few hours--perhaps even inside an hour.
Maybe just before I came." Dave pointed to the moist earth under some of
the splintered posts and boards. There was the fine sawdust where it had
been preserved from the trampling hoofs of the steers.

"Yes, th' job's been done recent," admitted Pocus Pete, "but that doesn't
prove anythin'. Now if we could find a saw with Len's name on it, that
might be some law-evidence. But I don't see any; do you?"

There was no saw in sight. The cattle had retreated to the far side of the
corral, leaving the part next the broken fence free for examination. But
as Pete had said, there was no saw lying about.

"He could easily have carried it away with him when he rode off," Dave
said, following up his suspicion.

"Yes, he could, an' he'd be foolish if he didn't--provided it was him as
did this," agreed Pete.

"Well, I'm sure he did," Dave insisted. "And I'll take it out of him for
trying to spoil dad's best bunch of cattle."

The word slipped from Dave almost before he knew it. But he did not care.
As he had told Pocus Pete he was going to regard Mr. Carson as his
father--he had thought of him so many years in that relationship that it
was difficult to think otherwise.

"Well, you be careful of what you do, Dave; that's my advice t' you," said
Pete.

"Why so? I'm not afraid of Len Molick," was Dave's quick response.

"No, maybe not. Yet Len trails in with a middlin' mean crowd, an' though
you are pretty good, you're no match for Whitey Wasson an' his bunch of
cowpunchers."

"But my quarrel is with Len, for I'm sure he did this."

"That's all right. I have a sneakin' suspicion that way myself, but Len is
a coward, as well as a bully, an' he'd howl for help if you went at him.
An' Whitey is just th' kind t' pitch in on you if he saw you givin' Len a
drubbin'. So you take my advice, an' go a bit slow."

"I will. I won't have it out with Len until I can get him alone somewhere,
and then I'll put it up to him."

"Well, maybe that's a good way, though I don't approve of fightin' as a
rule."

"Oh, no! You don't!" laughed Dave, for it was a well known fact that Pocus
Pete was considered the best man with his fists in that section of the
country.

"Oh, of course I'll fight when I have to. But I'm not goin' out of my way
t' look for trouble."

This was strictly true, and Dave knew it. Pocus Pete would never
needlessly quarrel with any one, but once he had started on what he
regarded as a right course, nothing would turn him aside until he had
either vanquished or been beaten. And the latter was seldom the outcome.

"Well, that's my case," said Dave. "I'm not going to put this on Len until
I give him a chance to defend himself. But now, Pete, what are we going to
do? We can't leave these choice cattle here in a broken corral. They'll
stray all over the range."

"That's right. We've got to fix that fence, and we'll need help. Some new
posts will have to be set, and it's got to be done before dark. Tell you
what to do. You ride back to the ranch, and get some of the boys."

"What will you do?"

"I'll stay here and guard the cattle. It won't take long, and your horse
is faster than mine."

"All right, I'll go. But first let's make what repairs we can. That will
make it easier for you to hold in the cattle."

There was some wire at the corral, and with this, and by using some of the
broken posts and boards, the gap in the fence was made smaller so the
cattle would not be so likely to try to rush through it.

This done, Pete prepared to mount guard while Dave leaped to the back of
Crow and started for the ranch on the gallop, to bring help and to tell
the story of the broken corral.

"I wonder if I'd better mention Len?" thought Dave, as he rode on. "I'm
pretty sure he did the trick, but I don't want to accuse any one unjustly,
even him."

After thinking it over Dave decided that it would be better not to say
anything about Len just yet. He would let matters take their own course.

"But I'll be on the watch for him," he made up his mind.

Dave's mind was busy with many thoughts, and his body was weary with the
exertions through which he had just passed. But there was a certain sense
of exhilaration after all. He had done a good piece of work, and he
realized it. Of course Pocus Pete had helped, but Dave was in a fair way
to stop the stampede when the old foreman came along.

"I'll get to be a regular cowboy after a while," thought Dave, not without
a little smile of gratification.

To get to the ranch more quickly the young cowpuncher took a trail that
led through a patch of rocky woodland. It was a curious formation in the
midst of the flat cattle country, being a patch several miles square,
consisting of some rocky hills, well wooded, with a number of deep gullies
in them. More than once cattle had wandered in among them and been lost.
And it was said that at one time a noted band of cattle rustlers, or
thieves, had made their headquarters in this wood, and had held out a long
time against the attacks of the cattlemen.

Dave rode through this not very cheerful place. He had been keeping his
eyes open for a sight of Len Molick, but had caught no further glimpse of
the bully whom he suspected.

"Hit it up, Crow! Hit it up!" Dave called to his black horse, who was
going along a not very safe trail amid the rocks and stones.

Dave was about half way through the place when the silence, undisturbed
save by the rattle of Crow's hoofs, was suddenly broken by a cry.

"Help! Help!" Dave heard uttered in somewhat weak accents. "Help!"

The young cowboy was startled for a moment. He reined in his horse
sharply, and looked about. He could see nothing, and the silence seemed
more pronounced after the echo of the appeal for aid had died away.

"Hello!" Dave called. "Who are you, and what do you want? Where are you?"
he asked, for he could see no one.

"Over here. To your right. I can see you, but you can't see me. I'm down
behind a rock. I'm caught, and hanging over a gully. Wait, I'll toss up my
handkerchief. Watch for it!"

Dave looked as nearly as he could tell in the direction of the voice. An
instant later something white flashed up in the air, and fell down softly.
Crow started violently.

CHAPTER VII

THE RESCUE

"Whoa there, old boy! Steady!" Dave spoke to his horse, and the animal,
that had been frightened by the sudden throwing into the air of the
handkerchief, stood still.

"I see where you are!" Dave called to the unknown and unseen one--a man,
evidently, by the tones of his voice. "I'll be with you in a minute!"

"Be careful of yourself," was the caution. "I had a bad fall in here, and
I don't want to see any one else get into trouble. Go a bit slow."

"Thanks, I will," Dave said "But I know this ground pretty well. Stand
still now, old fellow," he went on to his horse. "I don't want you
falling, and breaking your leg or neck."

Crow whinnied as though he understood, and Dave, slipping the reins over
the neck of the intelligent animal as a further intimation that he was to
stay where he was without wandering, climbed from the saddle, a bit
wearily it must be confessed, and started for the rock, behind which lay
the injured man, and from which point the young cattleman had observed the
white handkerchief.

 "Careful now." cautioned the voice again.

"All right, don't worry about me," said Dave, easily.

A moment later he had turned around the intervening rock, and saw,
stretched out on the ground, hanging half way over a deep and rock-filled
gully, a man about twenty-seven years of age. Dave guessed this much
though he could see only a part of the man's body, for his head and
shoulders were hanging down over the ledge.

"What are you doing there?" was Dave's first question. "Why don't you get
up?"

For it was exactly as if the man were lying face downward on top of a
cliff, looking down.

"I can't get up," the man answered, his voice being a bit muffled because
his head was hanging over the cliff. "My foot is caught in a cleft in the
rocks, and I'm afraid to move for fear it will pull loose. If it does I'll
lose my balance and topple, for I'm hanging more than half-way over this
cliff now. And it doesn't look like a good place into which to fall."

This was true enough, as Dave knew, for the bottom of the gully was
covered with jagged rocks. More than one straying steer had fallen over
there and had been dashed to pieces.

"Steady!" called Dave. "I see how it is. I'll soon have you out of that.
I'm going back for my rope."

"Are you a puncher?" asked the man.

"Yes," answered Dave, briefly. "But don't talk. Save your strength. I'll
have you out in a jiffy."

He hurried back to where he had left his horse, and took from the horn of
the saddle the rope which no cowboy is ever without. With this Dave took a
turn about the man's waist, passing the rope under him. He then carried an
end back to a stout tree and tied it there, working, the while, deftly and
swiftly.

"That will hold you in case you slip when I loosen the rocks and free your
foot," Dave explained. "You are pretty well overbalanced. But I'll get you
up, all right."

The man was in a peculiar and perilous position, but Dave thought that he
could cope with the situation. His life on the plains, and amid the perils
of the range had made him resourceful, and quick to take advantage of all
the chances for safety.

Dave looked at the man's foot. It was firmly wedged in between two rocks
that came together in the form of a large V. Considerable pressure must
have forced the man's foot there, for Dave could see that the stout
leather of his riding boot was cut and scraped. The foot was twisted, and
Dave remarked, in a low voice:

"If you haven't a badly sprained ankle I'll miss my guess!"

"Watch yourself now," David cautioned the man. "You can't fall, even if
you slip over, for the rope's strong enough to hold you; but you may get a
bad jerk when you bring up suddenly if you fall after I release your
foot."

"I'm ready," said the man.

Dave looked at the two stones between which the man's foot was wedged.
Then with a heavy tree branch, inserted in such a way as not to bring any
crushing force on the stranger's leg, Dave used the branch as a lever and
pressed down with all his might.

"It's giving!" the man cried. "I can feel it giving!"

"Look out for yourself!" Dave shouted.

Once more he pressed down hard on the tree lever.

The rocks were pried apart. The man's foot slipped free. Dave, seeing
this, dropped the branch, made a grab for the leg, for the man's body was
going over the cliff. Of course he could not fall _far_, as the rope would
hold him, but Dave wanted to save him this jerk if possible.

The young cowboy caught the stranger's boot. Dave was aware of a cry of
pain from the man, and realized that the ankle must be severely injured.

"I can't help it," thought Dave, grimly. "I've got to hurt him some to
save him more," and he held on desperately.

Dave was strong, and the man, now that his foot was free, was able to use
his hands to push himself back, up over the edge of the cliff. After a few
seconds of rather strenuous struggle Dave, with the help of the man
himself, was able to get him to a sitting position on the edge of the
cliff that overhung the gully.

The man was pale, and his face was scratched and bleeding. His clothing
was disheveled, and he showed many signs of the struggle through which he
had gone.

"Thank--thanks," he gasped, weakly.

"Now don't try to talk until you get your breath," Dave advised him.
"Here, drink some of this. It's warm, but it's wet."

Dave carried with him a water canteen, and this he now put to the lips of
the man. The latter drank greedily.

"That's good," he whispered. He lay back weakly, Dave supporting him in
his arms. The man's eyes closed, and Dave feared he was about to faint.
Quickly the young cowboy whipped off his coat, and folding it in pillow
shape, put it on the rocks, and laid the man's head down on it.

The stranger opened his eyes.

"Don't be alarmed," he said. "I'm not going to die. I'm just getting my
breath back. I was hanging there a good while I guess."

He closed his eyes again, and moved his foot--the one that had been caught
between the rocks.

A groan came through his clenched teeth and tightly pressed lips, and,
accompanied by a sudden wave of whiteness that made his face paler than
before, a shudder passed over him.

"He's fainted this time, for keeps," decided Dave, grimly.

CHAPTER VIII

MR. BELLMORE

Dave Carson had some knowledge of rough and ready first-aid work. There
was often occasion for it on the ranch, and though fainting men were not
common sights, still, now and again, such a contingency would arise.
Cowboys often get severely hurt, and it is not always within the nerve
power of a man to hold back when a deathly faintness overcomes him.

"I've got to get help to tote you back to the ranch," Dave said, as he
sprinkled some water from his canteen in the face of the stranger.

"You've got to be looked after. Maybe the ankle's broken."

He glanced at the injured foot, but did not offer to touch it, for he knew
how sensitive it must be, when even a slight movement sent the man off in
a faint.

The water had the desired effect, or perhaps the faint was only a slight
one, for presently the man opened his eyes, looked about him in some
wonder, and murmured:

"Oh, I remember now. Was it last year I tried to fall over the cliff?" He
smiled wanly.

"No, it was only a little while ago-or at least it was only a little while
ago that I pulled you back," Dave said. "I don't know how long you had
been hanging there, though."

"It seemed ten years," was the answer given with another wan smile. "Well,
what's the next move? I hope it isn't mine, for I don't know how I can
manage it. My ankle is either broken, or badly sprained."

"I'm afraid so," Dave answered. "Now I don't know where you came from, or
where you're going, but our ranch--Bar U--is the nearest place you can get
help. I can put you on my horse--I guess I can manage that--and walk with
you, but it will take a long time. Crow won't carry double, I'm afraid.
Certainly not with the way I'd have to put you on."

"I had a horse," said the stranger. "He can't have gone very far. I left
him beside the trail while I came in here to look about. He must have
wandered off a way."

"A horse!" cried Dave, eagerly. "That's good, if I can find him. We'll not
have any trouble getting you to the ranch in that case, Mr.--er--"

Dave paused significantly, adding, after a moment's thought:

"My names is Dave--Dave Carson." He had hesitated, and then quickly
reflected that this was no time to enter into explanations about his lack
of parentage. "My father, Randolph Carson, owns Bar U ranch."

"Yes, I have heard of him," the man said. "In fact I was going to call on
him within a few days in regard to a certain matter. I am afraid I can't
reach my card case, but my name is Bellmore--Benjamin Bellmore. I'm from
Chicago, but I'm out here representing the Rolling Valley Water Company."

"Never heard of them," Dave said. "They don't deal in cattle; do they?"

"No, they hope to deal in water; that is later on. But I'll go into
details after a bit."

"Pardon me, Mr. Bellmore!" burst out Dave. "Here I am keeping you talking,
when I ought to be looking for your animal, and helping you to our ranch.
I don't know what's got into me. But I just had some trouble with a bunch
of our cattle, and I guess I'm thinking of that yet.

"I was on my way to the ranch to get help, when I took this short cut and
heard you call. I'll go and see if I can find your horse. If I can't we'll
use mine, and I can walk. It won't be the first time, though we
cowpunchers are more used to a saddle than we are to our own legs."

He gave Mr. Bellmore another drink from the canteen, and then seeing that
the man was as comfortable as possible under the circumstances, went back
to the trail to look for the missing horse. Dave saw his own steed
contentedly munching some of the scanty herbage, &and, speaking to him,
passed on.

Reaching a point where he could look down into the valley below, Dave
peered long and earnestly for a sight of a riderless horse. To his delight
he saw the animal almost at once.

"Well, you didn't run far," he murmured, "and if you don't get a tantrum,
and gallop off when I come up, I'll soon have you."

Going back to where he had left Mr. Bellmore, Dave reported:

"Your horse is down in the valley. I'll jump on mine and try to catch him
for you. If I can, we'll not have any trouble, and I'll soon have you at
our ranch."

"Thanks," murmured the representative of the water company. "His name is
Kurd," he added. "My horse's, I mean," he explained, with a smile. "He
generally comes when I call him, but here are some lumps of sugar I give
him. He'll be sure to come if you hold these out to him."

Dave took the sweets, which Mr. Bellmore extracted from his pocket, and
hurried back to where he had left Crow. A moment later Dave was moving off
down the trail toward the valley.

"Careful, old boy," he cautioned his steed, for the going was anything but
good. "It won't do for you to slip and stumble now."

But Crow had no intention of doing anything of the sort, and a little
later Dave was galloping rapidly--across the grassy plain toward the lone
horse.

"I hope he doesn't bolt and give me a chase," reflected the young cowboy.
"I haven't much time," and he looked at the declining sun, and thought of
Pocus Pete on guard at the corral, waiting for help to mend the broken
fence.

"It's all Len's fault, too--the mean skunk!" said Dave. "If it hadn't been
for him the cattle wouldn't have gotten loose. Though I suppose if they
hadn't I wouldn't have ridden home this way, and I wouldn't have
discovered that man. Maybe it'll be a good thing, in the end."

Just how "good" this chance was to prove to Dave, the young cowboy little
dreamed.

"Here Kurd! Kurd!" he called, as he approached the horse. Dave wondered
how Mr. Bellmore had hit on that odd name. "Here, Kurd!" the youth called.

The horse, a beautiful and intelligent beast, raised his head, and looked
at Dave approaching on Crow.

"Here you are, old boy. Kurd!" called the young ranchman again.

The other pony, who had been cropping the grass, moved off a short
distance.

"That won't do!" Dave murmured. "If he once starts he'll keep going. Looks
as if he had speed, too, but I think you can beat him, Crow, old boy," and
he patted the neck of his faithful beast.

Kurd continued to amble slowly away. Then Dave thought of the sugar. He
took the lumps out of his pocket and held them in the palm of his hand, at
the same time bringing Crow to a stop.

Kurd raised his head, whinnied once or twice, stretched out his velvet
muzzle, as though to smell what Dave held out, and then came slowly toward
the youth.

"That's more like it," Dave murmured. "Now if you don't take a sudden
notion, and bolt off just as I reach for your reins, I'll be all right.
Steady boy! Come on Kurd!"

The strange horse seemed to have cast his suspicions to the wind, and came
fearlessly. A moment later he and Crow were sniffing at each other, and
then Kurd took the sugar from Dave's palm. Then the lad grasped the reins,
and, turning about, riding his own horse and leading Kurd, made for the
place where he had left Mr. Bellmore.

 "Good luck!" Dave called as he came in sight of the prostrate man. "I've
got your horse, and now we'll soon be at the ranch."

"Fine! Now I'm going to ask you to do something else for me. This foot of
mine is paining worse every minute, but I think if I could get my boot
off, to allow room for that swelling to expand, it would ease me."

"I'll try," Dave said.

However, it was found impossible to pull off the footgear without so
yanking on the injured foot that Mr. Bellmore nearly fainted again.

"Guess I'll have to cut it," Dave said, dubiously.

 "Do then."

"It's a pity to spoil a good boot."

"Well, the chances are I won't be able to wear one again for a few weeks,
and I simply can't stand this pain."

"Here goes," Dave said. With his keen knife he slit the leather. A sigh of
relief came from the man.

"That's better-a whole lot better," he murmured.

 It was no easy matter to get him astride his horse, but Dave finally
managed it, and wrapped the swollen ankle in his own coat to prevent its
striking against the side of Kurd as they rode off.

"How did you come to fall?" asked Dave, as he got into his own saddle,
ready for the trip to the ranch.

"I'll explain later. I can't talk very well now. But I was prospecting
around, looking at the rock formation, when I slipped. I thought it was
all up with me, but my foot caught, and I was held suspended over the
gully."

"I see," Dave replied. "Well, we'll doctor you up."

Carefully they made their way out of the rocky woodland, and started
across the plain, toward Bar U ranch. As Dave took the lead, making as
much speed as was possible under the circumstances, he saw, some distance
in advance, a solitary horseman.

Again something in the peculiar saddle position of the rider attracted his
attention.

"There's Len Molick again!" he exclaimed aloud. "I suppose he's hanging
around to see how his trick worked!"

"Len Molick!" exclaimed Mr. Bellmore. "Why I want to see him. I have been
looking for him!"

CHAPTER IX

DAVE MEETS LEN

Dave looked curiously at the man he had rescued. From him he glanced
toward the figure of the young bullying cowboy whom he suspected of having
been instrumental in causing the stampede.

"Do you know Len Molick?" asked Dave slowly, as he guided his horse along
the trail.

"No, but I want to know him," was the answer. "I have a letter to him, and
I understand that he is one of the influential cattle raisers in this
vicinity."

Dave breathed easier. It was evident a mistake had been made.

"I guess it's Len's father, Mr. Jason Molick you want to meet," Dave said.

"That's right. Jason is the name!" admitted Mr. Bellmore. "I heard you
mention the name Molick and I didn't pay much attention to the first part.
So there are two of them?"

"Yes, Len and his father,"

"Do you know them?"

"Oh, yes, every one around here knows them."

"You don't speak very enthusiastically," said Mr. Bellmore, with a strange
look at the boy. "Is it possible that some error has been made on the part
of those who gave me letters of introduction? Is not Mr. Molick
influential in these parts?"

"Oh, yes, that's all right," assented Dave, and still his voice had no
ring to it. "Mr. Molick is influential all right--too much so, at times."

"You don't seem to like him," said Mr. Bellmore. "I wish you would be
frank with me. I am a stranger in these parts, and I have to depend on
residents here for my information, and, in a large part, for my success. I
know nothing about the Molicks."

"Well, since you asked me to be frank," went on Dave, "I will be, and I'll
say you haven't missed much by not knowing the Molicks--especially Len.
I'm after him now, for I suspect him of having tried to do us a serious
injury."

"Is that so! That's too bad. If I had known that--"

"Oh, don't let me prejudice you against them," Dave went on. "Mr. Molick
may be able to do business with you in the way you want. I am not speaking
from the business end of it. Personally I don't like the Molicks," and
Dave mentioned the cattle stampede.

"Well, if he did that I should say he wasn't a person to be trusted," said
the Chicago man. "But still--"

"Of course. I'm not certain of it," Dave continued. "I'm going to find out
about the sawed posts, though. But see Mr. Molick yourself, and make up
your own mind about him."

"I will, but I shall be on my guard on account of what you have said. It
is well to know the character of the man one is dealing with. I'm afraid
though," he added as a spasm of pain crossed his face, "that I sha'n't be
able to do any active business for a while," and he glanced down at his
injured foot.

"We'll soon be at the ranch," Dave remarked. "The rest of the trail is
easy."

Dave was thinking of many things as his pony ambled on, followed by Mr.
Bellmore's horse. It was strange, the manner in which he had come to help
the injured man, and it was stranger still that the latter should be
seeking to do business with the Molicks of whom the members of the Bar U
ranch had no very high opinion.

"I was on my way to Mr. Molick's place, when I got off the trail to look
after that rock formation," resumed Mr. Bellmore after a pause. "Rocks
always interest me, for I am always looking to see what the possibilities
are for striking a supply of water."

"Why water?" asked Dave.

"Because I am an irrigation engineer," was the reply. "That is my
business. I have been sent out here by a concern, recently formed, called
the Rolling Valley Water Company. Our concern has acquired rights in the
valley of the Rolling River, and I have been sent out to see what the
chances are for getting the ranchmen and other land-owners interested."

"I thought irrigation schemes had only to do with farming," said Dave.

"No, irrigation takes in much more than that. Of course farmers need
water, and we hope to develop some big farms out here. But ranchmen also
need water for their cattle."

"Yes, that's true," said Dave. "My--my father was saying only the other
day, that he could do a lot more if we had a better water supply."

"Then he's one of the men I need to see!" exclaimed Mr. Bellmore. "Perhaps
he already has some rights in the water supply of this valley that we
could negotiate for.

"You see our idea is," he continued, "to get the whole water supply under
one head in a big company, of course giving those who sell us their
rights, a certain control. Then we intend to build a big dam to conserve
the water supply. As it is here now I imagine, from what I know of other
places, at one time you have too much water, and at another you don't have
enough."

"That's just it," Dave admitted. "It isn't even."

"Well, that's what we irrigation engineers are aiming to do--make the
water supply even the year around. I certainly must talk with your father.
Maybe, after all, it's a good thing I sprained my ankle, though it
certainly does hurt!" he exclaimed, with a sharp indrawing of his breath.

"Well, of course I'll be glad to have you see Mr. Carson--my father," and
again Dave rather hesitated and stumbled over the word. "But, as a matter
of fact, some of the rights he has in Rolling River are subject to some
agreement with Mr. Molick. I know my father doesn't like it, for it makes
him too dependent on this man, but he could do nothing else. He had to
have water for his stock."

"Of course," agreed Mr. Bellmore. "Well, perhaps we can get together and
form a company so he can have more water and will not have to worry about
it."

"I hope so," Dave said.

A little later they came within sight of the ranch buildings, which were
glowing in the rays of the setting sun.

"What a fine place!" exclaimed Mr. Bellmore.

"Yes, I like it," Dave made answer. Then a pang seemed to shoot through
him. What if he had to leave the place? He could not count on always
staying there, as he might have done had he been Mr. Carson's son. Even
though the ranchman might love Dave as one of his own blood, when Mr.
Carson died there would be other heirs very likely, who would step in and
claim the place. Dave was not legally adopted. He might inherit nothing.

He had always counted on taking up as his life work, the cattle business.
But now, since the disclosure had been made, this was, perhaps,
impossible. And He sighed again as he looked at the group of buildings set
down in a little valley, with Rolling River in the distance glistening in
the slanting rays of the setting sun. On all sides stretched the vast
prairies on which grazed the hundreds of cattle--not only from the Bar U
ranch, but from the Centre O, and others.

"Yes, that's our place," said Dave. For the present, at least, this man
need not know his secret, though he might find it out soon enough. "And I
guess you'll be glad of a chance to lie down; won't you?"

"Indeed I will," was the answer.

A moment later the two rode up toward the main ranch buildings. The
cowboys had come in from their day's labors, and were washing themselves
at their bunk houses, in readiness for supper. From the quarters of Hop
Loy, the Chinese cook, came a grateful odor.

"That certainly smells good!" exclaimed Mr. Bellmore.

The cowpunchers looked curiously at the drooping figure on the horse that
followed Dave. It needed but a glance from their sharp eyes to tell that
the man was hurt. Mr. Carson came out.

"Well, Dave," he began, "I was just wondering where you were. Are the
cattle all right?"

"They are now, Dad, but they weren't for a time. They got out of the
corral, but Pocus Pete and I got them back again. I'll tell you about that
later.

"Here's a gentleman who needs help. He's a Mr. Bellmore from Chicago
interested in irrigation. He was in the rock-grove, caught by the foot. I
got him out. You look after him, Dad. I've got to get some of the boys,
with fence material, and go back to relieve Pete. He's on guard there."

"Say! It takes you to tell it!" exclaimed Mr. Carson with a smile.
"Welcome to Bar U, Mr. Bellmore. I don't exactly understand all that boy
of mine has gotten off, but it's all right. We will look after you.
Sprained ankle; eh? Well, I know something about them. Come boys, one of
you help Mr. Bellmore down, and make him comfortable.

"You'll stop and get something to eat, Dave, won't you, before you go
back?"

"Yes, just a bite, Dad. We haven't much time."

A little later Mr. Bellmore was comfortably installed in the ranch house,
while Dave and two other cowboys, after a hasty meal, were on their way
back to relieve Pocus Pete, and repair the broken fence.

This work was soon under way. While Pocus Pete had been on guard a
cattleman, passing, had given him an important message for Mr. Carson.

"So you'd better ride back and tell him, Dave," Pete said, as he and the
other punchers began to work on the fence, a snack having been brought for
Pete's supper.

"But I want to stay and help you," objected Dave.

"You'll do better work by getting back with that message," the foreman
said, and once more Dave turned his horse's head toward Bar U ranch.

It was getting dusk now, but it was not so dark but that Dave could make
out, after he had ridden some distance, the figure of a horseman just
ahead of him.

"Len again!" he murmured. "I'm going to see what he has to say, and why
he's hanging around here. We may have to guard those cattle all night."

At a word Crow leaped forward in a gallop, and in another moment, though
Len made an effort to spur on ahead, Dave had ridden alongside of him.

"Trying to see how your trick worked?" asked Dave, with a sharp look at
his enemy.

"Are you speaking to me?" demanded Len.

"I certainly am."

"Well, I don't want to talk to a nobody!" was the retort.

CHAPTER X

DAVE WONDERS

Giving utterance to this sneering remark Len Molick began to urge his
horse forward, but, though his face flushed, and a sense of anger choked
him, Dave remained cool as he put out a hand and caught the bridle of the
other's steed.

"Not so fast, Len Molick!" Dave exclaimed.

"You may not want to talk to a nobody--that's your business--but you're
going to talk to a somebody right now, and that somebody is I!"

"Huh! you don't even know your name!" Len sneered, but he did not try to
break away.

"Names don't matter," said Dave, trying to retain his calmness. "You can
call me Injun Jack if you like, but I want to ask you a few questions."

"Well, I'm not going to answer them," snapped Len, "and I want you to let
me go! If you don't--"

He raised a riding quire he carried, and seemed about to lash it into
Dave's face.

"Look here!" Dave cried. "If you try to strike me with that I'll pull you
off your pony and give you the best drubbing you ever had." He snatched
the quirt from Len's wrist, breaking the thong, and flung the little whip
far out on the prairie.

"Oh!" mumbled Len, and he shrunk away in fear.

"I won't touch you--at least not now--if you don't try any more of your
underhand work," promised Dave. "But I'm going to converse with you right
here and now. Why did you cut the posts of our special corral? Answer me
that!"

"I didn't cut any posts!" was the sullen answer.

"You didn't; eh? Well, I think you did, and I'll prove it too, sooner or
later. What are you hanging around here for now?"

"Isn't this a free range? Haven't I a right to ride it if I want to?"

"Yes, you have, but you must have some object in it, and I believe you
want to see our cattle stampede. But I fooled you that time, Len Molick,
and I'll fool you again. Now I want to know something else. Is Whitey
Wasson the only one who told you I--that I wasn't Mr. Carson's son?"

For the life of him Dave could not help the falter that crept into his
voice.

"Yes; he's the only one who told me," was Len's sullen answer.

"How did he find out about it?"

"Huh! How should I know? Ask him!"

"I intend to after I get through with you."

Len winced again.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm not going to thrash you--at least not now," said
Dave, grimly. He was willing that Len should get what satisfaction he
could out of that promise.

"Well, if you're through with me, you let me go!" the bully demanded. "You
haven't any right to hold me up this way."

"I've just as much right as you have to take a saw and cut through our
fence posts, so that the least pressure by the cattle would crack 'em off
short," retorted Dave.

"I didn't saw any of your posts, I tell you!" insisted Len.

Dave was working his horse around to get closer to Len. Before the bully
suspected it Dave had suddenly slipped his hand in under Len's coat, and
had pulled out a short saw.

For a moment Len was too surprised to utter a word. Then he cried:

"Here! Give me that!"

"No, I don't think I will," Dave said, coolly. "I may need it as evidence.
I thought you said you didn't saw any posts."

"I--I didn't!"

"Then Whitey Wasson, or some of your crowd, did. I suppose they passed the
saw to you to get rid of, which you would have done if you were wise."

"I--I found that saw on the plains," stammered Len.

"Probably where Whitey dropped it," Dave retorted. "Now look here Len
Molick," he went on. "You say you didn't saw those posts, but I think you
did, and I'm going to try to prove it. This saw is part of the proof. I
guess I'll just keep it.

"And one thing more. If I catch you hanging around our special corral,
even if you are on free range land, I'll tackle you. Don't forget that!"

"If you dare to touch me!" fairly screamed Len, for he was very angry now,
"if you dare to touch me I'll have you arrested! My father knows the
sheriff--"

"You can't scare me by any talk like that," Dave said, coolly. "You know
I'm a nobody, and I can't be disgraced like any one who bears the name of
Molick!" and he laughed mockingly, though there was a sore spot in his
heart.

After all it is small satisfaction to be a "nobody."

Dave released his hold on the bridle of Len's horse, and urged his own
steed back toward Bar U ranch.

"You just wait! I'll fix you for this," Len threatened.

"I'm a good waiter," Dave told him. Then, speaking to Crow, he galloped
off through the gathering darkness.

On reaching the ranch Dave found that Mr. Bellmore was very comfortable.
Mr. Carson had applied rough and ready, but effective treatment to the
injured ankle, and the two men were deep in a talk of irrigation matters
when Dave entered the room.

"Back again, son?" remarked Mr. Carson, and there was no hesitancy in his
endearing tone. For of course he had known, all along, that Dave was not
his son, though, as he had said, he so loved and so regarded him.

"Yes--Dad, back. Perkins sent word about that bunch he was speaking of,"
and he delivered the message left with Pocus Pete.

"Well, Dave, you have done a good day's work since morning," commented Mr.
Carson.

"You saved that valuable bunch of special cattle, and you bring me as a
guest a man, who, I think, can do me a lot of good."

"I'm glad to hear it, Dad!"

"Yes, your father and I have been talking irrigation, Dave," said Mr.
Bellmore, who had taken a sudden liking to the young cowboy. And to
himself Dave could not but admit that the more he saw of Mr. Bellmore the
better he liked him. "We think we can get together on this irrigation
project," the Chicago man went on.

"Of course that is if we can deal with Molick," suggested the ranchman.

"Oh, yes, it depends a great deal on Molick," Mr. Bellmore admitted.

"I wish it didn't," Dave said.

"Why, son?" asked Mr. Carson.

Then Dave told his story, which was received with rather ominous shakes of
the head on the part of Mr. Carson.

"Well," said the owner of Bar U ranch, when Dave had finished, "there's no
two ways about it! I wish it hadn't happened, and I think as you do, Dave,
that Molick, or some of his friends, had a hand in it. However, that isn't
proof, and we can't move until we get better evidence than just a saw.

"Another thing I'm sorry for--this may make more bad feeling between Mr.
Molick and myself. There's not much love lost between us as it is," he
went on, "and this will only add to his feeling."

"I'm sorry, Dad," Dave began.

"Oh, it isn't your fault," said Mr. Carson, quickly. "You acted as you
thought best, and I haven't a word of fault to find. It just had to be so,
I reckon. But I'll know how to act--that's one thing sure. I'll be on my
guard from now on."

"It will be best so," said Mr. Bellmore.

A little later Pocus Pete and one of the cowboys returned, to report that
the fence had been repaired.

"Where's Gimp?" asked Dave, referring to the other cowpuncher who had
ridden with him.

"Oh, he stayed there on guard. Thought it best t' leave him
there--to-night anyhow," the foreman said to Mr. Carson.

"I understand," was the answer. "We can't afford to lose any of those
steers."

They were all up late at Bar U ranch that night, for the day had been a
momentous one. Then, too, the visit of Mr. Bellmore had created a little
diversion. He and Mr. Carson sat up for some time after the others had
retired, talking irrigation matters.

"I wonder if I'll ever have a part in them?" reflected Dave, as he went to
his room. "How long can I stay here, now that I know I am not Dave
Carson--but somebody else? And who am I?"

Dave's wonderings were not of the most cheerful sort as he fell into an
uneasy slumber.

CHAPTER XI

HAZARDOUS WORK

Cowboys rushing here and there. Dust arising in clouds, settling into a
hazy mist, only to be shattered again, as some rushing rider rode
recklessly through it. Yells, shouts, the snapping of whips, the barking
of heavy calibred revolvers, now and then the shrill neigh of a cow-pony.

Above all a deep resonant note--a sort of distant thunder--a pounding of
the earth as thousands of hoofs smote it at once.

That was the scene on which Dave Carson gazed, as he rose in his saddle,
his breath coming in quicker measures, while a fierce light shone in his
eyes, for he was having a part in it all.

It was one of the many round-ups on the Bar U range, and there was work
for all, more than enough.

"Hi there, Gimp! Watch where yo-all are a-ridin'!"

"Swing him over there! I'll handle that critter!"

"What's the matter with your fire? Can't git no kind of an impression with
irons as cold as a chunk of ice!"

"Look out for that cayuse! He's shore a bad 'un!"

"Over this way now!"

"That's talkin'!"

This was only some of the talk, part of the shouts, a few of the yells
that were bandied back and forth, as the cowboys rounded up the herd, cut
out the designated steers or cows, branded the new ones that had never yet
felt the touch of the hot iron, and generally did the work that falls to
every ranch at certain times of the year.

Dave had been among the busiest, now roping some refractory steer, now
helping a cowboy heat the big irons, with their mark "Bar U.", now
scudding out of the way on the back of his fleet pony, Crow. Now finding a
moment of respite, he galloped up to where Mr. Bellmore was sitting in the
shade of the chuck wagon, as the cooking outfit is known.

"Well, what do you think of it?" asked the young cowboy, as he pulled his
horse back sharply, so that Crow reared. But he was used to that, and Dave
was exceptionally gentle with him.

"It's just great!" exclaimed the man who had been a semi-invalid since
coming to Bar U ranch. "I never imagined there was so much work attached
to a round-up."

"Oh, there's work all right," said Dave, removing his big hat and wiping
the sweat from his brow with a big handkerchief. "It isn't much like
locating a water trail, I expect?"

"Not much," assented the visitor, who had now been at the ranch about a
week, and who was progressing favorably. His ankle would not yet permit
him to step on it, but he managed to get about with the help of his horse.
To-day he had ridden out in the chuck wagon to witness the round-up.

"Locating a good place to plant an irrigation scheme is child's play
compared to this cattle business," went on Mr. Bellmore. "Still I suppose
you get more or less used to it."

"In a way, yes," said Pocus Pete, who rode up just then. "But there are
always some things you never can count on. Gimp's horse just broke his
leg," he added, more to Dave than to the visitor.

"You don't say!" exclaimed the lad. "That will make Gimp feel bad."

"Well, it's all in the game," added the foreman with a shrug of his
shoulders. "That's the end of him," he went on as a shot rang out. There
had been little firing of late, for the work of branding the strays and
other cattle was almost over.

"Did he shoot him?" asked Mr. Bellmore.

"Th' horse? yes!" said Pete sententiously.

"That's all we can do for a horse when he breaks a leg. He ain't no good
to anybody. That's the law of th' range. Yo've got t' make good or quit!"

"Poor Star," murmured Dave. "He was a good horse."

"While he lasted," added Pete. "But Gimp pulled him around too sudden
like, I'm thinkin', t' get out of the way of an onery steer. Well, that's
th' way it goes!"

And Dave, as he thought of his own new and peculiar position, wondered if
that was to be his way. He was really no one now. Would he be thrust
aside, and not counted as one of the family?

And yet, as he reflected on the fact that Mr. Carson had always known of
their relation--or, rather their lack of relation--he would not be likely
to change.

"I wonder if I'll ever find out who my parents are?" thought Dave. "I must
have some folks, somewhere."

But as he recalled what had been told him--how he had been swept down the
river in a great flood--the chances that he had any kin living seemed more
and more remote.

But the boy was awakened out of his momentary brown study.

"Hi there!"

"Look out for that critter!"

"He's a bad one!"

"Rope him!"

Such were the wild cries that greeted Dave as he spurred away from the
chuck wagon toward what seemed more than the usual commotion. A steer that
had been roped and thrown that a new brand might be put over the almost
obliterated one, had broken away and regained its feet and was wildly
rushing here and there.

A lasso had been thrown over his head, and this now trailed in the dust
Several of the cowboys, clapping spurs to their ponies, set off either to
throw more ropes about the escaping beast, or else to grasp the trailing
lariat.

"Take him, Dave!" cried Pocus Pete, who wanted the lad to get as much
practical experience as possible.

"I'll get him," was the instant call in response.

"Look at him go!" murmured Mr. Bellmore, who half rose from a pile of
blankets to watch the antics of the steer.

"Yes, that boy of mine can ride!" said Mr. Carson, who was looking on. A
tender look came into his eyes.

No one looking at him would have suspected that, only a comparatively
short time before, he had confessed to this same lad that there was no
real relationship between them. That they were actually, strangers, save
that there was a love between them that could only come of long
association.

"Yes. He surely can ride," murmured the ranch owner. "If he lives I hope
he'll succeed me as operator here. And if I can put through your
irrigation scheme it will make Bar U one of the best ranches in this part
of the country."

"Oh, we'll put it through all right," said the Chicago man. "Don't worry
about that. We'll put it through."

"If Molick doesn't kick up a row," observed Mr. Carson.

"Yes, of course we've got to look out for him. But I think--"

Mr. Bellmore never finished his sentence.

"Look out, Dave!" he yelled, as if he could warn the lad who was riding
toward the rushing steer.

"Oh! Oh!" gasped Mr. Carson.

The next instant they both saw the trailing rope on the steer's head
tangle around the legs of Dave's pony. The plucky Crow made a brave effort
to keep his feet. But a moment later he went down heavily in a cloud of
dust with his rider, while the maddened steer, brought up short, reared
and seemed to fall backward on pony and cowboy.

CHAPTER XII

THE FIGHT

With one bound, it seemed, Mr. Carson leaped away from the side of his
invalid guest, and was in the saddle of his favorite pony, that had been
standing near the chuck wagon.

"He's killed!" was the thought that came instantly into the mind of Mr.
Bellmore. "No rider could suffer such a fall, and live!"

Such an idea, too, it seemed, was in the thought of the ranch owner, for
he was slightly pale underneath his coat of tan as he spurred his steed
forward.

A number of other cowboys had seen the happening, and those who could
leave the work in which they were engaged, started for the scene of the
accident. But there were some, holding down a refractory steer, or engaged
in putting on the hot branding irons, who only looked over, shrugged their
shoulders, and kept on with their tasks.

For that, too, was the law of the range. If a man had a fall, he was
either killed or he was not killed. If he was killed there was no use
dropping important work to go to his aid. If he was not killed he must
either help himself, or take such help as could be sent to him at the
time.

Cruel, perhaps you will say, but it was eminently practical, and, after
all, that is life.

If Dave was really dead no power the cowboys could exert would save him.
The accident had happened--it was over with--and that was all there was to
it.

Of course some did go to his aid--Mr. Carson and several of the less busy
punchers. And, to do justice to the others, not a man but, would have
rushed to help Dave had he been in a position to do so. But the work of
the ranch must go on--and it did.

Long before Mr. Carson reached the scene, or, for that matter, before any
of the others were in a position to help Dave, a movement was observed in
the tangle of pony, rider and steer. Just who, or which, was doing the
moving it was hard to determine, as the haze of dust still overhung
everything.

"Can a person live after that mix-up?" asked Mr. Bellmore, speaking aloud,
unconsciously.

"Oh, him plenty mluch alive!" glibly replied the Chinese cook. "Dave he
plenty mluch hab fall, an' he come up smilin'."

"Oh, he does; eh?" asked the Chicago man.

"Sure!" was the answer, given with a bland grin. "He clum' up smilin'."

"Well, I hope he does," was the comment.

By this time it could be seen that Dave was at least alive. Out of the
haze of dust he limped, But the steer lay prone.

Mr. Carson jumped from his horse, and an instant later had the young
cowboy in his arms.

"Dave! Dave!" he cried. "My boy! My boy! Tell me you're not hurt!"

As the other cowboys rode up one of them gave a look at the prostrate
steer.

"He's done for," he commented.

It needed but a look at the curiously and grotesquely twisted neck of the
animal to tell that it was broken.

"Dave, are you hurt?" gasped the ranchman.

"Well, I've felt better," Dave answered, slowly, making a wry face as he
limped to one, side. He leaned heavily on the arm of Mr. Carson.

Then, as if remembering something he had forgotten, Dave looked toward his
pony. To his great relief he saw Crow rise to his feet, shake himself and
run off a little way, seemingly little the worse for his adventure.

"Thank goodness!" murmured Dave, and there was a prayer of gratitude in
his heart. "I thought he was a goner."

"And we thought you were," put in Tubby Larkin, as he strode up. "That was
some fall--believe me!"

"Must have got tangled up in the rope," commented Pocus Pete, who had
finished a task he was at, and who now spurred forward.

"That's what happened," Dave explained, as he rubbed the back of his head
and threw out one leg as if to test whether or not it had been knocked out
of joint. "I didn't see the trailing lasso, and it got around Crow's
feet."

"Yes, that's how it happened," said Mr. Carson. "But I certainly thought
both steer and pony fell on you."

"I managed to roll out of the way," said Dave, grimly.

"Lucky for you," commented Pocus Pete. "That's one of the biggest and
worst steers on the ranch, and he weighs something, too."

"His own weight broke his neck," said Tubby, reflectively. "Well, we was
needin' some beef an' now we've got it."

"I'm sorry he had to go," remarked Dave, as he walked off toward his pony,
having made sure that none of his bones was broken.

"Better him than you," murmured Mr. Carson. "Are you sure you're all
right, Dave, my boy?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, yes I'm a bit shaken up, but I'll be all right. I can go on with the
round-up."

"You can--but you'll not!" was the ranch owner's decision. "I want you to
take a little rest. The worst of the job's over, anyhow."

Dave was nothing loath to have a little respite, and as he came up to the
chuck wagon, where Mr. Bellmore was eagerly waiting for him, the Chicago
man said:

"Well, I never expected to see you come up this way, Dave," and he held
out a welcoming hand.

"Oh, we get used to little things like that."

"Little things!" exclaimed the irrigation engineer. "Well, I thought I had
a hard time when I was hanging over that gully. But that wasn't a
circumstance to yours."

"It's all in the day's work," said Dave with a shrug of his shoulders, as
he sank down on a pile of sacks.

"He's grit clear through," thought the visitor. "I like him more every day
I see him."

As for Dave, in addition to the thankfulness in his heart that he was not
hurt, and that his favorite pony had escaped, was a deep sense of
gratitude for the manner manifested toward him by Mr. Carson. No father
could have showed more love toward his own son than the ranch owner did
toward his ward, his nameless ward.

The excitement caused by Dave's fall soon passed, for, after all, such
things are comparatively common on the ranch, and he had really been more
than usually fortunate.

And so the work of the round-up went on, day after day. Hard, hot, sweaty
and dusty work it was, too, with little of the romance that attaches to
the book stories of life on a cattle range. But no one complained, least
of all Dave Carson.

It was about a week after this that Dave was sent out again to look up
some stray cattle. He was not riding his own pony Crow, who had, after
all, developed a lame shoulder from his fall. So he was left in the stable
for a day or two.

As the animal Dave had was rather strange he took the precaution of
staking him out as he halted for a bite to eat at noon. Dave was taking
his nooning, resting lazily on the silent plain, when he heard a noise
that caused him to rouse up suddenly.

What he saw brought an exclamation of anger to his lips, for in the act of
cutting the rope that held the somewhat restive pony was Len Molick. Dave
had caught him in the nick of time.

Len had looked around, to make sure he was unobserved, but his back was
toward our hero, who was down in a little hollow.

"The sneak!" murmured Dave.

Then, silently, he began stalking the bully, who was preparing to go back
to his own horse, that was standing with reins over its head.

Len's object was plain. He wanted to let Dave's pony run back to the
ranch, so our hero would have a long walk. But his plan failed.

Just as Len was about to sever the lariat Dave sprang up, and with a yell
that startled both horses, fairly threw himself on the back of the bully.

"At last I've got you just where I want you, Len Molick!" Dave cried.
"Maybe I can't prove you sawed the fence posts, but I don't need any more
evidence than I've just had of what you were going to do. I've got you!"

"You--you let me alone!" whimpered Len, who was a coward, as most bullies
are.

"I will, when I've finished," said Dave, laying aside his coat.

"What are you going to do?" asked Len, who had straightened up, after
having been rolled on the ground by Dave.

"What am I going to do? I'm going to give you the best drubbing you ever
had. Stand up and fight now, you big coward!"

CHAPTER XIII

SOME NEWS

Perhaps if Len had done the manly thing--if he had owned to some of his
misdeeds, and had promised not to repeat them, Dave might have forgiven
him. For Dave was not a fighter by nature.

Physically the two were well matched, with the advantage, if any, in favor
of Len, who was larger than Dave. And if Len had acknowledged that he was
afraid to fight, Dave would not have pressed it.

But the bully and coward made the mistake of his life. As he sprang to his
feet he caught up a stone and suddenly hurled it at Dave. The latter
ducked just in time to save his head. And then his anger welled up.

"So that's your game; is it?" he cried.

Even then Len might have gotten out of it, only he did not. He aimed a
wild blow at Dave, and then the fight was on.

Len was no match for Dave in skill. The young cowboy easily dodged the
blows aimed at him, and for a moment, he refrained from hitting Len hard.
Then, as he saw Len again look about for a stone, Dave struck him so hard
that the bully toppled over.

"It's no more than you deserve!" Dave exclaimed.

Len got up, and with a cry rushed at his opponent. Again, Dave sent him
down.

But I am not going to give you all the details of that fight which was
soon over. Len, bruised and sore, cried out that he had had enough.

"That'll teach you to behave after this, I guess," said Dave, as he moved
over toward his horse.

Len did not answer for a moment. He, too, approached his steed. And when
he was mounted he cast a look full of anger and hate at Dave, and said:

"You wait! I'll get even with you yet!"

It was the usual retort of a sneak and coward.

"You had your chance," said Dave, grimly. "If you couldn't take advantage
of it that's not my fault."

Then he rode off, collected the strays he was looking for, and made his
way back to the ranch.

"What's the matter, Dave?" asked Pocus Pete, as he saw the lad leap from
his pony. "Did you have a fall?"

"No, it was the other fellow," was the grim answer.

"Len?"

"Yes."

"Does he look anything like you?"

"Worse!"

Dave's face was scratched and one eye bruised.

"Well, I s'pose it had to be," chuckled Pocus Pete. "What'd he do, try to
rope you?"

"No. He wouldn't have much chance at that, even if I was not on Crow."
Then Dave told the story of the encounter.

"Well," said Peter reflectively, "I reckon, just as some one said about
dogs, that a certain amount of fleas was good for 'em, a little fightin'
is good for some fellows. Are you sure Len got enough?" he asked
anxiously.

"He said so," replied Dave, sententiously.

"Well, he ought to know," was Pete's dry comment.

Life at Bar U ranch went on in much the same way for many days. There was
a great deal of work to be done, and Dave did his share. But, all the
while, he could not shake from his mind the memory of the revealed secret
regarding himself.

"I wonder who I am?" he asked himself again and again. But he could not
answer. He made up his mind that some day he would have a long talk with
Mr. Carson, and see if there was not some way in which clews to his lost
parents could be obtained.

"There must be some," reflected Dave.

Mr. Bellmore had almost recovered now. He could ride his horse about, and
often accompanied Dave on the latter's trips. The Chicago man could limp
about fairly well, but in the West, at least on the cattle ranges, little
walking is done. If a person has only to go across the street it is the
most natural thing in the world to leap to the saddle to cover the
distance.

"Well, I think I must get busy on that water business now," said Mr.
Bellmore one day, when he and Dave had come in from a little round-up. "It
won't do to wait any longer. My people will be wondering why I am taking
such a long vacation."

"They know you were hurt; don't they?" asked Dave.

"Oh, yes, but I'm practically well again."

"What are your plans?"

"I must see if I can get some concerted action in forming an irrigation
company. I think I shall talk to Mr. Molick, even if his son and you are
not on friendly terms."

"Oh, don't let that stand in the way of business," Dave said, heartily.

"I hope you won't misunderstand my motives," said the water agent.

"Not at all."

It was a few days after this that Pocus Pete, coming in from a distant
part of the range, said to Dave and Mr. Carson.

"I see they're putting up some new fences along the river on the Centre O
ranch."

"Is that so?" asked Mr. Carson. "That's news to me, I wonder what that
means?"

"Perhaps I can tell you," said Mr. Bellmore. "I have made some
arrangements with Mr. Molick about water rights. He is going into the
irrigation scheme with me. I really need him, as he owns certain patents
in the water course. I meant to mention it to you, but it slipped my
mind."

"So you are going in with Molick?" asked Mr. Carson, in a curious tone of
voice.

"Yes. Is there any objection?"

"Well, I don't know but what there is," was the reply of the ranch owner.
"Sit down, and I'll tell you a few things you ought to know, Mr.
Bellmore."

CHAPTER XIV

A WARNING

Dave, who had heard what was said between Mr. Bellmore and the ranch owner
listened with interest and expectation to what would come next. There was
an odd manner about the proprietor of Bar U--a sort of constraint, and
Dave fancied there was a little feeling, almost of hostility toward the
man he had rescued from such a perilous position.

Up to now Mr. Bellmore had enjoyed to the utmost the hospitality of Bar U
ranch. Mr. Bellmore had been made very welcome, and he had had every care
and attention while unable to use his injured foot. Now it seemed that a
spirit of hostility had cropped out.

"Before I go on to say what I intend to-to give you a warning in other
words," said Mr. Carson, "let me ask you, Mr. Bellmore if you know why
Molick is putting up new fences along the water course? I'd like to know
the reason for that before I give you my warning."

"A warning!" exclaimed the irrigation man, and there was evident surprise
manifested in his tone.

"Yes, a warning," repeated the ranch owner. "But please do not mistake my
meaning. I'm not warning you of any threatened danger, but only of being
careful what business dealings you have with Jason Molick, or any of his
men."

"Oh, I thought you meant you were going to warn me to move on," and Dave
fancied his friend laughed with an air of relief.

"Nothing like that yet," said Mr. Carson, smiling. "But about the fences,
concerning which Pocus Pete spoke to me?"

"Well, I suggested to Mr. Molick that he'd better put them up," said Mr.
Bellmore.

"You did!" There was great surprise manifested in the exclamation of Mr.
Carson.

"Why, yes, I did."

"What for?" asked Mr. Carson.

"Of course you know that if land is allowed to go unfenced for twenty
years--or for a longer or shorter period according to different
states--that the land becomes public property, or at least the public
has a right-of-way over it and it can not be closed off. I did not
want, in case our irrigation company took up Mr. Molick's land, to have
a public right-of-way over it, especially so near the water. It might
spoil our legal title. So I told him to fence it in before we did any
business."

"Then you haven't done any business yet?"

"Not actually closed it, no. I am about to, and then I hope to do some
business with you."

Mr. Bellmore smiled frankly, but Mr. Carson's face was grave as he
answered:

"Well, I don't know. I'm afraid you can't do business with both of us, Mr.
Bellmore."

"Why not?" asked the Chicago man, somewhat surprised.

 "Because Mr. Molick and I--to be frank about it--don't pull together any
too well. I'm not saying whose fault it is, but he and I have been on the
outs for some time, and his men are continually seeking to pick quarrels
with my men. He has taken more than his share of the water that is
supposed to be for our joint use, and when I objected he was very ugly
about it."

"I feel it my duty to warn you that if you have any business dealings with
him to look well to your own interests. He will take every legal
advantage, and some that, in my opinion, are not legal."

"You surprise me!" exclaimed Mr. Bellmore. "I did not know that he was
that kind of man."

"Well, he is," put in Dave. "You mustn't think we cowpunchers are in the
habit of giving our neighbors black eyes, Mr. Bellmore," went on the young
cowboy, "but it is for your own interests that my father is speaking."

Dave did not hesitate at the word of relationship now. Mr. Bellmore did
not know the secret.

"Oh, I think I understand," the water-man said. "I'm sorry I began
negotiations with Molick, but I don't very well see how I can get out of
them. I need his water rights."

"Perhaps he hasn't as many rights as you think he has," suggested Mr.
Carson.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean there's a dispute about the river boundary lines. I claim more
water than I'm getting, but I'm not in a position to enforce my claims
just at present. That is why I wanted to know about the fences. It may be
that Molick is encroaching."

"I'd be sorry to hear that," Mr. Bellmore said. "When I told him to go
ahead and fence in certain open tracts, so we would know just where the
water boundaries extended, I had no idea I would cause you trouble, Mr.
Carson."

"You haven't--yet," was the dry answer.

"And I don't intend to!" went on the Chicago man.

"Oh, if there's any trouble, I'll not lay it at your door," went on the
ranch owner, smiling grimly. "It will be Molick who causes it, if anybody
does. But I want, for your own good, to warn you against this man. He has
done a lot of mean things in this section, and he is capable of doing
more. He's as mean as they make 'em, and I truly hate to say that about a
neighbor."

"Oh, I accept it in confidence," replied Mr. Bellmore.

"I know you do, and that's why I didn't hesitate. I thought it my duty,"
resumed the owner of Bar U ranch. "I've come to like you a heap since Dave
brought you here. Seems almost as though you were kin to us. That's why
I'd hate to see you wronged. And you surely will be outwitted if you don't
watch Molick. He'd take the eye teeth out of a stuffed alligator if he
wasn't watched, and sell 'em for watch charms. Dave knows him!"

"Oh, yes. He's made a lot of trouble for us," Dave assented.

"Well, I don't know exactly what to do," said Mr. Bellmore, slowly. "I
have asked Molick to go ahead, and have practically promised to do
business with him. I can hardly back out now. If I did he might begin suit
against my company, claiming a breach of contract."

"He'd do that if he had half a chance," answered Mr. Carson. "But perhaps
matters are not so bad as they seem. He's just begun to build the fences,
so Pocus Pete says. It may not be too late to stop him. We'll take a run
out that way to-morrow and see what's going on. Meanwhile, consider
yourself warned against Jason Molick, Mr. Bellmore."

"I shall, and I thank you for telling me. I hope to do business with you,
also, in this water matter."

"Well, if Molick has his way I won't have any water to negotiate about,"
said the ranch owner grimly. "However, we'll go and take a look at the
fences to-morrow."

CHAPTER XV

RETALIATION

Benjamin Bellmore's injured foot was now so nearly healed that he had no
difficulty in getting about on horseback. True, he had to favor the
injured member somewhat, but that did not greatly hinder him; accordingly,
early on the morning following the conversation of warning, the irrigation
man, Dave, Mr. Carson and Pocus Pete set out across Bar U ranch to see
what the Molicks were doing.

"Well, they're at it, I see," remarked Dave, as the little party topped a
rise and saw, down in the river valley below them, a number of men
erecting fence posts and stringing barbed wire.

"Yes, he doesn't lose any time, that's one thing I'll say for Jason
Molick," answered the ranch owner.

Indeed Molick's forces were very active. They seemed to be in a hurry to
get a certain length of fence up before night, and as Dave looked at the
cowboys and others employed, he realized that the owner of Centre O ranch
had called in from the distant parts of his holdings most of his employees
and set them to work on the fence.

Nor was this all. Farther off another gang of men, with picks and shovels,
seemed to be erecting a small dam, partially across a narrow part of
Rolling River.

"Hello!" exclaimed Mr. Carson in surprise, as he saw their activities.
"What does that mean?"

"It's some irrigation work," explained Mr. Bellmore. "Molick didn't
believe me when I said that even a small dam would impound enough water to
supply not only a good herd of cattle but would also water the dry land.
So I told him to try it himself, and see how it worked. I thought if he
had a practical demonstration he would be willing to go into the scheme
with me. But that was before I had your warning," he added with a look at
the ranchman.

"Hum, yes," said Mr. Carson, musingly. "Well, Molick has a right to do as
he pleases on his own land, of course--at least I reckon so. But I don't
like that business of putting a dam across part of the river."

"Why not?" asked Dave.

"He might shut off too much water," was the answer.

"That's so!" put in Pocus Pete. "Quite a bunch of our cattle depend for a
drink on what they get from Rolling River, and we've got a lot of cattle
below there now," and he pointed to a section south of that part of the
valley in which the work was going on.

"Oh, well, we'll not cross a bridge until we come to it," said Mr. Carson.
"I'll not assume that Molick is going to do anything wrong. But when he
does," he added reflectively, "then he'd better look out."

"I hope I sha'n't have started a quarrel," put in Mr. Bellmore.

"Don't worry," laughed Dave. "It doesn't take much to start a quarrel with
the Molicks. Maybe it'll not amount to anything, anyhow. Say, but he is
putting up some fence all right!"

Indeed the operations were on a large scale, and seemed to indicate that
the Molick outfit had made good preparations.

Mr. Bellmore seemed very thoughtful. He sat on his horse, looking at the
work, for the starting of which he was, in a measure, responsible. Then he
remarked:

"I think I'll get out of this while I can. I'm sorry I made any tentative
proposition to Molick but there's time enough yet to withdraw. I'll tell
him our irrigation company can't go into that water deal with him. Can I
depend on you to make some arrangements with me, regarding your water
rights?" he asked of Mr. Carson.

"Well, if you give me all the particulars, and I find them to be as you
say, I wouldn't have any objections to going in," replied the ranchman
slowly. "I surely do need more water for my cattle and land, and if
irrigation, conservation, or whatever you call it, is going to bring it
about, I'll be only too glad to go into it with you. Isn't that what you
say, Dave?"

The youth hesitated a moment. He felt a warm glow in his heart that the
man he had so long regarded as his father reposed this much faith and
confidence in him, when the secret had been disclosed.

"Yes, Dad," said Dave, slowly, "I should think it would be a good thing to
go in with Mr. Bellmore's company."

"I thought you'd say so. And now let's hear from Pocus Pete. I always like
to let my foreman have a word to say," he added to the Chicago man.

"And I think you do right," was the comment.

"What's your idea, Pete?" asked Mr. Carson.

"Why, I say go into it! That is, if we can get away from Molick. I never
did like the idea of him controllin' so much of Rollin' River. Now if we
can have all the water of our own we want, so much the better. Go into it,
I says!"

"Then it's decided," announced Mr. Carson. "We'll go in with you, provided
you are not so tied up with Molick that you can't unfetter yourself."

"I think there's no danger of that," said Mr. Bellmore. "I only made a
tentative arrangement with him. I'll go over at once and tell him I've
reconsidered my plans."

"There he is now," said Dave, pointing to two figures on horses, riding
down toward the Centre O workers.

"Yes, and that bully, Len, is with him," added Pocus Pete. "Do you want to
turn back, Dave?" he asked with a mischievous glance.

"Indeed I don't!" was the quick reply, and the eyes of the young cowboy
flashed.

Mr. Carson's land, at this point, extended down to the edge of Rolling
River, where the stream made a sharp turn. On the opposite shore were the
Molick workmen. And as Dave, the ranchman and the others rode forward,
Jason Molick and his son also approached the stream from their side of it.

Len glanced up and looked at Dave, but gave no other sign. Probably he had
not told of the drubbing he had received.

"Can I ride across here?" asked Mr. Bellmore of Mr. Carson, after a few
minutes conversation, during which Jason Molick was inspecting the
progress of his workmen.

"Yes, the river, is very shallow here. Go ahead! We'll wait for you. I
don't want to go on his land."

The irrigation man left his friends and, crossing the stream on his
horse's back, was soon approaching Mr. Molick.

"Well, how do you think we're coming on?" asked Len's father. "I took your
advice, you see--I'm going in with you on this deal. I think it's a good
one, I'm ready to sign the papers whenever you say so."

"Well--er--I don't want to disappoint you, after what has taken place, Mr.
Molick," began the Chicago man in rather an embarrassed fashion, "but the
truth of the matter is that I guess there won't be any papers to sign."

"No papers to sign! What do you mean?"

"I mean that the deal is off!"

"The deal off? You mean the irrigation scheme you agreed to go into with
me?" and Mr. Molick's voice rose.

"Yes, that deal is off," went on the engineer. "You remember I only
broached it to you. I did not clinch it. I pointed out its advantages to
you, and you were eager to go in. I said I would talk to you later about
it."

"And now you come and say you don't want to go into it with me?" asked
Molick in sneering tones.

"Yes, that is a right I reserved, you remember."

"Huh! I know what has made him back out!" exclaimed Len.

"What?" asked his father.

"He's been talking to them!" and Len pointed to Dave and the others from
Bar U ranch across the stream.

"Ha! So that's the game!" exclaimed Mr. Molick. "Well, I'll show you that
two can play at it, Mr. Bellmore!" he sneered. "If you don't want to go
into this scheme with me, after promising--"

"I never promised!" interrupted the other.

"Well, it was the same thing. But if you don't want to go in I can get
along without you. I guess you'll find you're not the only one around here
who knows about dams and irrigation ditches. I and my son have some
brains. We'll show you a thing or two!"

"That's what we will!" boasted Len.

"I'm sure I don't wish to curtail your activities in any way," replied the
Chicago man. "I hope you have all sorts of success. But I do not feel like
going on with the scheme I outlined."

"Because, I suppose, you're going in with the Bar U folks?" suggested Len.

"I haven't said so," was the quiet retort.

"No, but I can read signs. Well, there's one thing I want to tell you!"
Len went on in threatening tones. "I warn you off our land--you and the
Carson bunch. And as for that Dave, if I catch him I'll give him the worst
licking he ever had."

"Seems to me it was the other way around," retorted Mr. Bellmore, with a
grim smile. "At least it was the last time you met."

"Huh!" snorted Len. "Well, tell him to look out, that's all!"

"I don't think there is any need of that," said Mr. Bellmore. "I think
Dave can look after himself. But now I'll bid you good day."

"And don't you trespass on Centre O ranch again!" was Mr. Molick's
warning. "I've seen enough of you."

Mr. Bellmore felt the same way about it, but did not think it necessary to
say so.

He rode slowly back across the stream and rejoined his friends.

"Well?" asked Dave.

"It's all off," the Chicago man said. "I've ended negotiations with them,
and I'm sorry I ever tried to do business. But it will be all right. They
can do business in their own way, and we'll do ours as we please. I'll
look into the irrigation possibilities on your property now, Mr. Carson.
We'll not hear anything more from the Molick outfit."

But Mr. Bellmore failed to reckon on the mean characters of the Molick
father and son. It was only a few days after this that one of the cowboys
came riding post-haste to the ranch house. He dismounted in a cloud of
dust, and seeing Dave and Mr. Carson standing together hurried toward
them, calling out:

"Th' bottom must have dropped out of Rolling River. It's almost dry down
below there, where I've got that bunch of fine cattle, and they can't get
anything to drink. What are we going to do? Something must have happened
to th' river."

"What can it be?" cried Dave. "Has an earthquake occurred, or has the
river unexpectedly taken an underground course?"

"Neither one, I imagine," said Mr. Carson, slowly. "This is retaliation, I
fancy. I'll go back with you Skinny, and see what has happened. But I'm
sure it's retaliation."

CHAPTER XVI

UNAVAILING EFFORTS

Dave, who had heard this talk, leaped on the back of Crow, and followed
Mr. Carson and the cowboy who rejoiced in the euphonious title of
"Skinny."

"What do you mean by retaliation, Dad?" he asked. "Has it anything to do
with the Molicks?"

"A whole lot to do with them, Dave, I'm afraid," was the reply.

"You mean they have diverted some of your water?"

"Some of it! Better say all of it!" exclaimed the disgusted Skinny. "There
ain't enough comin' down Rollin' River, over where I come from, t' make a
cup of coffee."

"As bad as that?" asked Mr. Carson in alarm.

"Well, almost. I got skeered and made up my mind I'd come and tell you
about it."

"You did just right, Skinny. We may be able to get ahead of these chaps
after all."

"I hope we can," murmured Dave.

Though Dave had seldom, for any length of time, lost sight of the fact
that he was a "nobody," still he could not help feeling an interest in the
ranch, which had been the only home he had known for a long time. In fact
it was really the only home he knew, for he did not, of course, recall his
days of babyhood. And now, though Dave knew that he was not Mr. Carson's
son, though he realized that he might never inherit the broad acres over
which roamed thousands of cattle, still he retained the feeling of loyalty
and fealty that caused him to hope for the best.

"I wonder if I'll ever find my real folks," mused Dave, as he rode on with
Mr. Carson and Skinny. "It's hardly possible, after all these years."

Over the rolling plains they rode, now and then catching sight of distant
herds of cattle under the guard of cowboys, again gaining a view of the
distant Centre O ranch. But they saw no sign of Molick or Len, nor could
they catch, in the direction they were going, a glimpse of the place where
the fence work and dam building had been going on.

A little later they topped another rise, and began to descend into a
sheltered and fertile valley where Mr. Carson usually sent his choice
cattle to fatten before shipping them to the dealers in Chicago and
elsewhere.

As the three came within sight of this valley they saw a strange sight
Instead of the cattle quietly grazing, with perhaps small bunches of them
wandering now and then to the banks of the stream to get a drink, the
whole herd seemed scattered along the water course. And instead of quietly
drinking the cattle seemed fighting among themselves. Pushing, struggling,
rearing with heads up against one another, bellowing and stampeding.

On the outside vainly rode two or three cowboys who were doing their best
to keep the rearmost cattle from rushing over those in the front rank, who
were nearest the water.

"What does it mean?" demanded Mr. Carson of Skinny, as he urged his horse
forward. "What does it mean?"

"It's a stampede!" cried Dave. "Maybe Len is trying some of his mean
tricks again."

"It's a trick, but it isn't any like that," said Skinny. "None of that
Molick crowd is around here now."

"But what's the matter?" demanded the ranchman.

"Water--or, rather lack of water," said the cowboy briefly. "The cattle
are half mad with thirst I expect. And I guess maybe it isn't so much of a
real thirst as it is the fear that there won't be any water left after an
hour or two. Cattle know more that way than we give 'em credit for."

"This is serious!" exclaimed Mr. Carson.

"I thought you'd think so. That's why I come for you," Skinny explained.

The three rode down the <DW72>, the confusion among the cattle increasing
every moment.

"What can you do?" asked Dave.

"Have to drive 'em over to the other range, there's water there, I should
think," Mr. Carson answered. "That is, if Molick and his bunch haven't
tried any of their tricks there."

"No, they can't stop the supply there," said Skinny. "It's only here,
where the river takes a sharp turn above us, that they could cut off the
supply."

"Then you think there's no question but that they did it?" as had Dave of
Mr. Carson.

"Hardly any doubt," was the reply. "But of course I'll look into it. Watch
out now, Dave. Those cattle are fairly wild, and I don't want you to be
hurt."

The ranchman looked affectionately at the youth, and Dave felt a warm spot
in his heart for the man who had done so much for him.

"I don't believe we can drive 'em back until they've licked up every last
drop," said Skinny. "Then they'll know there's no use in stayin' and we
may be able to do somethin' with 'em."

"Is it drying up as badly as that?" asked Mr. Carson.

"You'll soon see," was the answer.

Only skillful cowpunchers could have made their way through that maddened,
seething, wild herd of cattle. But Dave, Mr. Carson and Skinny were more
at home in the saddle than afoot. Their intelligent ponies pushed their
way through the heaving mass of steers until the three of them stood on
the brink of what had been a fair-sized branch of the Rolling River but a
few hours before.

Now all that showed was a small, narrow ribbon of muddy water, in the
clay-like expanse of what had been the bed of the original stream.

"Whew!" whistled Mr. Carson. "This sure is bad!"

"I should say so!" exclaimed Dave.

A sharp bend in the course of the stream above them cut off all but a very
limited view. But, as far as they could see, the same conditions
prevailed. There was only a small trickle of water. It was in the very
middle, the lowest point of the stream, and up to the very edge of this
the thirst-tortured cattle pressed, sinking down deep in the soft mud.

"We've got to get 'em out of that," declared the ranchman. "A lot of 'em
will be mired if we don't."

"There are some mired now," said Skinny, pointing. "Ed and Foster are
trying to yank 'em out."

He indicated two cowboys who, with ropes around the mired steers, were
trying to drag them to solid ground. Other animals, though, were pressing
in to make their way to the water.

It was a hot day, and bore a promise of being hotter. It needed but a
glance to show that the water would soon fail entirely. And it was evident
what had caused it. At some point, higher up, the supply had been cut off
or diverted.

"Well," said Mr. Carson quickly, like a general on the field meeting a
reverse, and deciding on the best way to save the day, "well, the only
thing we can do is to get the cattle off this range. Take 'em over to the
spring, Skinny-you and the rest of the boys. Fight 'em hard-it's the only
way. I'll ride on up and see what's happened to our water supply. Dave,
you ride back and get Mr. Bellmore. Maybe he can tell us a way out of this
trouble. He's a water engineer."

Thus were the orders issued, and the cowboys and Dave prepared to carry
them out. Hardly had Mr. Carson ceased speaking than Skinny rode off with
a whoop to aid his fellows.

Dave watched for a moment as the cowboys prepared to move the herd of
valuable cattle. It would be hard work to get them away from the water
while a drop yet remained in the muddy pools. But it must be done, for if
the steers were allowed to remain there many of them would be mired, and
in the fight for water others would be trampled on and killed.

As Dave galloped back to the ranch to summon the irrigation engineer he
saw Mr. Carson head his pony for the bend, above which was the beginning
of the Centre O ranch.

Then the young cowpuncher gave a look at the strenuous efforts of the
cowboys to move the maddened cattle.

"They'll have their own troubles," Dave reasoned. "I'll help them as soon
as I get back."

He covered the distance to the ranch in record time, and found Mr.
Bellmore busy over some calculations. The engineer was surprised to learn
what had happened, and at once jumped on his horse and galloped off with
Dave.

When they again reached the valley Mr. Carson had not yet returned from
his trip to the bend, but the cattle were in a worse tangle than before.
The cowboys efforts to drive them away from what was now nothing but a
long mudhole, were unavailing.

"Something's got to be done!" cried Skinny. "We've lost some already, and
more will die soon. We've got to get 'em away from here. But we can't as
long as they smell even the mud. What's to be done?"

Dave looked gloomily on, but could not answer. Could the engineer solve
the problem?

CHAPTER XVII

THE ROUND-UP

Again and again did the weary cowboys try to force the maddened cattle to
move away from the now veritable mud hole, that they might drive them to
another range where there was water for them to drink. But the steers,
usually intelligent in this matter, seemed to have lost all their
instinct. They only wanted to remain near the spot where they had been
accustomed to drink.

"Say, this is fierce!" cried Mr. Bellmore.

"It certainly is," agreed Dave. "What can we do?"

"Let's see if we can't lend a hand to get the animals off, and on the
move," suggested the engineer. "Those cowboys need help."

Skinny and his mates certainly did. They were almost exhausted from their
strenuous labors.

But even with the experienced help of Dave, and the well-meant efforts of
Mr. Bellmore, the cattle could not be moved. They fought for places at the
edge of the stream-which was a stream no longer, but only a slough, in
which more than one fine steer was now mired.

"It's of no use," said Skinny, wearily, after a bit. "You can't budge 'em!
They'll have to die here."

"No they won't!" exclaimed the engineer.

"How are you goin' t' stop 'em?" asked another of the cowboys. "They can't
get any water here, they won't leave, an' everybody knows that without
water cattle can't live long."

"If we can't drive 'em to water we'll have to do the next best thing."

"And that is--" began Dave.

"Bring the water to them!"

"But how can we? The supply is cut off somewhere above. Dad went to see
about it, but he hasn't come back yet."

"Then we'll go up there too. Something's got to be done. It may take
desperate measures, but if the Molicks have built a dam, to divert your
water from here, we'll have to open it; that's all."

"Will they let you?" asked Skinny, settling wearily in his saddle.

"We'll do it whether they let us or not!" exclaimed the engineer. "It's my
fault, in a way, that they did this, for I pointed out the advantage it
would be to them to have a dam, and I'll do my best to make good the
trouble caused. Come on, Dave. Well ride up above and see what we can do.
Meanwhile, you boys do your best to keep the cattle from stampeding. They
won't let themselves be driven away, that's sure, so we've got to bring
water to them."

"If we only can," murmured Cowboy Dave. He felt it to be a hopeless task.

Now that the cowboys had given over their efforts to drive the cattle away
from the water-hole the beasts were quieter. Left to themselves, they
scattered somewhat and sought for places where little pools might have
formed, and where they could slake their thirst. It was not much water
that remained, and the bellowings of the cattle, and their panting
appearance as their parched tongues fairly hung from their mouths, filled
the hearts of Dave and his friend with pity for the poor beasts.

"We haven't any time to lose," said Mr. Bell-more, as he urged his horse,
Kurd, toward the bend of the stream. Dave, on Crow, followed, wondering
what would be the outcome. Dave glanced back from time to time at the
thirst-maddened cattle. Some of them forced their way into the muddy
sloughs in spite of the desperate efforts of the cowboys to drive them
back. Then it was necessary to try to pull them out by lariats attached to
them, and extending to the horns of the saddles.

"Poor beasts!" murmured the young cow-puncher.

He and Mr. Bellmore had ridden for perhaps a mile when they saw a figure
galloping toward them.

"Who's that?" asked the engineer, pulling up suddenly.

"Dad," answered Dave. "He rode up to investigate. He'll be able to tell us
what happened."

"It's easy enough to guess," said Mr. Bellmore. "The Molicks have built an
intercepting dam, to get even with you and me."

And this was exactly what Mr. Carson reported as he rode up.

"They've cut off our water supply," he called to Dave and the engineer.
"They've made a board and mud dam right across the river, and turned the
water onto their own land. They're making irrigating ditches now as fast
as they can work."

"I suspected as much," Mr. Bellmore said, "Is the dam a very big or strong
one?"

"Not especially so. But the water is low at this season of the year, and
it doesn't take much of a dam to block it off from me. This dam is made of
boards, banked up with clay and stones."

"Would it be easy to break away?" asked the engineer.

"Yes, I suppose so. But Molick will take precious good care that it
doesn't break away, They're strengthening it all the while."

"Oh, I didn't suppose it would break away of its own accord," the engineer
said. "I meant would we have much trouble in making a breach in it?"

"We?" cried Dave. "Do you mean--"

"I mean that we've got to break that dam to save your cattle!" the
engineer said. "It's the only way!"

"Break the dam!" murmured Dave. Yet his eyes sparkled at the thought.

"Yes," assented the irrigation engineer.

"But we can't do that," objected Mr. Carson. "It's on Molick's land, and
if we go there, and start something, he'll fight us. He is a desperate
man."

"And so ought you to be with your cattle dying of thirst," said Mr.
Bellmore.

"I am, but--"

"There aren't any buts about it," declared the other. "This is a desperate
situation, and we'll have to meet it desperately. Morally, right is on
your side, and I think it is legally, too. I've been looking into the
records and titles of lands along this Rolling River and I find that you
have not received all the water rights that belong to you, Mr. Carson. On
the other hand Molick has taken more than his share.

"And there is no doubt that he had no right to build the dam in the way he
has. He should have let some water come down to you. Now the only way to
accomplish this is to make a breach in the dam. This will let your cattle
drink."

"But if we do that--break the dam--he'll either fight us to prevent it, or
he'll build it up again," Dave said.

"He may fight, but I doubt it. He was warned once before that he was
exceeding his property rights, and he can't claim ignorance now. And while
it is true that he may build the dam over again, after we cut through it,
I don't so much care for that."

"A change will have to be made anyhow, but if you can get a little water,
temporarily, to your cattle it will save them, and you can drive them to
other ranges."

"Yes, I could do that," admitted the ranch-man.

"Then on to the dam!" cried the engineer, turning his horse as he spoke.

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Dave. "That's the way to talk!"

Urged on by the thought of the suffering cattle, the three made good speed
to the place where the river turned. There, as Mr. Carson had seen a short
time before, was the newly-built dam. A number of cowboys were about it,
and Dave saw Len, his enemy.

"Are you game?" asked the engineer.

"I am!" exclaimed the ranchman.

Dave said nothing, but there was a flash in his eyes as he nodded his head
that told more than mere words.

"You and I will go up and have a talk with them," suggested Mr. Bellmore.
"Meanwhile Dave can ride and get some of your men, Mr. Carson. We'll need
help if it comes to a fight, though I hope it won't. We'll make a formal
protest first. Hurry, Dave, every minute may mean a steer's life."

Dave whirled his steed about and rode hard and straight for the nearest
range where some of the Bar U men were guarding the cattle. Meanwhile Mr.
Carson and the engineer crossed the stream below the dam, and rode toward
the Centre O boys.

"Well, what do you want?" surlily demanded the young heir of the house of
Molick. "This is private land, and no trespassers are wanted. Get off!" he
snarled.

"We came on business," said Mr. Carson. "Where's your father?"

"I don't know. But he told me if you came on this land to order you off,
and that's what I do!"

"Ordering and going are two different things," said the ranchman, with a
grim laugh. "You've cut off my water down below, with this dam, and I
order you to open it up. My cattle are dying from thirst. Open this dam!"

"Not much!" sneered Whitey Wasson, Len's crony.

"But I tell you my cattle are dying, man!" exclaimed Mr. Carson. "You know
what it means to steers to be without water this kind of weather."

"You ought to have thought of that before you pastured them down there,"
sneered the cowboy.

"Then you refuse to open the dam?" asked Mr. Bellmore.

"We certainly do!" returned Len.

"Then you must take the consequences," said Mr. Bellmore, speaking
solemnly. "You will be sued for the value of every animal that dies of
thirst, as well as being obliged to pay heavy damages for the trouble you
have caused. I know the situation of water rights in this valley, and I
tell you that you are acting illegally. Now do you still refuse to open
that dam?"

Len looked a bit frightened at this warning, but Whitey whispered to him,
and the son of Jason Molick answered:

"Go on! We're not afraid. This dam is on our land and you can't touch it!"

At that moment a distant whoop sounded. Mr. Carson and the engineer looked
around and saw a cloud of dust approaching. It soon resolved itself into
Dave, leading a number of cowboys who bore picks and shovels--rather
unusual implements for cowpunchers. On they came, hard-riding, singing and
shouting, eager for the fray. They outnumbered the Centre O outfit.

"Well, since you won't open the dam, we'll have to do it for you," went on
Mr. Bellmore. "Lively, boys!" he called, as Dave and his friends rode up.
"Tear out the dam and let the water down where it ought to run. Lively
now!"

"Don't you touch that dam!" screamed Len.

"Go on! I order you to tear it away!" said Mr. Carson to his men.

"Whoop!" they yelled in response, and a moment later, flinging themselves
from their horses, they swarmed into the water and began the work of
destruction.

Dave, Mr. Carson and the engineer looked anxious for a moment, feeling
that the Centre O boys might put up a fight. But not a gun was drawn.

Perhaps the cowboys employed by the Molick outfit were disgusted with the
tactics of their employer, when they heard the story of the thirst-dying
cattle. No true cowboy would countenance that sort of thing. So they
looked on idly while the Bar U men tore away the dam.

A little trickle of water came through, flowing down the course from which
it had been diverted. Gradually it grew in volume until a gushing stream
filled the muddy bed of the stream.

"That's what was needed," murmured Dave. "That will save our cattle."

"Stop it! Let that dam alone!" yelled Len, over and over again. But no one
paid any attention to him--not even the cowboys of the Centre O. They only
smiled and rolled cigarettes. Perhaps they were glad to see Len beaten.

But the bully and Whitey Wasson were whispering together, and soon they
rode off at a gallop.

"They've gone to get the Old Man," said one of the Bar U cowboys.

"We don't care," Dave said. "Enough water has gone down now to save our
cattle, and it will be some time before they can build up that dam again."

"That's right," agreed Mr. Bellmore. "You needn't try to save any of the
boards," he added significantly to the cowboys who were destroying the
obstruction.

And so he work went on, and when it had been accomplished the Bar U boys
rode away to their usual tasks. For much remained to be done.

"We've got to get the cattle off that range," said Mr. Carson. "Molick
will have that dam in place again as soon as he can, and it will be the
same story over again."

"That's what he will," assented the engineer. "And though I think you
could stop him by legal action, it would take so long that your cattle
would die of thirst. The best way is to remove them, and fight him
afterward."

The pent-up waters were now rushing down their accustomed channel, and
when the cattle range was reached the steers were drinking their fill.
Most of them had been saved, only a few died, but some choice ones were
included in this number.

"And now for the big round-up!" exclaimed Mr. Carson, when the cattle,
their thirst slaked, were willing to be driven on. "I'll move all my stock
to some place where Molick can't kill them off. Then I'll fight him to the
last ditch!"

"Hurrah!" cried Dave.

"Hurrah for the round-up!" yelled the cowboys. It meant hard work, but it
meant excitement, too, and that was a large part of their lives.

CHAPTER XVIII

A MIDNIGHT BLAZE

Once the thirsty cattle had satisfied their longing for water, it was a
comparatively easy matter to drive them from the temporary range where
they had been sent to fatten. The river was running at its usual rate, but
of course it could not be said how long this would continue.

"Len and his father will get busy and build that dam again," remarked
Dave, as he and Mr. Bellmore, with Pocus Pete and the cowboys, herded the
cattle together to drive them away.

"Yes, I suppose so, until we can take legal action against him," assented
the water agent, who was rapidly learning the rudiments of cow-punching.

"And legal action is going to take a long time," said Mr. Carson. "I
haven't done any more of it than I've had to in my life, but it is mighty
slow action."

"But it is sure in the end," said Mr. Bellmore. "And I am positive that
right is on your side."

"Well, we won't take any more chances with the cattle getting water
here--at least for a while," said the ranch owner. "We'll make the main
round-up while we're at it, and then we'll see what we can do. I'll sell
off a big supply of steers, and that will mean less water will be
required. Then I'll be in a better position to make a fight against
Molick and his crowd."

"That's a good idea--reducing your cattle until the water matter is
settled," the Chicago man said.

Talking and laughing among themselves, at the manner in which they had
destroyed the dam, and let in the water to its former course, the cowboys
rode along, driving the cattle. Not all who had been summoned for this
work were needed to drive the steers, since they went willingly enough.

"So some of you had better ride on ahead to the ranch house, and get ready
for the round-up tomorrow," said Mr. Carson. "There'll be busy times,
then. And, too," he added in a low voice, "I rather want them around the
place just at present."

"Why?" asked Dave.

"Oh, you never can tell what Molick will do," was the answer.

"You mean he might try to be revenged on you for opening the dam?" asked
Mr. Bellmore.

"Something like that--yes. It wouldn't be the first time if a barn or bunk
house or a pile of fodder should go up in smoke. Such things have occurred
here."

"And was it never found out who did it?"

"Well, we had our suspicions. Almost always the one who suffered was on
the outs with the Molick crowd."

"I think I'll ride back myself," Dave said. "I've got a few possessions I
wouldn't like to have damaged."

"I'll go with you," offered Mr. Bellmore. "There are some valuable papers
on this irrigation scheme that I wouldn't like to lose, or see fall into
the hands of strangers."

"Oh, I don't really believe there is any danger," went on Mr. Carson. "I
was just taking the utmost precaution. But ride on if you want to, Dave.
We can handle the cattle all right now, and I want to talk to Pocus Pete
about the round-up."

So Dave and his friend rode on ahead, following some of the cowboys who
had been summoned to tear away the dam. Now that the excitement was over
Dave felt a little reaction, which generally follows high tension. As Dave
looked at the young man riding beside him he could not help contrasting
their two positions.

"I guess he knows all right who he is," mused Dave. "No worrying about his
father and mother or about his future. As for me, I don't know whether I'm
a rag-picker's son, or whether I came from a millionaire's family."

Yet, as he thought it over more soberly, Dave could not help thinking that
he must have had as parents persons in that broad, and altogether
desirable, middle class.

"If they were millionaires they would hardly have been living in a small
Missouri town," reasoned the young cowboy, "and if I came from rag-picker
ancestors I'd have had on such ragged clothes that Mr. Carson would have
noticed that and spoken of it. And that reminds me. I must ask him about
the clothing I wore, and about how old I was. Maybe he kept the garments,
and they might form a clew. Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll ask Mr. Carson
about it."

To himself Dave always thought of the ranchman as "Mr. Carson," though
when he spoke he called him "Dad," for he did not want strangers to
surmise concerning the secret, nor did he wish to hurt the man who had
been a father to him.

"Anything wrong?" Inquired Mr. Bellmore, as they cantered along.

"Wrong? No. Why?" asked Dave, looking up suddenly.

"Why you're as glum as an owl, and as silent as one of these prairie
dogs," went on the engineer. "You haven't said a word for over a mile. Is
something troubling you?"

"Yes--that is, no!" exclaimed Dave. "I was--just thinking."

"Oh, I could see that," returned the other with a laugh. "Well, if it's
anything about this water business, don't worry. Molick and his crowd may
bother your father for a time, but Bar U ranch will win out--I'm sure of
it!"

"I hope so," murmured Dave. "They're a mean crowd, though," and he thought
of the cowardly taunt of Len Molick--the taunt which had first given him
the clew to his lack of identity.

"Well, I'll do all I can for you and your father," went on the engineer.
"I owe a great deal to you both. In fact I am convinced that I owe my life
to you."

"Oh, pshaw!" deprecated Dave.

"Yes, that's a fact," went on Mr. Bellmore. "I might have lain caught
there in that gully until I died, for it is a lonely place."

"Yes, that's true enough," agreed Dave.

"And so, in a small way, I'm going to do all I can to repay you," said the
Chicago man. "I know something about water rights, irrigation and title
deeds to streams, even if I'm not much on the cowpunching," he added with
a smile, "and such knowledge as I have is at your service."

"Well, I'm sure we'll appreciate it--dad and I," said Dave. "Now let's try
a little run. Crow is just spoiling for a good gallop, and the way from
here home is as fine a track as you'd want."

Calling to his horse, Dave set him at a gallop, being followed by Mr.
Bellmore on Kurd, and the two indulged in an impromptu race, reaching the
ranch house at the same time.

"Hi there, Hop Loy!" called Dave. "Grub ready?"

"Alle same leady velly soon," said the amiable Chinese, with a cheerful
grin, "How you like plan-cakes?"

"Plan-cakes strike me as about right; don't they you, Mr. Bellmore?"

"I should say they would be eminently fitting and proper," returned the
engineer with a laugh.

Presently there were busy scenes being enacted at Bar U ranch as the
cowboys came in from their various stations, including those men who were
with Mr. Carson, driving in the cattle that had been in such danger.

"Grub" in other words, supper, was served, a prodigious number of
"plan-cakes" being consumed. But far from being annoyed, Hop Loy was
pleased the more the boys ate. His shrill voice, singing a Chinese song,
rose higher and higher as he toiled in his kitchen, baking stack after
stack of the brown cakes.

"Velly much glood eat!" he exclaimed with a grin.

"Hop, you're all right!" cried Pocus Pete.

"Your pig-tail is safe with us!" declared Tubby Larkin, as he passed his
plate for more cakes.

Preparations for the round-up were made that night, and the real work
began next morning. A round-up on a cattle ranch, as I suppose you all
know, means just what the word implies. A rounding up, or bringing
together, of all the beasts, that a count may be made and some disposed
of.

When the cattle roamed freely about the plains there was an intermingling
of herds, and the only way one man could tell his "critters" from those of
his neighbor, was by the brand marks on their flanks, or cuts in the ears.
Of course in later years when there were more fences, the work became
easier.

In the round-up the calves born since the last accounting are branded, and
cattle matters generally are straightened out, and settled for the ensuing
year.

And this was the work that Dave and his cowboy friends did. The main
object of having it done now at the Bar U ranch was to provide for the
water contingency. Mr. Carson realized that Molick would probably soon
again shut off a portion of his supply.

"And if I can't get enough water for all my cattle I'll have to keep a
smaller number until the tangle is straightened out," said the ranchman,
"I'll sell off while I have the chance, and buy later in the fall."

These were busy times. From distant ranges the cattle were driven in.
Those needing branding were "cut out," or separated from the rest of the
herd. With skillful throws of their ropes Dave and the others would lasso
the creatures, throwing them and holding them to the ground, while another
cowpuncher, with an iron made hot in a hastily built fire, imprinted on
the flank of the unbranded cow or steer the device of a letter U with a
straight bar across it. This marked the animal as Mr. Carson's.

Riders dashed here and there, shouting, yelling, now and then laughing,
and occasionally firing off big revolvers to turn some refractory steer.

The dust-cloud was thick over everything. It coated the faces of the
cowboys until they appeared to be wearing masks. Now and then one of them
would have a fall, but seldom with any serious results.

It was work, toil, sweat, ride hard, gallop here and there, yell, shout,
leap, stumble, fall and get up again. And gradually something like order
came out of the chaos.

Over at the chuck wagon Hop Loy stood ready to serve a hasty lunch
whenever it was called for. Water, thickened with oatmeal, or made spicy
with vinegar and ginger, "switchel," as it is called, served to quench the
thirst.

"Well, I guess we have 'em pretty well where we want 'em," said Dave, at
the close of the day. "Pretty good round-up; eh, Dad?"

"Yes, but it isn't over yet," was the answer. Mr. Carson cast a look at
the sky. All his cattle were now gathered in one immense herd, branded,
and ready for division during the following few days. A large number would
be shipped away, and others would be scattered over the ranch on ranges
where the water supply could not be tampered with by Jason Molick.

"Thinking of a storm?" asked Mr. Bellmore, for a midnight storm will
sometimes stampede a bunch of cattle more quickly than anything else.

"Well, I don't like the look of the sky," the ranchman said. "But it may
blow over."

Night on the prairies. Night, with a great herd of cattle to be looked
after. The cowboys rode slowly around the immense herd, singing their own
peculiar songs. Some claimed that the cattle were quieter if they heard
singing.

"Though th' way some of those fellers howl is enough t' give any
self-respectin' cow critter th' nightmare," declared Pocus Pete.

"Go on! You're just jealous 'cause you can't warble!" said Skinny.

Gradually those who were not on night duty rolled themselves up in their
blankets and forgot the cares of the day in heavy slumber. Dave lay near
Mr. Carson and Mr. Bellmore. But for some reason or other the young cowboy
could not sleep. He stared up at the stars which had been dim, but were
now quite bright.

"I don't believe we're going to get a storm," mused Dave.

He arose to get a drink of water, thinking perhaps this change might bring
slumber. As he stood for a moment, after quenching his thirst, he gazed
over the great dark mass of slightly moving cattle. He heard the distant
songs of the cowboys. And then, suddenly, Dave saw something else. It was
a glow off to the west-a red, dull glow that nearly caused his heart to
stop beating.

"That's a fire!" he murmured. For a moment he thought of the ranch
buildings, but an instant later he knew it was in the opposite direction.

The glow increased. It lighted the sky. Dave sprang toward the place where
the ranchman slept.

"Fire! Fire!" he cried. "The prairie is on fire!"

CHAPTER XIX

FIGHTING FIRE

The cry of fire at any time, is a dreadful one to hear. Whether it be in
the crowded city, or in the lonely country; whether on board a ship on the
heaving ocean, or an alarm given where factory workers are assembled; it
is fearsome, always.

And though Dave and his friends were out on the great, open prairies,
where the fire might have full sweep without ever coming near them, yet
the cry of the young cowboy roused all instantly.

For fire on the prairies means more than would at first seem, and when a
herd of cattle is in its path it is a warning that must be heeded at once
if one would save the stock.

If there is not actual danger from the fire itself, there is the risk of
its stampeding the cattle causing them to make a mad rush in which many
will be killed.

"Fire! Fire!" yelled Dave, but his first cry was enough. All the sleepers
jumped to their feet, and an echoing cry came from the cowboys who, on the
far side of the herd of cattle were riding around them to keep them from
straying.

As yet the animals had not taken the alarm. They could not smell the fire,
for it was too far away, and the dull, distant glow in the west, as yet,
meant nothing to them.

Nor had Dave's cries, and the answers thereto, given them any alarm. They
were accustomed to the shouting and yelling of the cowboys day and night,
and a little more or less of this noise did not startle them.

"Fire did you say, Dave?" cried Mr. Carson, as he shook his blanket from
him.

"Yes, Dad. Over there!"

Dave pointed to the glow. It was brighter now.

"Yes, it's a fire sure enough," was the ranchman's remark. "And traveling
fast, too."

"Wind's blowing her this way," remarked Pocus Pete, who had joined the
two. "Got t' get busy, boys." That last to the cowboys who were now up,
ready for business.

"A prairie fire!" cried Mr. Bellmore. "How are you going to fight it?"

"There are only two ways," said Pocus Pete. "By plowing, or by firing a
strip so wide that the main fire can't cross. We won't have time to plow.
We've got to fight fire with fire. Come on, boys."

"Oh, if we only had water!" murmured the engineer.

"It wouldn't do us much good," said the ranchman. "When that fire gets
here it will be a mile or more wide, and no hose would reach that far."

"That's right," chimed in Dave. He had not seen many prairie fires, but he
knew something of their danger. "I guess we'll have to back fire. Though
we could send for some plows, Dad."

"Yes, and I think I'll do that," the ranchman said. "The wind may shift,
and I'd feel better if I had some plowed furrows between that blaze and my
cattle."

Plowing and burning a strip are the two principal methods used in fighting
prairie fires. The dry grass of the plains, when it starts to burn, goes
like tinder. If it can be done in time, it is often effective to light
another fire in front of the one that is rolling forward. This consumes
the grass on which the flames feed, and when they reach that spot there is
nothing for them to burn. And if one stands on the area burned he will be
comparatively safe. Of course care must be taken not to get singed in the
back-fire.

Another method is to plow the ground, turning the dried grass under, and
leaving only the bare earth exposed. If a strip can be plowed wide enough
the fire can not leap over it.

"Lively now, boys!" called Mr. Carson. "Dave, you go over and help keep
the cattle from stampeding. Keep 'em milling." This means keeping the
animals going around and around in concentric circles, like a mill wheel.
When they can be made to do this they seldom break and run wild.

"Oh, Dad! Let me go to fight the fire!" pleaded the youth.

"All right. Only take care of yourself," was the caution.

"I'll go and help the boys mill the cattle," offered the water engineer.
"I believe I can do that."

"I think so, though it isn't going to be an easy task," said the ranchman.

The glare of the distant fire was now brighter, and a dull roar could be
heard. The cattle seemed to be aware of the danger, and it required hard
work on the part of the punchers to keep them from breaking. With shouts
and yells, with lashings from their shortened lariats and with shots from
their heavy revolvers the punchers did manage, however, to keep the
creatures in a compact mass.

Some cowboys, leaping into the chuck wagon, had started to drive to the
ranch buildings to bring back plows and plow horses. They might, if they
were lucky, return in time to help in keeping back the flames.

But the main fighting force, which Dave joined, rode straight toward the
onrushing flames in the desperate endeavor to fight fire with fire. They
would need to reach a spot, though, where the wind was blowing away from
them and the cattle, and toward the main blaze. Such places can often be
found in the rolling prairie, with its many glades and swales. Then, too,
the heat of the big fire often creates a vacuum, or back draft, causing
air to rush in toward the leaping flames, and making a wind blow toward
them that will carry with it the fire started to offset the menacing one.

"Here's a good spot!" exclaimed Pocus Pete at length. "Scatter along here,
boys, and set the grass ablaze."

Leaping from the backs of their ponies, the cowboys gave the reins into
the hands of one of their number to hold, for the horses could not be
trusted to stand alone with the fire coming ever nearer them. And without
their mounts the cowboys would be lost.

The spot where the party now found itself was down in a little depression,
or swale, and the wind was blowing away from them and toward the main
conflagration.

"Light, boys!" cried the foreman, as he struck a match and applied it to a
bunch of dried grass that made a rude torch. The others, including Dave,
did the same. Soon little spurts of flame in the grass showed where the
contending fire was started.

"Watch it now, boys!" Pocus Pete warned them. "If you see it starting to
creep back on you swat it out. Take your blankets, and see if you can't
find a water hole. Sozzle your blankets in that and swat the blaze if she
starts to run back on you."

A spring, or, rather a mud-hole that passed for one, was found, and in
this the blankets were wet. Then, as the contending fire burned onward,
some little tongues of flame crept back toward the spot where the cattle
had been left. These were "swatted" with the wet blankets as fast as seen.

"Well, she's going!" cried Dave, as he saw the fire they had set to fight
the other leaping onward as though to meet the blazing enemy. "That ought
to burn a safety strip."

"If th' wind doesn't turn," murmured Pocus Pete. "If th' wind doesn't
turn."

Anxiously now they waited, looking the while to see that no stray sparks
set a fire behind them. Dirty, dusty, choking and smoke-begrimed, the
cowboys fought the oncoming fire. Back of them their comrades worked hard
to hold in check the frightened cattle, while others were racing back with
the plowing outfit.

And off to the west glowed, roared and crackled the menacing prairie fire.

CHAPTER XX

THE CHASE

"Lively boys! Swat it out! Farther off to the left there, Skinny!"

"All right, Pete! I get you!"

"Dave, there's a flicker behind you. Swat it out!"

"Out she goes!" answered the young cowboy.

"Tubby, step along with a little more life!" the foreman cried. "Th'
fire'll git yo' if yo' don't watch out!"

"I'm goin' along as fast as I can, Pete."

"Well, move faster. We've got to beat this fire!"

Thus with friendly gibes and taunts Pete kept his men at work. The fire
was coming nearer, but the burned strip was widening too, and soon would
be too broad for the flames to leap over.

They would separate, of course, and travel down on either side of the
charred section, but the cattle might be saved.

Up and down the length of the line of fire they had started to offset the
other, keeping well back of it, and watching that no stray sparks or wisps
of burning grass got behind them, Dave and his comrades worked hard. The
immediate danger seemed to have passed, but a shift in the wind might come
at any time, and render their task futile.

"A little more, boys, and we'll call it done!" exclaimed the foreman,
wiping his grimy, sweaty face on his sleeve. It did not greatly improve
his countenance, however.

Dave and the others lengthened the line of back-fire, and then, seeing
that they had burned a strip sufficiently wide to make it comparatively
certain that the oncoming fire would not leap over it, they turned back to
help plow the furrows, or to keep the cattle in order and from stampeding.

Leaping on their snorting ponies the cowboys rode back, leaving behind
them two fires where before there had been but one. But soon the two would
merge into one, leaving a broad, blackened barren strip, that contained no
fuel for the flames.

"It's lucky we struck that swale where the wind blew in the other
direction," Dave remarked.

"Mighty lucky," assented Pocus Pete.

Of course where a strong wind is blowing a prairie fire toward one,
another method of escape can be taken. If there is time a fire can be
started where one is standing. The wind will carry it in the same
direction as that in which the main blaze is advancing, but ahead of it.
Then, as the grass is burned off, and the ground cools, one can follow the
second fire, getting far enough in toward the center of the area one has
burned to be safe. But this method can not be used where the second fire
would consume buildings or cattle, as would have been the case here.

"How'd you make out?" demanded Mr. Carson, as Dave and the others,
smoke-begrimed and weary, rode up.

"All right. There's a big burned patch between us and the fire now," said
Pocus Pete. "Have the plows come?"

"Not yet."

"Hark!" exclaimed Dave. "What's that?"

A thunder of hoofs could be heard, thudding on the ground.

"The cattle--a stampede!" gasped Tubby Larkin.

"No, it's the boys coming back with the plow outfit," said Dave. "I can
hear the rattle of the wheels on the chuck wagon."

And his guess proved correct. A little later the wagon rumbled up. Led
along behind it were a number of horses kept for use on the farm that was
attached to the ranch. The animals were quickly hitched to the
plows--several of them--and then began the turning over of a number of
damp furrows of earth, which would offer no food for the flames.

The fire was increasing, for it found much dry material on the sun-baked
prairie. It had not yet reached the strip that had been burned to stop it.
Would it pause there, and divide? Or would it still come on toward the
cattle?

Those were questions each one was asking.

The cattle were becoming more and more excited as the sky was lighted more
brilliantly by the bright glare. The smell of fire and smoke was in the
air, and the crackle and roar of the flames sounded louder. The cattle
heard and were afraid.

"Come, Dave!" called Pocus Pete. "Guess we'll find our work cut out for us
over there now. They won't need us to help with the plowing."

Indeed the cowboys in charge of the cattle had their hands full. Every now
and then some steer would make a break, and if he were not quickly turned
and driven back it meant that others would follow. Quick action was
required.

And while the men selected for that work attended to the turning over of
the brown earth, Dave and the others, under the direction of Pocus Pete
kept the cattle from stampeding.

The prairies were now as well lighted as at early dawn. In fact with that
dull, red glare over everything, it was not unlike a dawn--the dawn that
brings a storm in its wake.

The roar of the fire sounded like distant thunder, and there was a smoky
taste to the air, which was hot and stifling.

"Look out for that fellow, Dave!" called the foreman, as a big steer made
a break for liberty.

"I'll get him!" shouted the young cowboy, as, whirling his lasso in
readiness he spurred after the animal.

As Dave rode on, another steer, thinking perhaps to take advantage of the
distraction, started out after the first one, and directly behind Dave.
With lowered head the animal took after the horse and rider, seemingly
with the intention of trying to overthrow them.

"Look out, Dave!" yelled Mr. Bellmore. "He'll toss you!"

The engineer sent his horse on the run toward Dave, but it is doubtful if
the Chicago man could have done anything, not being an expert in handling
the rope.

But Skinny had seen Dave's danger, and with a yell he took after the
second steer. An instant later his lasso had settled over the animal's
head, and as the pony stopped short, and braced back, the steer fell, his
feet kicking in the air.

Dave himself was not aware of what had happened, so intent was he on
driving back the brute he was after. And it was not until he had done
this, and looked back, seeing the prostrate creature, that our hero was
aware of what had happened. Then he understood at once.

"Thanks, Skinny," he said, pantingly.

"Don't mention it," replied the other. He shook free his rope, and the
steer, now subdued, and tractable, rose to his feet and went back to the
herd.

It needed every effort and attention on the part of the cowboys to keep
the cattle from stampeding, but they managed to do it. The fire came on,
halted at the burned strip, hesitated as if considering a leap across, and
then divided, rolling down either side of the bare strip.

"That does the trick," said Mr. Carson. "I guess we've saved our stock."

"And we didn't need the plowed strip after all," Dave said, for, so far,
the blaze had not approached within danger-distance of the herd.

"Well, it isn't over yet," said the ranch owner. "That fire still has
plenty of ginger in it, and the wind may shift any minute. Dave, you
worked well!"

"Oh, no better than any of the others."

"Yes you did! You worked well, and I shan't forget it But I'd like to know
how this fire started. No cowman would be so careless with matches when he
knows how dry it's been. And I don't believe lightning set it. I'd like to
know how it started."

"So would I," said Dave, "and I think I'll investigate."

"How? Where?" asked the cattleman.

"Why, I'll go over there where the fire started. I may be able to learn
something."

"Better take one of the boys with you," Mr. Carson cautioned him. "That's
in the direction of Molick's ranch, and they may be in a bad humor. Take
some one with you."

When Dave's intention was made known Pocus Pete and Mr. Bellmore offered
to accompany him. Dave was glad to have them.

They rode over the blackened, scarcely-cooled area, there being light
enough from the distant flames to enable them to see well. But there was
nothing to observe--that is at first.

Finally, however, as they went on, Dave gave a sudden exclamation.

"What is it?" asked the engineer.

"Hush! Not so loud!" was Dave's caution. "Don't you see some one crouched
down in the grass there, lighting matches?"

The other two looked to where he pointed. They did indeed see a dark
figure. Suddenly it became plain, and the three saw some one stooping over
in the dry grass, setting fire to it with matches.

"The scoundrel!" cried Mr. Bellmore. "Who is he?"

"I don't know, but we'll soon find out," said Pocus Pete, grimly. "Come
on, boys!"

He spurred forward, followed by Dave and Mr. Bellmore. The person in the
grass heard them, and, leaping to his saddle, leaving the little blaze to
grow, he was off at a gallop. But Dave and his two friends chased on after
him.

"Looks like he was the very man we want," murmured Pocus Pete.

CHAPTER XXI

THE ESCAPE

"What about that fire?" asked Mr. Bellmore, as he galloped on beside Dave.

"I don't know," was the doubtful answer. "What do you say, Pete?"

"What's that?" called back the foreman, his eyes never leaving the dim
figure that was racing on ahead.

"The fire he started," replied Dave. "Won't it eat back to the cattle?"

"It may. But they've got enough men to fight it now, and the plowed strip
will stop almost any blaze. Come on, we want to get that skunk!"

"Do you think he set the big fire, Pete?"

"I don't know what to think, I'm goin' to catch him first!" was the grim
reply. "I'll do my thinkin' afterward."

The glow of the big fire was dying away now. One reason for this was that
the blaze was working its way behind a range of hills. Another was found
in the coming of the dawn, the fire paling before the glow of the rising
sun.

Dave gave a look back at the blaze in the grass he had seen started by the
crouching figure. The flames were spreading in the dry, tinder-like grass,
and for a moment Dave was worried. Then he reflected that the cowboys who
were with the herd ought to be able to handle it, and, as Pete had said,
the plowed strip would act in the same manner as had the burned area.

"We've got to take a chance," murmured Dave, "and it can't be a much worse
chance than the one we took earlier in the night. And we must get that
fellow!"

It would be the worst possible procedure to leave loose in the country so
desperate a character as one who would deliberately start a prairie fire.
He could do untold damage.

"I wonder who he is?" mused Dave. Yet in his heart he had an answer ready.
"Some of the Molick crowd," he whispered. "Their ranch would be safe with
the wind blowing the way it does now, and they must know it would send the
fire right down on us. It was the Molick crowd, I'll wager a hat!"

He hurried on with the others. Dawn was breaking rapidly now. It seemed
scarcely more than a few minutes since Dave saw that glow in the midnight
sky, yet it was several hours. But so crowded had they been with work and
worry that it seemed hardly more than one--or, at most, a few minutes.

The figure ahead was riding desperately to escape.

"He's got a good horse critter," observed Pete, admiringly. He could
admire even an enemy's mount.

"Yes, but he can't keep up that speed," said Mr. Bellmore. "And our
animals are fresh."

This was true, as during the fire-fighting the ponies of the Bar U ranch
had been able to rest. Now they were fresh for the chase that was on. And
a fierce chase it was.

Setting a prairie fire, when the person who did it could not but know it
would eat its way toward a bunch of cattle, was a crime not far from horse
stealing, than which there is no blacker offense in the West, where a
man's life depends on his horse. And the person who was riding thus
desperately away must have known, or at least feared, that quick vengeance
would be dealt out to him.

"Th' skunk!" muttered Pete, as he and the others swept on. "Th' mean,
onery skunk!"

Up came the sun from below the horizon, shining red in the smoke-filled
air--red and dim, like some great balloon. The morning was hot with the
heat of the fire, and it would soon be warmer and more depressing from the
heat of the sun's rays.

"It's a good thing dad has his cattle where there's some water for them,"
said Dave.

"Yes," agreed Pete. "There isn't much, but it's better than being over at
the other place, where Molick and his crowd can cut us off altogether."

"If worst comes to worst, and he's built up that dam again," said the
engineer, "we'll go and tear it down once more."

"That's what we will," Pete said. "I'm not going to lose the cattle for
want of some water, when we saved 'em from the fire."

Dave was about to make a remark, when he gave a cry of surprise instead.

"What's up?" asked Pete.

"Look! If that isn't Len Molick I'll eat my rope!" cried the young
cowpuncher. "Len Molick started that fire!"

"It's him all right," agreed Pete, after an instant's glance.

The figure racing on ahead so desperately had turned for a moment in the
saddle, and this turning gave a view of his face. Dave had seen it was his
enemy--the enemy who had taunted him with his lack of knowledge concerning
his birth and parentage.

"And we've caught him with the goods," remarked Pete, indulging in the
slang which meant so much. "He'll go to jail for this."

"If we catch him," suggested Mr. Bellmore.

"Oh, we'll get him," declared Pete. "Come on here you cayuse you!" he
called merrily to his mount.

But alas for Pete's hopes. Whether the extra burst of speed was more than
his horse could respond to, or whether in the excess of his zeal Pete
forgot his usual caution probably would never be known.

But the fact of the matter was that his horse Stepped into the burrow of a
prairie dog, and, a moment later, the foreman went flying over the head of
his steed, landing on the soft grass some distance away.

Dave and Mr. Bellmore pulled up at once, but they had hardly done so
before Pete leaped to his feet.

"Ride on I Ride on!" he yelled. "Don't mind me. Get that skunk!"

"But you may be hurt!" Dave called.

"Hurt? No, not a bit! I'm all right!"

"What about the horse?" asked the engineer.

The animal had picked himself up, and walked with a limp toward his
master, for Pete had trained him well.

"Poor brute's got a twisted shoulder--I'll have to ride him slow after I
rub him down," Pete said, mournfully enough. "I can't make any kind of
speed on him. Ride on, you fellows! Don't let that skunk get away!"

It was the law and custom of the range. When a chase was on, if one failed
and fell behind, the other, or others, must keep going. It was a hard law,
but life on the range was not easy, nor was it one for children.

"All right!" called Dave, recognizing the necessity for prompt action.
"We'll get him!"

"And watch out for him," Pete warned them. "He'll be desperate if he finds
you're closing in on him."

"We'll watch out," said Mr. Bellmore.

Again he and Dave dashed on, leaving Pete to minister to his injured
horse. The foreman at once proceeded to rub vigorously the strained
shoulder with a bunch of grass. His steed winced it the pain, but seemed
to know it was for its own good.

"I'll have to go back," Pete said, mournfully. "But I hope they catch that
skunk!"

It was the meanest name he could think of to call Len Molick.

The chase was resumed. Pete's accident had cost Dave and his companion
some precious moments and they had lost distance. But they felt that,
eventually, they must win. For their horses were fresher than was the
mount of the youth who had set the fire, and already they had appreciably
lessened the distance between them.

Len's horse had shown a wonderful burst of speed at first, and he had
secured a quick start.

"But it won't do him any good," said Dave. "We'll have him ridden down in
ten minutes more."

"I hope so," murmured Mr. Bellmore, "Why. Can't Kurd stand it?"

"Oh, yes, but I'm afraid I can't. This is more riding than I've done since
I had my accident, and my ankle is paining me."

"Say, you drop out," Dave urged him. "I can manage Len all right."

"Indeed I'll not drop out! I'm going to stay in to the finish, but I'll be
glad when it comes. This Western life is, indeed, rough and ready, Dave."

"Then you're not a Westerner by birth?"

"No, I came from the East. I'll have to tell you my story some day. It's
rather a curious one."

Dave reflected that his own was, also, but he was not so sure he wanted to
tell it. Every day had increased his admiration for Mr. Bellmore, but
there are some facts that we keep even from our best friends.

They were on a downward <DW72> now, and the going was better. Slowly but
surely they were overtaking Len. Now and then he glanced back over his
shoulder, as if to measure the distance separating him from his pursuers.

"Do you think he'll shoot?" asked Mr. Bellmore.

"He may," said Dave, calmly. "He's a big enough bully to do so, but he's
the worst shot you ever heard of. I really believe he's afraid of a gun."

"Still, sometimes those chaps make a bull's-eye out of pure luck."

"We've got to take the chance," Dave said. "Keep well down on your horse's
neck."

But Len showed no intention of drawing a weapon. Probably it was all he
could do to manage his now fast-tiring steed.

Suddenly the stillness of the morning was broken by a prolonged shrill
screech.

"What's that?" cried Mr. Bellmore.

"Railroad train," said Dave. "The line passes just below us. You can see
the smoke of the train in a minute. There she is--a fast freight. Whistled
because they're going to stop for water I guess. Yes, there she goes up to
the tank."

Down below them they could see the crawling freight. As they watched they
saw it draw up to the tank and stop. Water poured into the tender of the
engine.

"Why, look at Len! He's riding straight for the freight!" cried Dave.

"That's what he is," echoed Mr. Bellmore. "Maybe he's going to take it!"

"If he does--" murmured Dave.

They spurred on, but were too far away. A moment later they saw Len leap
from his horse, abandon the creature, and jump on one of the freight cars.
The engine whistled, started off and rapidly gathered speed, taking Len
away from his pursuers.

"Well, if that isn't tough luck!" bitterly said Dave, as they pulled up.
Len had escaped. There was no use in chasing the fast freight.

CHAPTER XXII

TANGLES

Sitting astride his tired horse Dave looked lung and earnestly at the
fast-disappearing freight, as it went around a bend in the hills. He could
not see Len, but he knew the young bully was aboard.

"Well, you're gone now, but there'll come a time when you may want to come
back," mused Dave. "And when you do, I'll get you. I think you started the
big fire, but I'll give you a chance to prove you didn't."

He sat there musing for a while longer. The freight was out of sight now
but there came to his ears, faintly through the heavy morning air, the
sound of the distant puffing. And he could see the trail of smoke.

"Smoke! Ugh!" exclaimed Dave. "I've seen enough, and smelled enough, in
the last few hours to last me a year!"

His eyes smarted from the acrid fumes of the burning prairie grass, and
his mouth was parched.

"Guess you must want a drink too, Crow," said Dave aloud, and his horse
whinnied as though understanding. Dave saw Len's horse, which the young
rascal had abandoned, taking a long drink from a pool that had formed
under the railroad tank.

Dave's horse needed no urging toward the inviting water and soon both
master and beast were drinking deeply. Dave also plunged his head down in
a puddle and soused his arms and hands in it.

"There, I feel better," he said. "A heapsight better. And now what am I
going to do with you?" he asked as he saw Len's abandoned horse cropping
the grass near the tank. "I can't leave you here for rustlers to make off
with. You're too good an animal, if you do belong to a mean skunk. And yet
I don't feel like doing Len any favor. If I take you I may get into
trouble with Mr. Molick, too.

"Oh, I'll take a chance though. Can't see a horse suffer," Dave went on,
and when his own mount had sufficiently refreshed itself with water and
food, the young cowboy leaped to the saddle and rode up to Len's animal.

He had no difficulty in catching the pony, as it was quite exhausted from
the run. And thus leading his prize, Dave started back. Mr. Bellmore, who
had done as Dave had, taken a long drink and a wash, was also much
refreshed.

"It surely was tough luck," remarked the engineer, "but it couldn't be
helped. We did our best!"

"I should say so!" exclaimed Dave. "I regard it as a pretty sure sign of
his guilt--that running away; don't you?"

"Well, most people would, I think," said the Chicago man slowly, "and yet,
from what you have told me, I guess Len would run from you anyhow,
wouldn't he, if he saw you take after him?"

"He might," admitted Dave, with a grin, as he thought of the encounter he
had had with the bully. "Yes, I guess he might. But we saw him start one
fire; didn't we?"

"Yes, but of course he could claim that he was starting a back-fire, just
as we did."

"Huh!" Dave mused. "I didn't think of that. But I'm sure Len did start the
big blaze, anyhow. He wanted to either stampede our cattle, or burn some
of them, and you can't make me think any differently."

"Oh, I'm not trying to," said Mr. Bellmore. "I'm only giving you an idea
of the view a judge and jury might take of it, if you had Len arrested."

 "I didn't think of that," Dave said. "I guess it won't come to an arrest,
as far as that is concerned. We Western folk generally administer the law
ourselves. If we waited for judges and juries we'd get left in a good many
cases. But I don't believe Len will come back, in a hurry."

"Perhaps not But what are you going to do with his horse?"

"I don't know. Take it back with us for the time being. It's a good animal
I might hold it as a sort of hostage until Len claims it. But I don't
believe he will. Whew! That was some chase!"

"It certainly was," agreed Mr. Bellmore.

They rode back slowly. The air was gradually clearing of the smoke from
the prairie fire, though far off it could be observed burning yet. But the
worst of it was over. Bar U ranch was no longer in danger.

"What's the next thing on the programme?" asked Mr. Bellmore.

"Finish the round-up, get rid of as many cattle as we can, provide for the
rest so they'll have plenty of water in the dry spell, and then fight the
Molick crowd," said Dave.

"Plenty of room for action there," commented the engineer with a smile.

"I guess so," assented Dave. "But we're depending on your help."

"And I'll give it to the best of my ability. I think it is wise to
undertake legal action as a starter to regaining control of your water
rights. If they don't help us---"

"Why, then we'll try some of our Western persuasive ways," finished Dave.
"I guess dad will be anxious to get busy right away. This fire shows how
desperate that other crowd is."

"Yes. And if the Molicks had a hand in starting it, which seems reasonable
to believe, they probably did it out of revenge for the breaking of the
dam. But we had a perfect moral, if not a legal, right to do that," the
Chicago man said.

They rode back slowly, and soon overtook Pocus Pete, who was ambling along
on his injured pony.

"How'd he get away?" asked Pete, as he saw Dave leading the riderless
horse. "Was there any shootin'?"

"No, nothing like that," Dave replied. "He jumped on the fast freight, and
left his animal behind."

"Huh! Well, maybe it's jest as well," the foreman said. "It's one skunk
less in a country that's got more than its share. That's a good horse," he
went on, sizing up Len's mount.

"Yes," said Dave. "You'd better take it for awhile, and give yours a
rest."

"I will,' said Pete, dismounting and leaping to the saddle of the other.
It was a great relief for his own mount, whose shoulder was badly
wrenched.

"This is forcin' th' enemy to give us aid an' comfort," commented Pocus
Pete, as he settled to the saddle, having put on his own in place of the
one Len used, which did not fit the foreman.

Back over the burned prairie they rode. It was hot with the heat of the
sun, which rose higher and higher in the sky, and the air, though it was
morning, still seemed to have in it some of the heat from the big fire.

Dave and his friends found Mr. Carson and the cowboys waiting anxiously
for them. The story of the chase and its failure was soon told.

"Well, you did your best, Dave, and I'm much obliged to you," said Mr.
Carson. "I agree with you that it looks as though the Molick crowd was
getting desperate, and trying to drive us out of the country either by a
stampede or by fire. If you hadn't discovered that blaze in time there's
no telling what might have happened. Now I've got to plan what to do."

"And let me help--Dad," said Dave in a low voice. "I want to do all I can
for you and the Bar U."

Mr. Carson did not reply at once, but he held out his hand and Dave
grasped it in a firm clasp. They understood one another.

A conference was held, and it was decided that the round-up should be
finished as soon as possible, and the cattle intended for shipment driven
to the nearest railroad point. The others would be scattered over the
different grazing ranges Mr. Carson owned.

"And then we'll take up this water fight," said Mr. Bellmore. "If I had my
papers here I could begin some preliminary work now."

"What you folks most need is a rest," said Mr. Carson. "You've been up the
best part of the night, fighting fire, and on this chase. Now get some
breakfast and stretch out in the shade of the chuck wagon. There's nothing
to be done right away. Hop Loy, get 'em something to eat!"

"Slure I glet bleckflast!" exclaimed the happy-faced Celestial. "Plenty
hungly Mlister Dave?" he asked cheerfully.

"Yes, plenty hungry," Dave assented.

While he, Pocus Pete and Mr. Bellmore rested after the meal Mr. Carson and
the others finished the round-up work, branding such cattle as had not
already felt the iron. Then the herds were separated, the ones for
shipment being cut out from the others.

The next few days were busy ones, the work going on from the first peep of
daylight until it was impossible to see. And in due time the shipment was
successfully made.

"Well, I can breathe more easily now," said Mr. Carson, when the train had
departed, some of his cowboys going with it to see that the cattle were
fed and watered on the trip. "No matter what Molick does now he can't ruin
me completely."

"That's so, and now we'll take up this water matter," said the engineer.
"I'm afraid it's going to prove a legal tangle, though."

And so it did. The chief fight was about the ownership of the water rights
at the point where Molick had built the dam that the Bar U boys had
destroyed.

It had at once been rebuilt, as was expected and all water was shut off
from Mr. Carson's land in that vicinity. But as he was not pasturing any
cattle there for the present, no damage resulted.

"But you have a right to that water, and I'm going to see that you get
your share of it," said Mr. Bellmore. "It was partly my fault that Molick
built that dam, for if I had not mentioned it to him he probably would
never have thought of it. So it's up to me to make this fight for you, and
I'm going to."

Nor was the fighting all on one side. Molick brought suit against Mr.
Carson for the destruction of the dam, but it would take some time to
settle this, since many questions were involved.

In turn Mr. Carson sued the owner of Centre O ranch for shutting off the
water supply. Mr. Carson, Dave and Mr. Bellmore also went before the Grand
Jury and gave information about having seen Len starting a prairie fire.
That body lost little time in returning an indictment against the missing
bully. But of course it was out of their power to go after him and bring
him back.

"But if he ever does come back I'll get him," the sheriff assured Dave.
"He daren't set foot in this county again. Of course I'm not saying he's
guilty, but I'll arrest him and he'll have to prove his innocence."

"That's all we want," said Dave.

Meanwhile the legal tangles increased. A number of suits were started on
both sides, and as a result there were several physical clashes between
the cowboys of the Bar U and the Centre O ranches.

The horse of Pocus Pete was more seriously hurt than he had at first
thought, and he had to give his mount a long rest.

"But I've got Len's critter!" Pete chuckled, "and I'm goin' to ride that."

This he did to his own great satisfaction. Several times when he and his
boys got into more than verbal arguments with the Centre O crowd Pete used
Len's horse.

"It's like gettin' th' enemy's ammunition an' firin' it at him," said Pete
with a laugh. "I guess they don't relish it none."

And Molick and his crowd did not. They did not make a claim for the horse,
however, since this would have involved admitting that Len rode it to
escape from the country, and they did not want to do this. So Pocus Pete
kept the contraband horse.

Work was easier on Bar U ranch after the big cattle shipment, but still
there was plenty to do. Mr. Bellmore was busy working up his water
irrigation project, in addition to helping Mr. Carson fight the Molick
crowd. After a number of suits had been started Molick brought an action
against the engineer for breach of contract.

"He claims I promised to go into the water matter with him, and then
backed out," said Mr. Bellmore. "Well, I did nothing of the sort. I might
have gone in with him, if you had not warned me, though Mr. Carson."

"Well, I'm glad I warned you, for he'd have you all tangled up if you had
gone in with him."

"I guess you're right. But well get straightened out after a bit, I
think."

The Molick outfit was the only one that fought the irrigation project. All
the other ranch owners in the vicinity recognizing the value of it to
their places, entered into it.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE CLEW

"Dave, are you fit for a little ride this morning?" asked Mr. Bellmore,
about two weeks after the prairie fire.

"Why, sure," was the answer. "What's on?"

"I want to go over to the stone valley, and make some calculations of the
flow of water there. It isn't much of a stream, to be sure, but if we're
going into this irrigation scheme, we can't neglect even a small flow of
water. We might want it in dry weather. I need some one to help me make
the measurements."

 "Why sure I'll go. Be with you in a little while. There's a little matter
I want to see dad about, and then I'll come."

Though Dave spoke thus lightly of a "little matter," it was one that meant
a great deal to him. For it was nothing less than an attempt he had made,
or, rather, started, to solve the mystery of his identity.

All along, ever since Dave had been told the truth of his rescue from the
Missouri flood, he had sought some means of finding out who he was. Mr.
Carson had said there was no means of knowing, since he had made inquiries
at the time in the vicinity of the flood, and no one had laid claim to the
then small baby.

"Which led me to believe, Dave," the ranchman said, "that your parents and
all your relations were drowned."

The young cowboy was silent after this, and a look of sadness came over
his face.

"But there is a bare chance that some--even distant relatives--might have
been saved," he said. "And on that supposition, if I had some little clew
on which to start it might put me on the right track.

"How was I dressed when you found me? Wasn't there any distinguishing
mark?"

"Huh! Well, now I come to think of it, perhaps there might have been," Mr.
Carson had said. This conversation had taken place some time previously.

"What was it?" asked Dave eagerly. "Was there a note pinned to my dress? I
suppose I must have worn dresses, if I was so little at the time?"

"Yes, you wore dresses," the ranchman said, with a far-off look in his
eyes. He was struggling to recall the dim and distant past. "Yes, you had
on a dress. I think it must have been white at the start, but the muddy
water had stained it a dark brown. But there was no note or anything like
that pinned to it. I looked for that. But you did have on something that
perhaps might prove a clew."

"What was it?" asked Dave eagerly.

"It was a sort of life-preserver," said the cattle man. "At least I took
it to be that.

"A life-preserver!" echoed Dave.

"Well, maybe I'm wrong about it, for I never had much to do with water or
the sea," admitted Mr. Carson. "But it was some sort of a cork jacket. It
was made from a lot of bottle corks, all strung together, and wound around
in a sort of belt."

"They don't make life-preservers that way," said Dave, who had been on a
trip East, and had seen the life-saving apparatus on a steamer. "A
life-preserver is made from broad sheets of cork, sometimes granulated, and
pressed together. I never heard of one being made of corks from bottles
strung together."

"Well, that's what you had on," said the ranchman. "Maybe it was a
home-made one. Come to think of it, that's probably what it was. I reckon
it saved your life, too, for though you were on a pretty big piece of
wreckage, you looked as though the waves had washed up over you a number
of times. Yes, that home-made cork life-preserver undoubtedly saved you."

"What became of it?" asked Dave. "I suppose you threw it away. You must
have had your hands full, looking after a small baby."

"Why, no, I didn't throw it away," said Mr. Carson slowly. "I sort of had
an idea it might prove a relic, so I kept it."

"Where is it now?" asked Dave, eagerly.

"Well, I didn't take it all over with me," went on the owner of the Bar U
ranch. "I left it in Denver with a lot of other things of mine. It's there
yet I reckon, in storage."

"Could you get it?" exclaimed the youth, his eyes shining with eagerness.

"Yes, I reckon so. But what good would it do, Dave?"

"It might--it might prove my identity."

Mr. Carson shook his head.

"I'm afraid not," he said. "There wasn't anything to it but a lot of corks
strung together. They were wound around you like a belt."

"But could you send for it? I should like to see it. And it might--it
might, after all, be a clew."

"Well, I'll get it, of course. I suppose you aren't satisfied to be just
what you are. You know I'll look after you all your life. You know that,
don't you, Dave?" asked the ranchman softly.

"Yes--Dad--I know that," and the youth's voice faltered. "But I want--I
just want to know who I am. I don't intend to leave you. I guess you know
that. I haven't any other place to go. But I would like to know who I am.
Maybe--maybe," and Dave's voice was husky, "I might have a--a sister
somewhere in this world. Oh, what I'd give if I had!" and unshed tears
shone in his eyes.

"Well, Dave, I never thought of it in just that way," said the ranchman.
"Yes, what you say may be true. I'll send for this life belt of bottle
corks, and let you look at it. Mind, I don't believe it will be of any use
as a clew, but I'll send for it."

And so the matter had ended for the time being. There had been so much to
do, what with the fire and the trouble over the water rights, that there
had been a delay in sending for the old relic of the flood.

But finally Mr. Carson had written for it, together with some of his other
goods in storage in Denver, and they had arrived that day. He had promised
Dave to unpack them, and show him the belt, and it was this matter that
the young cowboy wished to see about before going over to the stone valley
with Mr. Bellmore.

"Well, Dave, there it is," said Mr. Carson, as he opened a trunk, and took
out several articles. "Here's the little dress and the other things you
wore when I hauled you from the water."

He held up a white garment, clean, but yellow with age, and smelling
faintly of some perfume.

"It doesn't look as though it had been through a flood," said Dave.

"No, I had it washed and ironed, and then a lady I knew packed it away in
rose leaves for me. She said that's how she kept the baby clothes of her
own little ones. Those are the shoes you wore," the ranchman went on, as
something fell to the floor, when Dave unrolled the dress.

The shoes, too, had once been white, but were soiled now, not having
responded to the cleansing process as had the dress. They were stuffed out
with wads of paper.

"It would be some job to get in them now," Dave remarked with a smile as
he glanced down at his booted and spurred feet. "Some job!"

"Yes," assented Mr. Carson. "And here's your petticoat, Dave. I reckon
that's what you call it," and he held up some other garments. "I saved 'em
all," he said, "thinking they might be a clew, but they never turned out
so."

"But where is the cork belt?" Dave asked. He was impatient to see that. He
realized that baby dresses must be more or less alike, with seldom a
distinguishing mark. But the cork belt impressed him with the possibility
of being different.

"Here it is," said Mr. Carson.

From amid the contents of the trunk he pulled out a queer object

Dave held it up to get a better view of it. As Mr. Carson had said it was
a belt, composed of a number of corks strung together on a strong cord,
there being many rows of them, one above the other. The corks were of all
sizes, the cord passing through them on the short axis. There were two
holes for the arms, and a sort of tape by which the belt could be tied
around one.

It was small, clearly made for a child, though for a larger one than Dave
could have been at the time he was picked up in the flood.

"I must have rattled around in that?" he said, with a questioning look.

"Yes, it was lapped around you a couple of times," said the ranchman.
"But, just as I said, Dave, it isn't much of a clew. They are just common
corks."

This was so. There were no marks on the corks, as far as Dave could see,
by which any identification could be made. He looked closely at the odd
life-preserver.

"I say, Dave, are you coming?" called Mr. Bellmore from without.

"Right away," was the answer.

Dave sadly laid down the cork jacket and went out.

CHAPTER XXIV

BROTHERS

Profound indeed was the impression made on Dave by the sight of the
childish things in the trunk Mr. Carson had received from Denver. Sadness,
too, was mingled with his feelings. Somehow he felt as though the last
hope had gone from him, for he did not see how he could find any clew to
his identity in the corks, strung into such a queer jacket.

Dave tried to look cheerful as he came out to join Mr. Bellmore for the
ride across the prairies to the place where they were going to measure the
flow of water. He did not want his companion to suspect anything.

"Feel like taking it on the gallop?" asked the engineer.

"Yes, I guess Crow can stand it if your animal can," Dave said.

"Oh, I'll bank on Kurd!"

Together they were off at a fast pace that fairly ate up the distance, and
soon they were half-way to the place where a small stream had given Mr.
Bellmore hopes that he could add it to his water conservation scheme.

"I wonder how it would be to take a trip over to the Molick dam, and see
what they're doing?" suggested the water man. "It's just as well to keep
tab on those fellows."

"Go ahead, I'm with you," said Dave.

They changed their course slightly. The whole day, or, rather, the best
part of it was ahead of them, for they had made an early start. Dave had
not much to do at the ranch since the big cattle shipment, though Mr.
Carson was getting ready to increase his stock as soon as the question of
providing water for them was settled.

"Looks as if something was going on," commented Mr. Bellmore, as they
approached the place where the Molick dam had been rebuilt.

"Yes, there's a crowd there, anyhow," agreed Dave. "And some of them are
on our land, too!" he exclaimed, excitedly.

"Now take it easy," advised his friend. "This matter must take a legal
course, since we have started it that way. Keep cool."

"Oh, I will," the young cowboy promised, as he spurred on, followed by the
engineer.

They found Molick and several of his men making a sort of supplementary
dam, the water having backed up more than they had calculated on, so that
some of it was now flowing in the old bed of the stream over Mr. Carson's
property. It was to prevent this that another dam was being made.

"He wants to get every drop!" said Dave, bitterly.

"Yes," assented the engineer. "He isn't satisfied with a fair share."

Some of the workmen who knew Dave seemed a bit embarrassed as he caught
them on the Carson land, for it was necessary for them to go there to
complete the dam. The young cowboy, however, said nothing, preferring to
leave it to Mr. Bellmore. The latter looked significantly at Molick, and
remarked:

"Seems to me you're overstepping a bit; aren't you?"

"I don't know that I am," was the surly answer.

"Why, you're on Bar U land--or some of your men are."

"I know it."

"What gives you the right?"

"The law. It says I can go where I have to, to recover my property. I
guess that's right enough."

"Where is any of your property on Mr. Carson's land?"

Molick pointed to the trickling water.

"That's mine," he said. "It's escaping from my pond over the dam. I'm
making the dam bigger, and if I have to go on Bar U land to do it, to save
my property, the law gives me a right. I know what I'm talking about, for
I've looked it up."

As this was a point on which the engineer was not certain of the rights of
Mr. Carson, he thought it better to say nothing. He observed, however,
that there was more water than even he had calculated on, and that though
the dam were raised it would overflow again, thus necessitating further
trespassing on the Bar U property.

"And if the flow keeps on increasing," the engineer reasoned, "it will
give us a water supply in spite of all Molick can do. Guess I'll let
matters take their course for a while."

He said as much to Dave in a low voice, and the two rode away. They had
seen all they needed to.

"Dad can pasture here again soon," said the young cowboy.

"Yes," assented the engineer, "I guess we don't need to worry much.
There'll be more water than Molick can impound unless he raises a big
concrete dam, and before he can do that we'll have legally established our
own rights, I think."

They resumed their way to the valley to measure the water there, and for
some time were kept busy, Dave helping his friend make the calculations.

"Well, there isn't as much as I thought there'd be," was the comment of
the engineer, "but every little helps. We'll make a different section of
this a year from now. If it wasn't for Molick standing out against the
irrigation scheme we'd have the whole of Rolling River Valley in it."

"Is there any way of forcing him?" asked Dave.

"There may be, after he sees what he's missing."

Together they rode home in the early evening. Now that the work of the day
was over Dave's mind went back to the scene of the morning, when he had
handled his baby garments and the cork jacket. His manner must have been
strange and distracted, for Mr. Bellmore said:

"What's the matter, Dave? You act as though you had lost your last
friend."

"Well, I have, in a way," was the unexpected answer.

"You have! What do you mean? Seems to me, if I were you, with the kind of
a father you have, and a dandy ranch like this I'd be the happiest fellow
on--"

"I haven't any father!" burst out Dave. "And that's the trouble. Oh, it's
just as Len Molick said--I'm a nameless nobody!" and his voice choked and
broke.

Mr. Bellmore rode his horse over beside Crow. He put his arm around the
lad, who hung his head.

"Look here, old man!" said the engineer. "I don't want to intrude, but if
it will do you any good, tell me all about it!"

"I will!" exclaimed Dave, taking a sudden resolve. "I wasn't going to tell
you," he went on, after a pause, "for, though some of the fellows at the
ranch know it, and though some over at Centre O do, also, still I wasn't
going to tell you. I was so happy before I knew it."

Then, slowly, and haltingly, he told how Len Molick had fired the taunt at
him and how, upon making inquiries of Mr. Carson, the latter had confirmed
the rumor, saying that Dave was not his son, though he loved him as such.

"And where did you say he found you?" asked the engineer. There was a
curious light in his eyes, and an eager expectancy in his manner.

"It was during a flood somewhere in Missouri. I've forgotten the exact
name of the place. He can tell you. He picked me up on some wreckage, and
looked after me. That was a long while ago--or at least it seems so," Dave
remarked with a smile.

"It couldn't have been so very long ago. You're not more than twenty; are
you, Dave?"

"Nineteen, I think. Of course I don't know my exact age."

"No, I suppose not. Then I'm not so much older than you. I'm twenty-seven.
But yours is a strange story. Dave, we are brothers in misfortune."

"Brothers in misfortune! What do you mean?" cried the young cowboy.

"I mean, that I haven't any near relatives either. And while I do know who
I am, and who my parents were, still that isn't much satisfaction. I have
lost them."

"Lost them?" Dave echoed.

"Yes, and in a flood, such as nearly claimed your life. I must find out
just what town you came from. It may be that our folks lived in the same
place. It would be a strange coincidence, but it might be that it is so. I
lost all my folks, including a baby brother in a Western flood. I don't
know many of the particulars, for I was with relatives in Ohio at the
time, so I escaped.

"I am anxious to hear Mr. Carson's story. It interests me mightily. To
think that we have gone through much the same sort of suffering. But I
should have thought so small a baby as you must have been at the time
would have been drowned."

"I would have been if it hadn't been for one thing," returned our hero,
with an odd little smile.

"One thing? What was that?"

"I doubt if you can guess."

"Maybe you were bound fast to the wreckage, or it didn't float into deep
water."

"I don't know about being bound fast, but I do know the wreckage floated
around, or rather, down stream. But that wasn't what I referred to."

"What was it?"

"Can't you guess?"

"I don't think so."

"I had on a cork life-preserver," said Dave. "I was looking at it this
morning when you called to me."

"A cork life-preserver?" excitedly repeated Mr. Bellmore. "Was it--was it
any particular kind, Dave?"

"Why, yes, it was. But why do you look at me so strangely?"

"Never mind that now! Tell me about that life-preserver. How was it made?"

"From bottle corks strung together and made into a belt. I had it around
me when dad--I mean Mr. Carson--picked me up. I--I thought the preserver
might be a clew but it isn't, for--"

"A clew! Of course it is!" fairly shouted the engineer. "Hurrah, Dave it
_is_ a clew. Put her there, old man! Shake! I said a while ago that we
were brothers in misfortune! We're more than that.

"We're real brothers, Dave Carson--no, not Dave Carson any longer! Dave
Bellmore! We're brothers, I tell you! brothers!"

CHAPTER XXV

THE NEW RANCH

For a moment the two remained with clasped hands, looking deep into the
eyes one of the other. Then Dave, with a deep breath, murmured:

"Brothers! Is it possible?"

"Not only possible, but probable!" cried Mr. Bellmore. "We are brothers, I
tell you, Dave! Your mention of that cork life-preserver almost proves it
to me."

"Why so?"

"Because, before I went away to the East, to visit, I made one just like
that with which to learn to swim. I did learn, too, with it. Of course I'd
have to see this one to be dead sure, but it isn't likely that there would
be two cork life-preservers made in that way. I'm sure it was mine you had
on when you were rescued. Come on, we'll gallop to the ranch and find
out."

They set off at top speed, Dave's heart beating madly with hope.

"Oh, if it should prove true, after all!" he murmured over and over again.
"That I really have some folks at last!"

As they rode Mr. Bellmore briefly told how, as a boy of about ten, he
wanted to swim in the stream that ran near his home.

"This was in Missouri, too," he said, "so that adds to the assurance I
have that we are brothers, since it was in Missouri that you were found by
Mr. Carson. I made that life preserver out of a design from my own head. I
know I had to beg and borrow corks from all the neighbors before I had
enough. But with that on I simply could not sink, and so I learned to
swim.

"I wanted to take it East with me, but my folks persuaded me to leave it
at home. And poor mother or father must have fastened it on you when the
flood came. Oh, I'm sure it's the same one. We are brothers!"

Once more they clasped hands and looked into each other's eyes.

It was two excited individuals who burst into the ranch house of Bar U a
little later. Fairly leaping from their steeds Dave and Mr. Bellmore
sought Mr. Carson.

"Dad, where is that cork life-preserver?" asked the young cowboy. The use
of the word "Dad" seemed perfectly proper under the circumstances.

"The life-preserver?" repeated the ranchman, wonderingly.

"Yes, Mr. Bellmore--Benjamin," said Dave, using the name for the first
time, "Benjamin thinks it's one he made, and if it is I'm his brother!"

"His brother?" Mr. Carson looked from one to the other, as if doubting
whether he had heard aright.

Slowly the cattleman again produced the old relic. At the first sight of
it Mr. Bellmore exclaimed:

"Yes! That's it! I'd know it anywhere! Dave, there's no doubt but that you
are my brother! Shake!"

"But are you sure?" asked Mr. Carson.

"Positive!" exclaimed the young engineer. "See, I can point out a dozen
little points about this belt that makes me certain it is mine," and he
did. He even recalled where he got certain oddly-shaped corks from the
neighbors.

Then he related his story--how he had lived as a boy in the town where,
later, the flood came and swept away the Bellmore home, taking Dave with
it. The future engineer was away at the time of the disaster, and he knew
nothing of the particulars of the rush of the waters, save what relatives
told him afterward.

"But they said my whole family was drowned, including my little brother,"
he went on. "His name wasn't Dave, by the way, but Charles."

"I named him Dave," said Mr. Carson.

"And I'm going to keep it," Dave said.

"It's just as well," decided Mr. Bellmore. "But, as I said, all I know is
what I was told. I was only about ten years old at the time, and you must
have been about two, Dave. How it happened we can only guess, but mother
or father must have put my odd cork life-preserver on you when they saw
the waters rising, and it probably saved your life when the house was
carried away. What a strange coincidence!"

"Isn't it?" agreed Mr. Carson. He could add little to the story, for all
he knew was the finding of the baby. His inquiries had come to naught, so
it was assumed that all the rest of the Bellmore family had perished in
the high waters.

"And what did you do when you heard you had no folks left?" asked Dave of
his brother.

"Well, I was too young at the time to realize all that it meant. My
Eastern relatives came to Missouri with me in the hope of finding some of
our folks, but we never did. Then they took charge of me until I grew up,
and entered upon my profession.

"And all these years I've been thinking I had not a near living relative,
when, all the while I had a brother!" and he looked fondly at Dave.

"And to think I believed myself a nameless nobody!" Dave returned.

"Well, you're Dave Bellmore, from now on."

"Dave _Carson_ Bellmore," corrected the other softly.

"Oh, I see!" Mr. Bellmore exclaimed. "Of course."

And so it was arranged. The story created no end of wonder at Bar U ranch,
and Dave and his brother were congratulated on all sides. The Eastern
relatives were communicated with, and one sent a letter mentioning a
certain birthmark on Dave's arm, which would be there if he was really the
Bellmore baby. The mark was found, and thus the matter was fully proved.

"Well, now that you've found your brother, I suppose you'll shake Bar U
ranch--and me," said Mr. Carson some time later.

"Not much!" cried Dave with shining eyes, as his arm went around Benjamin.
"I'm a cattleman first, last and always. If you haven't any room for me
here I'll have to start out and work for some one else, I guess."

"Not while I've got a horse to ride," said the ranchman significantly.

A few days later the matter of trying the various lawsuits came up. It was
a tedious proceeding, with which I will not burden you, but to be brief I
will say that Mr. Carson won nearly everything.

It was settled beyond dispute that the Molick ranch had no right to build
the dam and shut off the water from the fine pasture. So that was saved to
Mr. Carson. And not only that, but certain other water rights that Mr.
Molick had claimed, were taken from him, and restored to Bar U.

"That means I can go into the cattle-raising business on a larger scale
than ever," declared the ranchman.

Mr. Molick was allowed to retain enough of the water for his own stock, so
that his ranch was as valuable as ever. He recognized when he was
defeated, and when the court business was over he approached Mr. Bellmore,
rather shamefacedly, it is true, and requested that he be allowed to come
into the general water and irrigation scheme.

"No, sir!" exclaimed the engineer. "You had your chance and would not take
it. It's too late now. All our plans are made and your ranch isn't
included."

"Then if you won't take me in I'll sue you and make you."

"Go ahead," was the cool response. "You had your chance and turned it
down. We aren't depriving you of any water. You'll have all you need, but
you won't have any over, as the rest of the ranchmen will. Go ahead and
sue."

Molick did, but he was defeated, and then, as his son Len dared not return
to the vicinity on account of the fire indictment, there came an
unexpected turn to affairs.

"I hear Molick wants to sell out," said Pocus Pete, coming to the Bar U
ranch house a few days after the defeat of the bully's father. "And he'll
sell out cheap, too."

"Will he?" asked Mr. Bellmore. "Then I know some one who will buy."

"Who?"

"I will! Dave, I've been thinking for a long time of going into the cattle
business. I think it will pay better than water engineering. I've been
hoping for a chance to get a good ranch, and now that Molick's is on the
market, I'm going to take it."

"Good!" cried Mr. Carson. "I'll have decent neighbors all around me then.
And if you want any money, Mr. Bellmore--you and Dave--"

"Thanks, but I'm pretty well off. I've saved a bit. I think I'll invest it
in Centre O, but I'm going to change the name, with your permission."

"What are you going to call it?" asked Dave. "Bar U-2. How does that
strike you?"

"Fine!" Dave exclaimed.

"Couldn't be better!" declared Mr. Carson. "We'll combine the two ranches
into a new one, and with the water supply we'll have there won't be a
place in this country that can hold a candle to us. Shake!"

"Do you really mean it?" cried our hero, his eyes shining with delight.

"Sure I mean it," answered the man who had been a father to him, with much
feeling.

"It's a fine thing to propose," put in our hero's newly-found brother. "A
fine thing indeed."

"I've got to do it--to keep Dave by me," answered Mr. Carson.

"I'll stay--don't worry," answered the boy, with a happy grin.

And so it was arranged. The Bellmore brothers, as they were now
called--Dave and Benjamin--purchased the Molick ranch and it was added to
the Carson holdings under a general partnership agreement. More cattle
were purchased, and to-day the Bar U-2 is one of the finest ranches in the
West. The water irrigation scheme, planned by Mr. Bellmore was a complete
success, though when he took up ranching with Dave, another irrigation
engineer succeeded to the managership. The Molicks--father and
son--disappeared, but most of the cowboys, with the exception of Whitey
Wasson, were hired by Dave and his brother.

"Though if it hadn't been for Len and Whitey I might never have found you,
Ben," said Dave, with shining eyes.

And that is the story of Cowboy Dave--a "nameless nobody" no longer--but
an honored and respected member of the community. And Mr. Carson, who had
no near kith or kin, has promised to make the Bellmore brothers his heirs.

THE END

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Cowboy Dave, by Frank V. Webster

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