"But all the water on the north slope belongs to us," Harry remarked, trying to control her indignation. "There isn't a spring outside, except where the stream runs beyond our fence, until you get to Robinson's. And before I'll let Ludlum water on my land, or on my brother's, I'll shoot every one of his miserable scrubs. You can tell him so, if you like; tell him I intend to keep right on dogging them off, too. Please repeat every word of this to him. Thank you. Good morning." With a jab of the spur into Hike's side she was off. "Of all the hateful, mean, dishonorable creatures!" she whispered to herself. Her eyes were hot with tears; she felt tricked, cheated, helpless. For the moment she did not realize that the "cow-puncher" had perhaps not meant all he said, had merely tried to frighten her. She raced along, not noticing where she was going, and only came to herself when the pony, which had naturally turned toward home, slackened his gallop at the head of the draw. It was then about eight o'clock by the sun, still and hot, and the cattle flies were intolerable. The vision of the cold, deep spring under the wall of rock brought sudden relief to her vexed heart. Sliding out of the saddle, she took the bridle over her arm and walked across the mountain grass toward the spring. Suddenly she came upon a grouse hen that had been wounded and had escaped to die, and she realized that the hunters were abroad once more. She kept looking to and fro on either side as she walked, and suddenly a strange sound, almost under her feet, made her jump. "Well, of all things!" she said slowly. There lay a month-old heifer calf bleeding from a wound in its leg. The creature made no effort to escape as Harry examined it; only gave a mournful _moo!_ and rolled its eyes. "You're not one of my calves," she said presently; "at least I think mine are all in the corral. You must be one of Ludlum's; but you can't lie here and die, even if you are his. I'll get you down to the house somehow, and maybe when the cows come in your mother will come with them." But no strange cow turned up lowing for a lost calf, and when Rob returned he said that the only thing to do was to keep it until some range rider came looking for strays. They cleaned out the wound, which had been made by a shotgun, fed the calf on skimmed milk, and kept it in a dark corner of the barn where the flies would not torment it. "That's Joe Biane's work," Harry said emphatically. "It shows what may happen to our own calves at any time. He doesn't care what he hits when he's after birds. I think we should speak to the game warden about him."