"No," Nort admitted. "But Old Billee and Snake said they were going to ride over to Double Z to-day, to sort of size up the situation. So what's to prevent 'em taking this branding iron along and asking, casual like, if they don't want it back?" "Nothing to stop that," said Bud with a grin. "In fact that's just what we'll do. Come on, we'll hit the trail for the camp and make a sort of raid on Double Z--only we'll make it to-morrow instead of to-day, as it's too late for a long ride." There were murmurs of surprise and excitement at the camp, when the boys rode in with the Double Z branding iron that Nort had picked up at the scene of the raid. "They dropped that last night, sure as horned toads!" cried Snake Purdee, whose wound was excuse enough for not being out on duty. "I reckon," agreed Pocut Pete, who likewise was off duty. "Let's see that," and he reached for the iron which had a wooden handle to enable a cowboy to manipulate the marker when the branding end was hot. Bud, so Nort and Dick thought, looked rather curiously at Pocut Pete while the latter was examining the iron. And when the strange cowboy--strange in the sense that he had not been long in Mr. Merkel's service--took out his knife and began whittling away at the wooden handle, Bud uttered a sharp cry of: "Stop!" "What's the matter?" asked Pocut Pete, with an assumption of innocence, which was so plainly an assumption that Nort and Dick exchanged rapid glances. "Don't cut off those initials!" went on Bud. "Maybe by them we can tell who owns the iron." "Initials!" exclaimed Pocut Pete. "I don't see any initials!" "There they are," and Bud pointed to some, rather faintly cut, on a flat place in the handle. "E. C. are the letters, though I don't know anybody with them at Double Z." "I don't, either," said Pocut Pete. "In fact, I didn't see them letters, Bud. I was just whittling the handle to see what kind of wood it was. Thought maybe I could tell by that." "All right," spoke Bud, as he again assumed charge of the branding iron. And Pocut Pete, with a sharp look at the young rancher, went out to the corral where the spare ponies were kept. "Was he really trying to cut out those initials?" asked Nort, as the three boy ranchers passed on to the grub tent, for it was the joyful time to eat--one of the three joyful times that came each day. "I wouldn't say he was doing it _deliberately_," spoke Bud, "but he certainly _was_ whittling near those letters. And if he had cut them off the owner of the branding iron could easily claim it wasn't his." "That was queer," declared Dick. "Very," assented Bud. "In fact Pocut Pete has acted queer ever since he's been here. I don't like him, and as soon as dad has another puncher to spare I'm going to ask for a change."