"What does it mean?" asked Nort, as he looked down the slope from the reservoir to the group of tents that was to form the home of himself, his brother and cousin for several months, while they were in camp. "It means the water supply, on which I depended to raise these steers, has petered out," answered Bud, and there was a worried note in his voice. "You mean stopped for good?" asked Dick. "I hope not," went on Bud. "But from what you can see--no water coming through the pipe line that dad laid to the Pocut River--I should say there was a break in it somewhere, and it will have to be fixed right away--that is, if I'm to keep these cattle here," and he looked down the valley where the bunches of steers were ever on the move, seeking new places to feed, or coming to drink water from the supply flowing out of the reservoir. "We seem to have struck a job right off the bat!" remarked Dick, as he picked up a stone and tossed it into the reservoir. "Just as we did when we came west before, and had to jump out and help the queer professors," added Nort. "But we're ready to go to work, Bud. All you'll have to do is say the word and----" But Bud did not seem to be paying much attention to what his cousin was saying. Instead his gaze followed that of his Zuni Indian helper. Buck Tooth was looking off up the hill under which the big pipe ran to the distant Pocut River on the other side of the mountain. And as Bud and Buck Tooth looked, and as the gaze of Nort and Dick was bent in the same direction, they all beheld a figure on the back of a fast-moving pony, riding up the trail that led over Snake Mountain. "Who's that, Buck? See him!" yelled Bud. "No can tell. Old Billee, mebby!" grunted the Indian. "No! Old Billee just left me! He's back at the ranch house. But that's a stranger, and I don't like strangers sneaking around my ranch--especially when there's a break just happened to my pipe line!" exclaimed Bud. "I'm going to look into this!"' "Hi there! Hold on a minute! I want to talk to you!" he yelled, making a megaphone of his hands and directing it at the figure on the back of the sturdy pony that was scrambling up the mountain trail. "Wait a minute!" But this the stranger seemed unwilling to do. The watching group near the reservoir saw him raise his quirt, or short whip, and bring it down savagely on the back of the pony, which, already, was doing its best to carry its master out of distance. Then, with a quick motion, Bud drew his .45, and though both Nort and Dick saw him aim it high above the man's head, in order to shoot over him, horse and rider went down in a tumbled heap at the sound of the report, which followed as Bud pulled the trigger. "You've winged him!" cried Dick.