But, as yet, there were only straws, showing which way the evil wind was blowing. "Could it have been a chance shot?" asked Dick, raising himself a little to get a better look. "That bullet was aimed straight for the bottle, over our heads," declared Bud. "It was no chance shot." "One of ours couldn't have glanced, could it?" Dick wanted to know. "Surely not!" affirmed Bud. "Why, no one had shot for some time. I'd just put the new bottle on the stick for you." "Yes, and I was just going to shoot, when somebody took the bullet out of my gun, so to speak," went on Dick, grimly jesting. "Do you think they were shooting at--us?" asked Nort, hesitatingly. Bud did not answer for the moment, and when he did it was to say, as he suddenly arose: "If they did I'm going to give 'em another chance. And I'm going to do some shooting on my own account!" He had his gun in his hand, for he had so held it since he had shattered the first bottle, and now it was grasped in readiness for instant action. "We're with you!" cried Nort and Dick, as they emerged from their recumbent positions in the grass, and hastened to the side of their cousin. But though they looked across the valley, now half shrouded in gloom, and up and down, as far as they could see, no one was in sight. Here and there were small herds of their cattle. Back at the camp tents Buck Tooth was performing his evening duties, or "chores," as Bud called them. The Indian paid no attention to the shooting, for he knew the boys had gone to practice, and he could not be expected to realize that one of the shots was, possibly, a hostile one. I use the word "possibly" with reason, for, as yet, there was nothing to show that it was not either an accident, or had not been fired by some passing cowboy who, from a distance, seeing the bottle on a stick, could not resist a chance to "take a crack" at it. And yet this last theory would seem to be a poor one. For if the shot had been a joke the one who had fired it would, in all reason, it appeared, have shown himself soon after. "No one seems to show up," remarked Nort at length, in a low voice. "Then we'd better look for 'em before it gets too dark," declared Bud. "Come on! Let's get our horses." "Isn't it taking a chance, riding out to look for some one who may have fired at us purposely?" asked Dick. "Yes," agreed Bud, after a moment's thought, "but life out west is all more or less of a chance and risk. You take a risk, every time you ride at more than a foot-pace, of your pony stepping into some prairie dog's hole and not only laming himself, but killing you. But you don't stop riding on that account." "No," agreed Nort. "And we take a chance every time we ride herd," went on Bud. "The steers may stampede, and before we can get 'em to milling, they may rush over us. But I notice neither of you ever back out of that job; do you?"