see much
of anything. I've a good notion----"

He broke off his remarks to gaze intently ahead. There was a movement
in the gloom, and a figure walked away.

"Who's there?" asked Bud sharply, his hand slipping to his .45.

"It's me," came quickly, if not grammatically, from Pocut Pete, whose
voice the boys recognized. "I just moseyed up here t' see if she was
runnin'."

"Well, she isn't," spoke Bud, a bit shortly.

"So I see," came the drawling answer, and it was followed by a faint
tinkling of glass.

Bud started, and tried to pierce the night shadows. But all he saw was
the figure of the strange cowboy becoming more and more indistinct.
Bud was just going to say something when he was halted by the voice of
Nort.

"I have an idea!" exclaimed the eastern lad.

"What is it?" asked his brother. "Anything to do with this?" and he
waved toward the reservoir which was strangely still, now that the
water no longer bubbled into it from the pipe.

"Yes," went on Nort. "Why not investigate and see where the stoppage
is, Bud?"

"Investigate what?"

"The pipe line--the old underground water-course."

"You mean go through the tunnel?" Bud asked.

"Sure! Why not? You say it's big enough all the way through, and the
water itself doesn't occupy much of the bottom. We could walk it in a
day, easy!"

"Yes," agreed Bud, "it isn't more than five miles, though we'd have to
carry lanterns, and we might get lost in some side passage."

"That's just what I want to find out about!" cried Nort. "If there
_is_ a branch passage maybe that's where the water goes! Come on, Bud,
let's go through the tunnel!"

"I'm with you!" said Dick.

For a moment Bud hesitated and then, as he was about to reply, there
came the sudden sound of a shot, which shattered the night with a
sliver of flame, plainly visible to the boys.

Instantly a band of coyotes set up their weird howling, and the
startled steers lowed and bellowed as they rushed about.

CHAPTER X

INTO THE TUNNEL

"What's that?" cried Bud.

"Who's there?" demanded Nort.

The hand of Dick went toward the .45 he wore in a holster at his belt,
and, it might be added, the hands of the others did also.

"Keep your shirts on," came the somewhat drawling voice of Pocut Pete,
who, it seemed, had returned after shuffling off in the darkness. "I
just winged a coyote."

"Oh," murmured Bud. "You were shooting at them, were you?" he asked.

"Not exactly," ans