An air of activity was at once noticeable around headquarters.  The garden was ploughed and planting begun.  The fence was repaired around the corn-field, the beaver dams were strengthened, and sites for two other reservoirs were selected.  The flow of the creek was ample to fill large tanks, and if the water could be conserved for use during the dry summer months, the cattle-carrying capacity of the ranch could be greatly enlarged.  The old beaver dams around headquarters had withstood every drouth, owing to the shade of the willows overhead, the roots of which matted and held the banks intact.  Wagon loads of willow slips were accordingly cut for the new dams and the work begun in earnest.

“We’ll take the tent and camp at the lower site,” announced Joel.  “It would waste too much time to go and come.  When we build the upper one, we can work from home.”

The two tanks were finished within a month.  They were built several miles apart, where there was little or no fall in the creek, merely to hold still water in long, deep pools.  The willow cuttings were planted along the borders and around the dams, the ends of which were riprapped with stone, and a spillway cut to accommodate any overflow during freshets.

The dams were finished none too soon, as a dry spring followed, and the reservoirs had barely filled when the creek ceased flowing.  The unusual winter snowfall had left a season’s moisture in the ground, and the grass came in abundance, matting slope and valley, while the garden grew like a rank weed.  The corn crop of the year before had repaid well in forage, and was again planted.  In the face of another drouthy summer, the brothers sowed as if they fully expected to reap.  “Keep busy” was the slogan of the springtime.

The month of June arrived without a sign of life on the trail.  Nearly one hundred calves were born to the herd on the Beaver, the peltry had commanded the highest quotation, and Wells Brothers swaggered in their saddles.  But still the herds failed to come.

“Let’s put up the tent,” suggested Dell, “just as if we were expecting company.  Mr. Paul or Mr. Quince will surely ride in some of these evenings.  Either one will reach here a full day in the lead of his herd.  Let’s make out that we’re looking for them.”

Dell’s suggestion was acted on.  A week passed and not a trail man appeared.  “There’s something wrong,” said Joel, at the end of the second week.  “The Lovell herds go through, and there’s sixteen of them on the trail.”

“They’re water-bound,” said Dell, jumping at a conclusion.

“Waterbound, your foot!  The men and horses and cattle can all swim.  Don’t you remember Mr. Quince telling about rafting his wagon across swimming rivers?  Waterbound, your grandmother!  High water is nothing to those trail men.”

Dell was silenced.  The middle of June came and the herds had not appeared.  The brothers were beginning to get uneasy for fear of bad news, when near dark one evening a buckboard drove up.  Its rumbling approach hurried the boys outside the tent, when without a word of hail, Quince Forrest sprang from the vehicle, grasped Dell, and the two rolled over and over on the grass.