CHAPTER XVI

“Sure does,” Roy answered Mohammed Ali Ben Suliman’s question casually. He saw that Teddy was about to speak, and silenced him with a glance. Both boys urged their ponies forward until they were close to the man in the buckboard.

“Mind telling us your real name?” Roy asked pleasantly.

“Who, me? Not at all.” The man drew his fez from his head, reached into his robes, and filled and lit a pipe before answering. “I can’t take these robes off,” he apologized. “It’d scare the donkey if he turned around. My name is Benjamin Sullivan. I’m a professor of psychology in the university of Middleton. That, in case you don’t know it, which you don’t, is what is known as a jerk-water college.”

“A professor of psychology!” Teddy exclaimed. “Then you’re not—”

“Hardly,” and the professor grinned. “This is what I do every vacation. It—er—adds to my income—” he coughed—“and also to my knowledge. It’s wonderful practice for a psychologist. Say, would you mind telling me how you got on to me?” he asked Roy. “I knew you realized I wasn’t what I pretended to be when you were watching me at the table.”

“Well, there wasn’t any psychology about that,” Roy chuckled. “When you drew your robes back to get the flower pot I saw the pipe sticking out of your top pocket. Never heard of an East Indian yet who smoked a briar.”

“You saw that, did you? I’ll have to remember to put it in my trousers’ pocket after this. Get along there, Stamboul. Then you rode out with me just to let me know I hadn’t gotten away with anything?”

“Not altogether,” Roy answered seriously. “You mentioned something about our enemies. Was that a stab in the dark, or did you really know what you were talking about?”

Professor Sullivan puffed silently for a moment.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said finally. “Last night I was traveling through a small town about ten miles from here. Let’s see—Bed Rock, or something like that.”

“Red Rock!” Teddy exclaimed eagerly.

“Red Rock—that’s it. Just outside of the town I came upon a campfire. I was hungry, so I stopped. There were four men there. One was tall, and had a wart on his nose. Another was much shorter. The other two I didn’t get a very good look at. Well, I pretended not to understand much English, and offered to tell their fortunes for a meal. They accepted. I didn’t like the looks of any of them, and concluded that none of them made his living by hard work. So I took a chance, and told them that pretty soon they were going to receive some property or goods that they would get for nothing.”

“What did they say then?” Roy demanded.

“Nothing. But they looked enough. I followed this lead, and I could tell every time I hit it right by the way they acted. Then one of them whispered to another. They didn’t think I heard, but I did.”

“What was it they whispered?”

“It was this: ‘Sounds like he knows we got that Manley bunch sewed up cold.’”

Teddy whistled, long and low. Roy’s face was alight with interest.

“Anything else? Do you know who we are?”

“The last question first. Yes, I do. You told me. No, that’s all I heard.”

“It was plenty!” Teddy said grimly. “Golly, Professor, you sure had me fooled! They think they’ve got us sewed up, do they?” His mind, youthful, jumped from one topic to another.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. Sullivan, we’ll leave you here,” Roy said suddenly. “Thanks very much for your information. And—good luck.”

“Same to you,” Professor Sullivan returned graciously. “If I hear anything else I’ll try to let you know. I take it those men I met last night aren’t friends of yours?”

“Not so you could notice it,” Teddy replied. “The fact is, we think they’re rustlers.”

“Hum! I suspected as much. Well, it takes all sorts to make up a world, you know. Good-bye, boys. Giddap, Stamboul!”

“So long!”

Teddy and Roy turned, and started for the ranch. They got one last sight of the professor before he disappeared into a valley. He had replaced his fez, and the smoke from his pipe drifted about him like a mystic haze. The wagon creaked, bounced over a stone, and was out of sight.

“Professor of psychology!” Teddy said thoughtfully. “Can you beat that!”

“Funny cuss, isn’t he?” Roy remarked. “Clever as they come. Look how he spotted Gus. Say, I wonder who that fourth man at the Lefton camp was? I suppose you recognized his description of the Lefton boys?”

“Sure did. Reckon Mob Jamisson was there. As to the fourth—Peterson, do you think?”

“I was going to mention that. Doesn’t seem likely, though, after his warning us against rustlers. But you can’t always tell. Gee, I’ll be glad when round-up is over and we get the cattle safe in Red Rock.”

“Same here. Shall we tell the boys who Mohammed was?”

“No, let’s not. They got a lot of fun out of it, and why spoil it? Chances are they wouldn’t believe us, anyhow. He sure did look the part. Well, Teddy, my boy, in three days the real work starts. We’ll have to let our rodeo practice go for a while, I guess. Dad is going to need all our time for the round-up. Need everybody, if the Leftons start anything. Well, let ’em come. I’d like to see Mob Jamisson for a few minutes, myself.”

The three days that followed were busy ones. There was much outriding to be done, to insure the condition of the cattle and to make certain that none of them had been rustled. A close guard was kept, and the two boys had their share of this dreary work. All cattle that showed any signs of disease were thoroughly inspected and cut from the herd. There were many ponies to be shod, for when out on the round-up there was no time to stop and lead in a bronco that had cast a shoe and was splitting its hoof against the hard earth. Flash and Star stood quietly while this disturbing operation was accomplished, but some of the other ponies, notably Angelica, were not so well mannered.

In the hustle of preparation the Lefton brothers and Mob Jamisson were almost forgotten.

Almost, but not quite. Peterson visited the ranch on the evening before the round-up, and again remarked that he had heard of rustlers in the vicinity.

“Don’t forget that forfeit,” he added meaningly. “Going to be able to get the six hundred head to Red Rock on time?”

“Why not?” Mr. Manley countered. “If you and your playmates—”

He did not finish the sentence, not wishing to antagonize the man. But when Peterson left, Mr. Manley confessed to Roy that if his price had not been met so quickly he would have told Peterson the deal was off.

“Can’t quite afford to let this chance slip,” he said regretfully. “Even if, as you say, Peterson knows the Lefton boys an’ maybe is a rustler himself. I sure wish his boss would deal direct with me. Peterson showed me a letter from Chicago, with the name of a well-known firm on top, addressed to him, so I guess he’s reliable enough. But, somehow, I don’t take to him—always got an idea that he’s out to cheat us if he can. Suppose it’s only my imagination, though.”

As the ranch sought its rest that night, Mr. Manley declared that he was satisfied with the preparations. The morrow would see the start of the round-up, and the punchers went to their bunks early. A round-up, while savoring of the romance of the West, is actually just another bit of distasteful work heaped on the already overloaded shoulders of the poor cowboy—at least, according to him. But it is necessary, and the punchers know it.

The reason for a round-up is not, contrary to fiction, for the purpose of allowing the buckers an opportunity of showing off their riding ability and giving them a chance to shoot and yell. It is the only method there is to herd all the animals of a particular ranch to one spot, for the purpose of checking them, removing the cattle which do not belong where found to their proper ranges, and sorting out those to be sold.

It is tiresome work, replete with danger, and everyone is glad when it is over.

The corrals used by the X Bar X for the round-up were far distant from the ranch house. They had been repaired in anticipation of the huge herds of cattle they must soon accommodate, and at the first streak of dawn the chuck wagon under the guidance of Sing Lung, started its creaking journey toward the point of deployment. This wagon was a traveling kitchen, for during round-up time the boys ate and slept on the range.

The extra saddle ponies were driven out, in charge of Pop Burns and Gus. They were to be held in reserve until a puncher needed a fresh bronco, for the work was of such a laborious nature that frequent changes of mounts were necessary. Every horse, except the ones to be ridden by the punchers, was sent after the chuck wagon.

With the home corral empty, the ranch took on a deserted appearance. And at six o’clock Teddy, Roy, Mr. Manley and the punchers started for the range.

The round-up was under way.