“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.