“Just what I will, Billie,” replied the other, grimly; “though it’s hard for me to even suspect my uncle of stealing. If you knew what a spirited little man he used to be, and what a high sense of honor he had, you’d understand that. But keep quiet about these things now, Billie, for here they come galloping up, waving their hats, and whooping like mad.”
The three cow-punchers quickly pulled in when apparently about to ride the others down, and hearty salutations followed on both sides.
They were just such rough riders as may be found scattered all over the country where cattle are raised for the market, requiring a host of dashing fellows to herd them, brand the mavericks and youngsters, and keep the drove from being stolen by rustlers or preyed upon by wild animals.
Just as they had planned to do, the three boys told that they were from a ranch away down in the Southwest, coming up in the Northern country just to look around, and see how things were done here. Adrian had quickly made sure that he did not know any one of the men, and this seemed to promise that they could not have the least suspicion regarding his own identity.
It was Donald who led the conversation to the
subject of the ranches within a radius of fifty miles; and when one of the others happened to mention the Bar-S among several, the Arizona boy remarked:
“Seems to me I’ve heard considerable about that same Bar-S Ranch. And whoever it was told me must have said it was a bang-up outfit, as smart as any in Wyoming. Let’s see, it’s owned by a man named Comstock, ain’t it, pards?”
He saw the three cowboys turn toward each other, and thought a flicker of a smile passed over their weather-beaten faces, while one winked his eye at the same time.
“Oh! Fred Comstock he’s on’y manager of that Bar-S Ranch,” replied one.
“He used to be,” chuckled a second, “and as husky a little manager as you’d be apt to run up against in a month out here.”