"It would take them a month or more to float the sheep over, one at a time, on a bunch of poles," objected Bud.
"That isn't what they're going to do," declared Dick, after closely watching the actions of the Mexicans. "They're going to leave, that's what they're planning."
"Leave? What do you mean; go away?" asked his brother.
"That's it—yes. They're going to make those dinguses the Indians use trailing after their horses—a pole fastened to either side of the animal, and the ends dragging on the ground. Between the poles they carry their duffle."
"Nonsense!" laughed Bud. "In the first place these aren't Indians, though they're as bad, I reckon. But they didn't come with those pole trailers; so why would they make 'em to go away with? All they own they can pack in their hats."
"I guess you're right," admitted Dick, after thinking it over. "But they're going to do something."
They were all watching the Mexicans now. The men with long poles—which they must have brought with them as none grew in the vicinity—now closely approached the edge of the creek. They could not be going to make a raft—the nature of the poles precluded that.
Then, as one after another of the sheep herders thrust the end of his pole into the water, wading out a short distance to do this, Bud uttered an exclamation.
"I have it!" the lad cried.
"You mean you're on to the game?" asked Dick.