If he had known that the Lazy Eight roundup had just pulled in to the home ranch that afternoon, and that Dick Farney, one of the Stevens men, had slipped out to the corral and saddled his swiftest horse, it is quite possible that Lauman would not have lingered so long over his supper, or drank his third cup of coffee—with real cream in it—with so great a relish. And if he had known that the Circle Bar boys were camped just three miles away within hailing distance of the Lazy Eight trail, he would doubtless have postponed his after-supper smoke.
He was sitting, revolver in hand, watching the Wagners give a practical demonstration of the extent of their appetites, when Thurston limped in from the porch, his eyes darker than usual. “There are a lot of riders coming, Mr. Lauman,” he announced quietly. “It sounds like a whole roundup. I thought you ought to know.”
The prisoners went white, and put down knife and fork. If they had never feared before, plainly they were afraid then.
Lauman's face did not in the least change. “Put the hand-cuffs on, Waller,” he said. “If you've got a room that ain't easy to get at from the outside, Mrs. Stevens, I guess I'll have to ask yuh for the use of it.”
Mrs. Stevens had lived long in Valley County, and had learned how to meet emergencies. “Put 'em right down cellar,” she invited briskly. “There's just the trap-door into it, and the windows ain't big enough for a cat to go through. Mona, get a candle for Mr. Lauman.” She turned to hurry the girl, and found Mona at her elbow with a light.
“That's the kind uh woman I like to have around,” Lauman chuckled. “Come on, boys; hustle down there if yuh want to see Glasgow again.”
Trembling, all their dare-devil courage sapped from them by the menace of Thurston's words, they stumbled down the steep stairs, and the darkness swallowed them. Lauman beckoned to his deputy.
“You go with 'em, Waller,” he ordered. “If anybody but me offers to lift this trap, shoot. Don't yuh take any chances. Blow out that candle soon as you're located.”
It was then that fifty riders clattered into the yard and up to the front door, grouping in a way that left no exit unseen. Thurston, standing in the doorway, knew them almost to a man. Lazy Eight boys, they were; men who night after night had spread their blankets under the tent-roof with him and with Bob MacGregor; Bob, who lay silently out on the hill back of the home ranch-house, waiting for the last, great round-up. They glanced at him in mute greeting and dismounted without a word. With them mingled the Circle Bar boys, as silent and grim as their fellows. Lauman came up and peered into the dusk; Thurston observed that he carried his Winchester unobtrusively in one hand.
“Why, hello, boys,” he greeted cheerfully. But for the rifle you never would have guessed he knew their errand.