“Same here,” admitted Frank. “They say Mendoza is as sly as any fox that ever crept into a hen house, and carried off a fat prize, with all sorts of traps set to catch him. Somehow I just can’t get rid of the notion that while we seem to have him in a pickle right now, he’s got a string he means to pull, that’s going to surprise us disagreeably.”
“Say, you make me feel bad, Frank,” declared
the other; “I hope you’re mistaken about that. But listen to the racket they’re kicking up inside there! Do you think they’ll break out, and tackle our fellows?”
“Not much they won’t,” laughed Frank. “They know what cowboys are, once they get their guns going. And remember, they have no idea how many of us there are. How can they tell that there are not forty fellows here, just waiting for them to break out?”
“Then that’s all put on for show, the pounding and shouting?” asked Bob.
“Huh!” snorted Frank; “they have to make a bluff of being hungry to get at our crowd; but all the same, you mark my word, it’ll be some time before the first rustler shows even the tip of his nose where Scotty or any of our boys can get a crack at him.”
“Frank, am I right, and is that the first peep of dawn over yonder in the east?”
“No mistake about that, my boy; morning is close at hand; and before another hour I reckon we’ll be pushing the herd over the back trail,” Frank replied.
“There will be several men left here to hold the rustlers in the cabin; is that the programme, Frank?”
“Just what; and you can easily understand that they will be men chosen for their staying qualities,”