He calculated that the Chinaman must have arrived three days before unless unexpectedly delayed, and he chafed at the apparent lack of effort made on his behalf. The only explanation 180 that offered itself was—that Sims, taking advantage of the events happening at the Bar T, had seized the opportunity to hurry the gathering sheep north across the range. If such was the case, Larkin resigned himself to his fate, since he had given Sims full power to do as he thought best.
At about midnight he was dimly conscious of a scuffling sound outside his window, and, getting softly out of bed, went to the opening. In a few minutes the head of a man rose gradually above the window-sill close to the house, and a moment later he was looking into the face of Hard-winter Sims.
Controlling the shock this apparition gave him, Larkin placed his finger on his lips and whispered in a tone so low it was scarcely more than a breath:
“Did you get the fellow outside?”
Sims nodded.
“There’s another one in the dining-room just outside my door. He ought to be relieved at one o’clock, but he’ll have to go out and wake up his relief. He’ll go out the kitchen door, and when he does nab him, but don’t let him yell. Now pass me a gun.”
Without a sound, Sims inserted a long .45 between 181 the clumsy bars, and followed it with a cartridge belt.
“How’ll we get yuh out?” he whispered.
“After fixing the man inside come out again and loosen these bars; the door is barred, too.”
“Where are the cowmen?” asked Sims.