Sims told him and Bud grinned delightedly at the same time that his face hardened with the triumph of a revenge about to be accomplished.
“Let’s get at it,” he said. 184
“Wait here and I’ll get the rest of the bunch.”
Hard-winter left them, and in a few minutes returned with a dozen brawny sheepmen, mostly recruited from Larkin’s own ranch in Montana. When greetings had been exchanged they moved off quietly toward the ranch-house.
The corral of the Bar T was about fifty yards back of the cook’s shanty and as you faced it had a barn on the right-hand side, where the family saddle horses were kept in winter, as well as the small amount of hay that Bissell put up every year.
To the left of the corral the space was open, and here the Bar T punchers had made their camp since leaving their former quarters. The bunk-house on the other hand stood perhaps fifty feet forward of the barn. It was toward this building that the expedition under Sims took its way.
Silently the rough door swung back on its rawhide hinges and ten men, with a revolver in each hand, filed quietly in. Sims and Larkin remained outside on guard. Presently there was a sound of muttering and cursing that grew louder. Then one yell, and the solid thud of a revolver butt coming in contact with a human skull. After that there was practically no noise whatever. 185
The men outside watched anxiously, fearful that the single outcry had raised an alarm. But there was no sound from either the house or the cowboys’ camp. Presently Welsh stuck his head out of the door.
“How is she? Safe?” he asked.
“Yes, bring ’em out,” answered Bud, and the next minute a strange procession issued from the bunk-house.