Bud drew a penciled note from the pocket of his shirt and handed it to the other. Then he produced a rough map of the country he had drawn and added it to the letter, explaining a number of times the distances from point to point, and tracing the route with his pencil. At last the herder understood.
“Tell them to hurry,” was Larkin’s parting injunction, as the other turned away to saddle the mare.
“Si, señor. Hurry like blazes, eh?” said Miguel, comprehending, with a flash of white teeth.
“Exactly.”
Hardly had the man galloped away north, following the bank of the river for the better concealment past the Bar T range, when Sims languidly approached.
“I reckon we’re in for trouble, boss,” he remarked, yawning sleepily, “an’ I’m plumb dyin’ for rest, but I s’pose I better look over the country 52 ahead if we’re goin’ to get these muttons out o’ here.”
“I was just going to suggest it,” said Larkin. “I am going to stay by the camp and meet some friends of mine that I expect very shortly. Come back pronto, Hardy, for there’s no telling what we may have to do before night.”
Larkin’s predictions of a visit were soon enough fulfilled. It was barely ten o’clock when several horsemen were seen riding toward the banks of the Big Horn. Bud mounted Pinte and advanced to meet them.
First came Beef Bissell, closely attended by Stelton, and after them, four or five of the Bar T punchers. The actual encounter took place half a mile from the camp. Looking back, Larkin could see his sheep feeding in plain sight amid the green of the river bottoms.
“Howdy,” snapped Bissell, by way of greeting. And then, without waiting for a reply: “What does this mean?” He indicated the placid sheep.