“How many did you scatter?”
“Dunno, boss,” replied the first judicially. “From the noise they made I allow there was at least a thousand.”
“Well, I bet you a month’s wage there wasn’t more’n a hundred,” said Bissell, glaring at the puncher.
“Won’t take yer, boss,” returned the other calmly. “Why?”
“Because practically the whole flock is beddin’ 97 down at Little Creek now. Chuck seen ’em. Now I want all you fellers to get supper an’ then rope an’ saddle a fresh hoss. There is shore goin’ to be some doin’s to-night.”
CHAPTER IX
THE MAN IN THE MASK
As Bud Larkin jogged along on Pinte, apparently one of the group of men with whom he was riding, he wondered mechanically why his captors insisted on traveling ten miles to a tree sufficiently stout to bear his weight.