“Certain, Buck, certain! They’d see the smoke sure. But how ye goin’ to reach the Circle Bar to fire her?”
Buck smiled weakly. “That’s the easiest part of it, Sandy. This here Sam Fisher, he never wants no crowd; it’s always a lone-hand play with him. If him and Arnold seen the smoke from the Circle Bar, what’d they do?”
“Light out to investigate where we were,” was the response. “They’d know we’d got away from here and was busy. And they’d come a-smokin’.”
“Exactly, Sandy,” was Buck’s triumphant return. “Jest what I figger my ownself.”
“But how in time are we goin’ to git away from here?”
Buck laughed and clapped his ex-foreman on the shoulder.
“Jest ride, cowboy, ride!” he exclaimed. “All right, boys; rustle up some grub and git saddled. Bring out every hoss in the corral, rope ’em together, and wait. Saddle an extry hoss for Jake Harper. Sandy, come along and give me a hand with Jake.”
Comprehending, at least in part, the bold scheme which Buck planned, the men leaped into action.
Thirteen of the horses were saddled, the others were hastily strung together; rifles were booted, packets of grub made up, canteens filled. By the time the punchers were mounted they had not long to wait; Sandy Davitt and Buck appeared, shoving forward the figure of old Jake Harper, hands firmly bound behind his back. They could not bind his tongue, however, and he cursed the entire gang with vitriolic emphasis as he came. The hearers smiled and grinned, making no response.
“Climb or we boosts you, Jake,” said Buck, reaching the spare saddle.