Sikkem stared. But his look was unconvincing. Moments passed before his reply came, and in those moments the keen eyes of his employer were busy. The man was still in the working kit of a cowpuncher. Even to the chapps, and the prairie hat crushed down on his ugly bullet head. Then, too, his pair of guns were still strapped about his waist. None of these things escaped Jeff, any more than did the fellow's clumsy regard. He wondered how much truth—if any—lay behind that mask of wicked eyes and brutish features.
"I'm waiting."
Jeff's demand came with a rasp. The man's delay in reply had conveyed all he wanted to know of the truth in him.
"Wot youngster? I tell you I didn't send no one in." There was truculence in the denial. "Wot's the lies?"
The ranchman was no match for the keen mind of his employer. In brute force he might have been more than his equal. But even that was doubtful. While he was speaking Jeff moved. Up to that moment he had been facing the foreman with his back turned toward the distant door. Now his movement placed him against the table with his back to the other empty bunk, and his focus took in not only the man before him, but the shadowy outline of the distant half-open door.
"It's the boy we took on the other day at—your recommendation. Your recommendation. Get me? Guess he came with the yarn you were shot to death. You'd located the rustlers' camp. You needed to see me quick." Jeff's words came swiftly. Then after a pause he added: "You didn't send him along? Who did?"
As Jeff watched the man's deliberate shake of the head he became aware of a muffled sound, somewhere away beyond the door. It was faint, but, to him, unmistakable. He gave no sign.
"Where are the other boys?" he demanded.
"Out on cattle guard."
The movement beyond the door again penetrated the silence of the hut. Now it was that the ranchman made his mistake. Only for an instant did he turn his head and eyes in the direction of the sound. But it was sufficient.